in. In, in, in.
I dug my hands into the hem of the armrest. My father, out of nowhere, taking shape.
And have you ever? Gone in? I said.
Nah, he said.
Never?
Not interested, he said. I spent time with a sick neighbor once and that was enough for me.
Did he get better?
She was going to get better anyway, Dad said, tapping a hand against his arm.
But did you help her?
I highly doubt it, he said. She was taking a lot of medicine.
I grabbed his hand. Well, let’s go! I said. Let’s test it-it’s late, so it won’t be crowded, and I’ll be with you every second, okay? What do you think? This could be great news! I mean, it might help, right? It might be useful information, for the world.
His body grew heavier, gained inertia, the more I pulled.
No, he said. I’m sorry, Rose. I saw what it did to my father. I’m not going in.
But I’ll stay right with you, I said, pleading. We’ll go in side by side, every second. It’s only a test. I won’t ever leave your side.
I tugged on his arm, harder.
What if it’s amazing? I said.
No, he said. Thank you, but no. His eyes drifted up to mine, stones. He patted my hand and gently extricated his arm from my fingers. His height, still heavying into the seat.
But maybe it could help
He frowned. I don’t see how, he said. Food and hospitals are not the same.
He looked back down at the open book, to steady himself. In a long emphatic staredown with his baby self. I had to hold myself back from shoving him out of his chair. I wanted to push him in, somehow. To dump him in there, with a crane. To force. It seemed so unbelievably luxurious to me, that he had the option, that he could drive different routes, sit in his seat, thinking, pondering, never know, never have to find out.
Yours is all in the same place, I said, a little helplessly.
And?
I ruffled the weave of the chair arm.
Lucky, I said.
He tightened his lips, and the word
Rose, he said, flatly. I couldn’t even go in to see your brother, he said.
And with that, his face locked back into itself.
It was true; when Joseph had been checked into the hospital, Dad had stood outside the electric doors for over an hour, trying to take a step forward. Trying, and trying. I had walked by, on my way to go in. He’d kept a book in his hand to read, so that people passing by would think he had something to do.
You didn’t know that was the last time, I said, in a low voice.
But even if I had, Dad said.
For a while, we sat together with the nighttime, undernoted by the distant sound of cars slowing and accelerating, driving the lanes of Santa Monica Boulevard, Saturday night. Moonlight pierced the window. I thought about that trip to the ER, so many years ago, and the doctors standing above, telling me I could not remove my mouth.
I sank my head down on the armrest. I guess if mine were all in one place, I said, I might do the same thing.
He put a hand on my arm. His palm, cool.
Gotta eat, right? he said.
Right, I said.
And just as he said it, like a bird across the sky, my brother flickered through my mind, and although the thought was half formed, it occurred to me that meals were still meals, food still contained with a set beginning and end, and I could pick and choose what I could eat and what I couldn’t. And that my father’s was a hospital he could drive around entirely, and Grandpa seemed to smell mostly in stores, but what if whatever Joseph had felt every day had no shape like that? Had no way to be avoided or modified? Was constant?
I reached over to touch my father’s hand. His eyes found mine.
I’m sorry, he said, his eyes a little stricken.
He gripped my hand back, hard, and the scared light intensified for a second, blazed, then faded from his eyes. He rubbed his free hand over his face. Whew, he said.
Late, he said, in a new voice. He released our grip and clapped a steady hand down on my shoulder.
Time for bed, I said, sitting up on my knees.
He closed the album but he kept his hand on my shoulder and didn’t release it, and there were more words in that hand, keeping me there, a little more he wanted to say. It was like once he’d revealed one big thing he thought he might as well tell everything he possibly could. I could see the athlete’s urge in it, the sprinter’s impulse to throw all things terrifying into one moment and then go to bed and sleep it gone.
Just one more thing, he said.
You saw something that day, didn’t you, he said.
The ray of moonlight illuminated his face.
When? I asked, even though I knew.
He didn’t answer. I kept my head resting on the arm of the chair.
Yes, I said.
I don’t want to know what you saw, he said, placing the album on a side table. I just want to know one thing. Okay?
Okay, I said, in a small voice.
Is he coming back? he asked.
No.
He nodded vigorously, as if he’d prepared himself. He kept nodding, for a while.
That’s what I thought, he said. It’s been too long.
He pressed down on his forehead, as if to press the thought in there.
Did he say anything? That day in his apartment? Did he ask you for anything? At the hospital?
No, I said.
He wiggled his feet on the carpet. The silver stripes on his running shoes made glinty sparks in the moonlight.
Is he okay? he asked.
I don’t know, I said. I don’t know how to answer that.
He has some kind of skill? Dad said.
I closed my eyes. Yes, I said. Him too.
For a half-hour or so, my father pressed and wiggled. Shook and tilted. Pushed the news around his body like a pinball had fallen in there and was dodging around his bones and tendons. It was too much for me to watch or think about, so I kept my eyes closed and slept a little.
Finally, I woke up when the moon had lowered enough to send a fresh ray onto the chair and side table, lighting up the gilded print on the front of the photo album, which said
I unwound myself from the floor. Thanked him for the talk. Kissed him good night. I think I’ll just take a walk, he said, standing, and he slipped out the front door and into the trail of white that lit his track down the sidewalk.
43
