by Amber Kizer
“Right, but we’re not in a room.”
“I know. We followed a janitor to the laundry supply. Grabbed the correct attire, then we’ve just been getting off and on elevators until we found the right floor.”
“You’re good friends.” Mom pats Adam’s hand and goes back to her puzzle. She’s got the glazed-donut look.
Mike’s still snoring. Heather’s smiling. She doesn’t appear quite as tense.
“Do you need anything? We can get pretty much anywhere. It’s pretty amazing what the uniform will get you. Victor and Greg are both on trips, but they texted sad faces. Clarice is willing to hop the next plane back from Vegas if you want her to,” Maggie says.
“Can you get me an update on my dad?”
“I don’t think they’ll let us in the OR. But we can try.” Maggie’s game to do whatever I need.
I shake my head. I can see my friends going to prison trying to help me.
“Garibaldi? Garibaldi?” A little man is wiping his face with a blue towel. He doesn’t have a face thingy and his scrubs have sweaty armpits. It looks like he’s just finished a triathlon.
We all jump to attention. Adam and Maggie squeeze to the back of the group, but I really don’t think the guy even notices they’re wearing identical doctorly outfits. Minus the sweat.
“It went well. I’m pleased. He’s in recovery and then he’ll be moved to a room. He probably won’t wake up tonight, so I suggest you get food, get some sleep and come back in the morning.”
“I don’t think so. I want to be with him as soon as possible.”
“Ma’am—”
“Thank you.” Mom’s chin thrusts up. I’ve never seen her so full of steel.
“I’ll let the nurse know.” Dr. Sweaty nods and heads back toward the nurses’ station.
“Adam, will you be a dear and take Gertrude home, please?” Mom grips Adam’s arm.
“Of course.”
I don’t like this plan. “But—”
“Gertrude, honey, this isn’t the hard part. He’s going to be in the hospital and then he’s coming home and I’ll need your help. You remember Jerry had this same thing happen last year?”
I nod.
She cups my cheeks. “It’s a long road and we’re just getting started. I need you to go home and eat a good dinner and get some sleep. Are you working this week?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good. Mike and Heather will help me here.”
“We’re gonna stay, Gert.” Mike touches my shoulder.
“We’ll stop and get ice cream, okay?” Maggie pipes up.
Adam nods. “Absolutely.”
I’m too tired to argue. I’m torn. I really just want to go home and crawl into bed and wait for the world to make sense again, but I also think I should be here, stiff-upper-necked like Mom.
I hug Mom. I feel tears building behind my eyes.
She kisses my cheek. “He’s going to be fine.”
Here’s the deal about growing up: you begin to recognize the times when parentals can’t necessarily keep the promises they make. “I hope so.”
Okay, here’s the deal: I’d like to kick Einstein’s phenomenally annoying butt. Time should not be relative. Time should not, depending on whether I’m having a good or a bad time, change the speed at which it ticks by. Time should be the one freakin’ constant in an otherwise inconsistent and inconstant world. I’m not talking about getting old. I’m not all fountain-of-youthy or anything, maybe because my neck looks fine and my boobs are growing out not down. I get it. I understand, but that’s not the kind of time I’m talking about.
I’m talking about the tick, tick, tick of the second hand. The second hand stutters, it pauses, it’s the Eeyore of the scientific world. It loves misery. It pauses slightly each time it notices a horrible moment and keeps pausing until it’s sucked the life out of the people experiencing said torment.
Okay, maybe not literally, because we’d all be dead, but six hours of surgery should not feel like sixty. And good ol’ Al brought it to our attention and he’s a hero. What’s with that? Why didn’t he do something great and figure out how to get the second hand to take happy pills and get over it? That’s what I’m saying.…
WHO AM I? (CONT.)
I am mortal. I have an invisible expiration date. I am human. I am an animal. I will die. Maybe not today, but maybe tomorrow. When I’m not ready. When I still have a to-do list. When I’m looking forward to reading that book or seeing that movie. When I’m supposed to show up for a special occasion like a wedding, or a birth, or a party I won’t be able to attend because I’ll be dead. Weirdness.
