nurse out of the way. I used to roll my eyes when she did it, though I would be secretly pleased. I didn't roll my eyes this time.
'I'm okay, Mom. Really.'
My father hung back for a moment, as was his way. His eyes were wet and red. I looked at his face. He knew. He hadn't bought the story about Africa with no phone service. He had probably helped peddle it to Mom. But he knew.
'You're so skinny,' Mom said. 'Didn't they feed you anything there?'
'Leave him alone,' Dad said. 'He looks fine.'
'He doesn't look fine. He looks skinny. And pale. Why are you in a hospital bed?'
'I told you,' Dad said. 'Didn't you hear me, Ellen? Food poisoning. He's going to be fine, some kind of dysentery.'
'Why were you in Sierra Madre anyway?'
' Sierra Leone,' Dad corrected.
'I thought it was Sierra Madre.'
'You're thinking of the movie.'
'I remember. With Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hep-burn.'
'That was The African Queen.'
'Ohhh,' Mom said, now understanding the confusion.
Mom let go of me. Dad moved over, smoothed my hair off my forehead, kissed my cheek. The rough skin from his beard rubbed against me. The comforting smell of Old Spice lingered in the air.
'You okay?' he asked.
I nodded. He looked skeptical.
They both suddenly looked so old. That was how it was, wasn't it? When you don't see a child for even a little while, you marvel at how much they've grown. When you don't see an old person for even a little while, you marvel at how much they've aged. It happened every time. When did my robust parents cross that line? Mom had the shakes from Parkinson's. It was getting bad. Her mind, always a tad eccentric, was slipping somewhere more troubling. Dad was in relatively good health, a few minor heart scares, but they both looked so damn old.
'Your mother and father down in Miami…'
My chest started to hitch. I was having trouble breathing again.
Dad said, 'Myron?'
'I'm fine.'
The nurse pushed through now. My parents stepped to the side. She put a thermometer in my mouth, started checking my pulse. 'It's after visiting hours,' she said. 'You'll all have to go now.'
I didn't want them to go. I didn't want to be alone. Terror gripped me, and I felt great shame. I forced up a smile as she took out the thermometer and said with a little too much cheer, 'Get some sleep, okay? I'll see you all in the morning.'
I met my father's eye. Still skeptical. He whispered something to Esperanza. She nodded and escorted my mother from the room. My mother and Esperanza left. The nurse turned back at the door.
'Sir,' she said to my father, 'you'll have to leave.'
'I want to be alone with my son for a minute.'
She hesitated. Then: 'You have two minutes.'
We were alone now.
'What happened to you?' Dad asked.
'I don't know,' I said.
He nodded. He pulled the chair close to the bed and held my hand.
'You didn't believe that I was in Africa?'
'No.'
'And Mom?'
'I would tell her you called when she was out.'
'She bought that?'
He shrugged. 'I never lied to her before so, yes, she bought it. Your mother isn't as sharp as she once was.'
I said nothing. The nurse came in. 'You have to leave now.'
'No,' my father said.
'Please don't make me call security.'
I could feel the panic start up in my chest. 'It's okay, Dad. I'm fine. Get some sleep.'
He looked at me for a moment and turned to the nurse. 'What's your name, sweetheart?'
' Regina.'
' Regina what?'
' Regina Monte.'
'My name is Al, Regina. Al Bolitar. Do you have any children?'
'Two daughters.'
'This is my son, Regina. You can call security if you want. But I'm not leaving my son alone.'
I wanted to protest, but then again I didn't. The nurse turned and left. She didn't call security. My father stayed all night in that chair next to my bed. He refilled my water cup and adjusted my blanket. When I cried out in my sleep, he shushed me and stroked my forehead and told me that everything would be okay-and for a few seconds, I believed him.
24
WIN called first thing in the morning.
'Go to work,' Win said. 'Ask no questions.'
Then he hung up. Sometimes Win really pisses me off.
My father ran down to a bagel store across the street because the hospital breakfast resembled something monkeys fling at you in a zoo. The doctor stopped by while he was gone and gave me a clean bill of health. Yes, I had indeed been shot. The bullet had passed through my right side, above the hip. But it had been properly treated.
'Would it have required a sixteen-day hospital stay?' I asked.
The doctor looked at me funny, at the fact that I had just sort of shown up at the hospital unconscious, a gunshot-wound victim, now mumbling about sixteen days-and I'm sure he was sizing me up for a psych visit.
'Hypothetically speaking,' I quickly added, remembering Win's warning. Then I stopped asking questions and started nodding a lot.
Dad stayed with me through checkout. Esperanza had left my suit in the closet. I put it on and felt physically pretty good. I wanted to hire a taxi, but Dad insisted on driving. He used to be a great driver. In my childhood he would have that easy way about him on the road, whistling softly with the radio, steering with his wrists. Now the radio stayed off. He squinted at the road and hit the brake a lot more.
When we got to the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue-again Win's full name is Windsor Horne Lockwood III, so you do the math-Dad said, 'You want me to just drop you off?'
Sometimes my father leaves me awestruck. Fatherhood is about balance, but how can one man do it so well, so effortlessly? Throughout my life he pushed me to excel without ever crossing the line. He reveled in my accomplishments yet never made them seem to be all that important. He loved without condition, yet he still made me want to please him. He knew, like now, when to be there, and when it was time to back off.
'I'll be okay.'
He nodded. I kissed the rough skin on his cheek again, noticing the sag now, and got out of the car. The elevator opens up directly into my office. Big Cyndi was at her desk, wearing something that looked like it'd been ripped off Bette Davis after shooting the climactic beach scene in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? There were pigtails in her hair. Big Cyndi is, well, big-as I said before, north of six five and three hundred pounds-everywhere.
