I wake with a shiver and sit up. In a smooth motion, I push on the lever and get the recliner upright. A rattled breath leaves Dad’s body. I wait for another, which comes. He is still alive.
Vance is crumpled in the uncomfortable chair. There’s no way he’s going to wake up refreshed.
According to my phone, it’s six twenty in the morning. Maybe Vance could get a few quality hours of sleep if I woke him and got him over on the pullout. I stare longingly at its untouched comfort. It calls to me. But I was the last one to sleep on it. What’s fair is fair.
I give his shoulder a shake. “Vance?”
Normally my brother required multiple attempts at being woken up, often to the point where Dad resorted to blaring music in his room. Not since we’ve been close to losing our father though. He’s been springing awake. Like now.
“Is he dead?” he blurts out.
“Still alive.”
He puffs his cheeks up with air and rubs his eyes. “Why’d you wake me then?” There’s no anger in his tone, which is startling to me. His question is simply a question.
I point to the luxurious-looking pullout. “You’d probably get higher-quality sleep over there. It was your turn last night.”
Vance stretches and groans. “Did you sleep?”
“Some. He’s still at three breaths.”
He stands and lifts the sheet, and we stare at our father’s legs. Now his calves have swelled and his feet seem even puffier. We lock eyes.
Vance’s eyes are screaming. My eyes are screaming.
We are together silently screaming.
Vance lets go, covering Dad’s bloated limbs. “Why is Dad such a fucking mess?”
I immediately launch into the reason for his swollen legs, and Vance cuts me off. “No!” he shouts. “Not now. His whole life. How did he get this way?”
Vance’s question is one I’ve asked myself for years, but it is shocking to hear him wonder. I’d always presumed Vance approved of how Dad lived his life. The partying. The lackadaisical attitude. The women. Now he’s asking me how Dad got this way? Now?
He adds, “Do you think it’s because his parents died when he was so young?”
“We don’t have to turn out like him, Vance.” Saying it out loud, with Dad still breathing in and out, makes my stomach swirl. I expect my brother to launch another attack, a fresh argument.
He exhales and nods, and I am stunned.
Not turning out like Dad is important to me. I want to set roots and connect with the people who matter to me. I don’t want to overlook stuff like he did. I want to learn from my father’s mistakes and be better.
Seeing. Hearing. Loving like I mean it. That’s the man I want to be.
Vance heads to the pullout, crawls in with his back to me, and curls up.
The new nurse from the hallway comes in, sees Vance, and walks gingerly toward me. “Hey, there,” she whispers, “how’s everyone doing in here?”
She’s a very tiny and compact woman with short, dark-gray hair and a warm smile. I take in a huge breath—that is a tricky question she just asked. How is everyone doing in here? My brother is so wiped out he has forgotten that he hates me. I’m delirious, working on about two hours of fitful sleep. And my dad, well, his luck is about to run out. I’m not getting into all that with this woman. I lie, “Fine.”
She tucks her lips into a grin and raises her eyebrows. “You sure about that? You look exhausted.”
I shrug and nod.
“Well, let me get a look at your dad.” She walks over to his bedside and scans him head to toe before touching his forearm. The blanket lifts in her grasp, and her mouth tightens into a line.
“My brother and I just saw his calves. The fact that his feet are now bigger is bad, right? That’s what Barbara explained yesterday.” God, that feels like years ago. So does Vance and me driving behind the ambulance. Watching them roll our unconscious father into the hospice building. Meeting Barbara, getting him situated in his own room. Her explaining why they consistently lift the sheet to check the lower half of the body.
And it was only three days ago.
“I’m sure Barb or Marnie explained how the swelling is related to the kidneys,” she says.
“Barb did.” I glance at her name tag and nearly swallow my tongue. Her name is Peggy. That was my mother’s name. My sleepless haze last night must’ve prevented me from noticing her name.
“You’re Oscar or Vance?” she asks.
“Oscar.”
She reaches across my father’s exposed legs to shake my hand. “I’m Peggy.”
Even hearing her say the name aloud makes my stomach clench.
“Your dad’s new swelling tells me his kidneys are slowing down.” Peggy takes one of my father’s hands into hers. “And his blue nail beds mean that his circulation is steering clear of the edges of his body and sending the blood to the organs instead.”
Why hadn’t I noticed the blue tone of his nail beds? I’ve been staring at him for hours. Does this mean we’ll lose him today? In a few hours? Should I wake up Vance?
“Why don’t you sit down, Oscar,” she says. She’s by my side in a flash, guiding me into the recliner. “You’re as white as this sheet.” Peggy feels my forehead. “Lean back, okay? Let me put your feet up.” I do as I’m told and she pulls the chair’s side handle, lifting my feet. “There you go. Sit tight. I’ll be right back with some orange juice.”
When I first arrived here, all I wanted was for him to die. I thought wanting it would prepare me. Now that the information is upon me, crushing with the weight of an elephant, with the weight of a thousand elephants, the desire for him to leave is gone. I don’t want it anymore. I will reject it. Cover my ears. Close my eyes.
I fake sleep. Peggy leaves a cup of OJ on the dresser at the foot of Dad’s bed. She doesn’t see the circus giants sitting on my chest, their trunks trumpeting in my ears, their thick, white tusks stabbing me.