I’d really rather be like milk and have the date of my demise stamped on my forehead. Cuz then I could apologize for not being at the special thing, or I could eat Chinese takeout as my last meal instead of a grapefruit because I’m feeling fat.
Why does it have to be unknowable? Why isn’t science working toward knowing the date instead of knowing the sex of unborn kids or putting off death by a decade or two? I don’t want a delay. Okay, maybe if I was ninety I’d want a delay, but what good is a delay if you don’t know that you would live that long anyway? Like why put people through nasty-ass cancer treatments if we could decode the date of their death? Then they could have a party and not feel guilty about choosing not to spend their last weeks in the hospital feeling worse than death. Or they’d know they’re supposed to live another fifty years so the chemo is worth it. See? Much more useful than face cream to fight wrinkles. Do wrinkles matter? Who ever died and the one thing they regretted was the extra wrinkle on their forehead? I think face creams are covering up the bigger issue. We don’t know when we’re dying. Big issue. The biggest.
I don’t know if I believe in God and heaven and hell. I don’t know if I believe in reincarnation or in ghosts or spirits. I don’t know if I believe there’s something better out there. I’d like to. I mean, it would make missing the new flavor of Ben & Jerry’s a little more acceptable if I knew heaven had it too. And in heaven there aren’t calories, right? That’d be nice. I wonder if I could pick my body? Like one day be Angelina’s prototype and the next try out Tyra’s. That’d be cool. Sort of like when we used to dress up Barbies, except I could be the Barbie. I am above all uncertain of the post-death future.
I am my parents’ genetic history. I am the conduit that will pass on what our ancestors have passed down. I am male-pattern baldness. I am heart disease and high cholesterol. I am so far immune to most kinds of cancer. I am good with words, but awful at math. I am someone’s grandmother or someone’s crazy nunnish aunt.
I am a girl no more, but a woman not yet.
I am at the start, but my parents are at the end.
We pull up outside my house, but I can’t make myself get out of the car. The dark house is staring back at me.
I don’t know why today feels different. But it does. It’s weird. It’s scary.
Maggie and Adam settle back like they’ve got all the time in the world and don’t think I’m losing my sanity by sitting in the car gawking at my house. Finally, it gets a little uncomfortable on Adam’s vinyl upholstery. I can tell they’re getting antsy, but I feel leaden.
“Ice cream?” Maggie asks Adam.
“Check,” he says.
“Pizza delivery number?”
“Check,” he replies.
“Carbonated beverages?”
“Check,” Adam answers, and they both turn to look at me.
“Gert?” Maggie is tentative, ready to sit back and wait another fifteen minutes if that’s what I need.
“Uh, check,” I say, and grasp the door handle. I have to take a deep breath and open the door on the exhale.
Maggie and Adam flank me as we march up to the front door. “Keys?” Maggie asks.
I didn’t bring them. “Uh, I don’t—”
“Spare still under the frog statue?” Adam asks, already moving to retrieve it.
I nod.
He finds the ke
y and opens the door. Maggie flips on every light switch she can find, including several that don’t actually turn anything on, but I’m suddenly too tired to care. I wander over to the couch and curl up. I’m shaking.
Adam directs Maggie and they find every pillow in the house and most of the blankets. They make a nest around me, tucking me in tightly, and settle on the floor near me.
At some point, Adam calls for pizza and I think I eat a couple of slices, but it doesn’t taste. Not bad, just doesn’t taste.
I fall asleep, listening to the television and my friends chatter. “Stay?” I ask.
“Of course,” they answer.
The house doesn’t feel so menacing. I sleep.
Days run together. Dad’s going to recover. It will be slow going, given the whole cracked-chest part. Mom and Mike take turns with Dad and let me make cameo appearances. I wish Mom would let me do more, but she doesn’t want the burden to fall on me. I feel useless and insist that I’m not a child. I want to be helpful. I can see the exhaustion in dark pools under their eyes. Mike’s facial hair is spawning and Mom’s got a helmet head from not getting her weekly set at the hairdresser’s.
Now that I’m here, on day four, to take my turn sitting with Dad during the night, I wish I hadn’t insisted. I’ve never really been in a hospital for this length of time. I mean, I’ve been in the emergency room a couple of times with stupid kid stuff, like the egg/nose incident, but I’ve never known anyone who spent time in one as an admitted patient.
My grandparents died before I was born, or shortly after, so this is all new. Mike and Mom left me in the lobby because I insisted I could find Dad’s room on my own.
I pause outside his door.
There’s a smell. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there. Like antiseptic and pus. Does pus smell? If it does, it’s part of this odor.
I volunteered to take a turn spending the night with our favorite patient since it’s my spring break and I don’t have to work until later tomorrow. Plus, Mom’s all loopy exhausted and Mike has a real career he’s been absent from.
Now that I stand outside Dad’s hospital room, I want to go home. This wasn’t one of my more intelligent highly altruistic ideas.
I’ve seen him since his surgery. I’ve even seen them change his bandage. He has the world’s most horrific-looking wound. Bad B movie horror-film horrific. So bad it looks fake. So bad I almost vomited right there. I think it must have shown on my face because the nurse made me lie down and she rubbed my face with alcohol to cool me off. How’s that for humiliating? Dad thought it was cute, though; he smiled and asked me if I was okay. I was the entertainment. Yippee.
I don’t want to go in. He’s small in that bed. Somehow smaller than I can fully comprehend. He’s shrunken and frail. He’s not commanding or intimidating. He’s old.
The nurses are wondering what I’m doing. I’ll either have to go in or come up with a brilliant explanation for why the door won’t open.
I push open the door and trudge in. How does anyone sleep in this place? It’s a constant barrage of beeps and footsteps, and the sound of phones ringing, and the low murmur of conversations that are none of my business.
Dad turns his head and gives me a half smile of welcome. It’s his most effusive expression. He’s trying, I can tell. I don’t think he likes me seeing him this way; he’d prefer I wasn’t here. “You’re staying tonight?” he asks me. He’s creeping me out, looking at me all serious face. I can’t remember the last time he looked at me like this. Studying me like there’s a test later.
“Yeah. Are you okay?” I put my backpack down and sit in the plastic-covered recliner next to his bed.
“Fine. Fine.” He never once looks away from me to stare at ESPN’s latest episode of Get ’Er Done. He loves this show. I’m even more creeped out.
“You sure?” I ask. “Want some water?” I point at the pitcher and the bendy straws.
He shakes his head. “I asked the nurse to bring us hot fudge sundaes at seven. She should be here any minute.”
I nod. “Right.” Need I mention the heart attack? I’m fairly certain hot fudge isn’t on anyone’s heart-healthy food plan.
He pats the bed like he’d pat my head if I was closer. “I did ask. I hear there are pretty good vending machines. The cafeteria sells donuts twenty-four hours a day.” He’s feeling pretty good to be giving me such grief, so I relax a little.
I groan. “Don’t remind me of donuts, please.”
Dad chuckles like it hurts, which it probably does. “Sorry. Not the kind of career fulfillment you were looking for?” He hands me the remote. “What do you want to watch?”
Surprise ricochets around in my brain. “Huh?”
“What’s on?” He dips his head toward the screen.
Never in my life has my father given me the remote, nor has he willingly volunteered to watch anything of my choosing. “Do you need me to get the nurse?” I lean forward in the chair, ready to spring into action.
I’m desperately afraid he’ll die while I’m the only one here, and I’ll never know if there’s something I could have done to save his life. If only I’d paid attention at Girl Scouts when I was seven.
“No, I’m fine. Just thought you’d like to pick, that’s all. Staying with me can’t be the best offer you had on spring break.” That’s the closest Dad’s ever going to get to apologizing for something that’s so not his fault. Even I’m not self-centered enough to blame him for ruining what—let’s face it—was going to be a sucky break anyway. I wave my hands. “Don’t worry about it.” I pick up the remote and he pats my hand. I try to smile. I do the best I can, but I’m sure it misses the mark.
Thinking I should ease us into this quality time together and not shock him into another MI, I rule out the obvious choices: reality TV, MTV, Court TV. “How about CNN?”
Surprise blooms on Dad’s face. “You’re into current events?”
“You’re not?” This is a safe question. Dad watches the news only when he’s not watching sports or home-improvement shows.
“I just never knew you were.”
“Occasionally.” Okay, so I don’t pay too much attention to current events, just the ones that interest me. Sue me.
At one point, I go get us SweeTarts from the vending machine because Dad is allowed hard candies. It’s the closest thing they’ve got to hard candy in the machine. I think he has one before he falls asleep. Mom said to expect him to mostly sleep. He’s still recovering, so his body is tired.
I know from home that changing the channel or turning off the television can startle him awake, so I just leave the headlines rolling. I read the week’s book assignment, Heart of Darkness, which, who knew, is an apt title for this week. Of course, Dad’s heart isn’t dark, just broken. His snoring is comforting. I’ve missed the sound of it while he’s been here. The nights seem emptier at home without his rhythm.
I’m beyond tired when I report to work the next day. Recliners are not the most comfortable places to pass fourteen hours. Don’t let anyone fool you into thinking they’re better than beds. They’re not.
Here’s the deal with the donut shop. After about an hour at work, I reek. Really, really reek. Like dead donuts left in the trunk of a car on a ninety-degree day to decompose. Stink. It’s not me. It’s the air in here. Thousands of screaming carbohydrates leave a putrid essence behind when they are dunked in hot oil or consumed by customers who should be next door at Jenny Craig.
No, I’m not kidding. Next door is a Jenny Craig. The other side of us is a gym for women, and across the street is the huge twenty-four-seven gym for serious athletes. And then there’s us. Which personally I think is rude beyond all get-out. It’s like karmic sabotage. But the odds are good that people who shouldn’t be eating donuts (not that any of us should eat donuts—Homo sapiens didn’t evolve eating fried dough, did we? No, bark and berries, that’s us) might go into one of the other establishments rather than here. I think the opposite happens. They work
out, they’ve lost a pound in the last month, whatever it is, so they deserve a treat.
I know we all have free will and the right to eat whatever we want, but really, if you have to buy two seats on an airplane to get enough butt room, then you shouldn’t waddle into the donut shop.
I’m not skinny. I’m not saying I’m perfect, and there are lots of people out there who might be crying that I’m being mean and “ist” and don’t know what it’s like to live with the disease of obesity, but if you’re built to sustain your life through a famine that never comes, should you really consume a week’s worth of calories in a bite of fried dough? I don’t think so.
I know I’m not supposed to impose my own judgments and I’ve been all brainwashed by the media, but if you need help tying your shoes, perhaps a dozen filled, iced, fried-chocolate-sprinkled, high-calorie hot pockets aren’t for you.
The UN shouldn’t parachute rice and beans to starving people—they just need to open a donut shop in the world’s most desolate places. Donut boxes could fall from the sky and no one would be too thin again. Really, it could revolutionize the charity movement. Think about it. Think of the trucks and trucks of fifty-pound sacks of rice and flour they show on the evening news. The same calorie equivalent could be easily distributed in neatly lined pastry boxes, and for a tenth of the work. There’s never enough rice. But there are enough donuts.
Tangent: sorry.
Mr. Four-Chin, Toga-Wearing Not-So-Roman is still contemplating his choices. And he’s hostile. He has that I’m-going-to-eat-five-dozen-all-by-myself-and-I-know-what-you’re-thinking look on his face. He’s filled two boxes carefully before his wife or girlfriend walks into the shop to ask, “What’s taking so long?” I don’t make eye contact with her because I’m sure she’ll blame me for the delay.
“I’m coming,” he snarls.
She taps superlong nails on the counter. “You said you were getting one.”
“I am.” He doesn’t look at her.
One times sixty, perhaps, but that’s just me.
