by Lori Ryan
It was never fun showing up in the emergency room, looking for her father. This late at night just made the whole thing that much worse. Maggie watched helplessly as the woman typed on her keyboard.
“Oh yes, here he is.” She wrote something on a piece of paper before taking off her glasses and sliding the note through the small opening in the Plexiglas window. “He’s in bay 13, just go down this hall and through the double doors. It will be to the right.”
Maggie glanced at the desolate hallway. The time on the large wall clock said it was already 12:30 a.m.
“I’ll buzz you through.” The woman nodded toward the doors.
“Do you know how he is?” Maggie asked, suddenly hesitant to enter.
“No, I’m sorry,” the lady shook her head. “He hasn’t been seen by a physician yet.”
“Why not?” Maggie’s voice was sterner than she’d intended.
The woman gave her a warning rise of her brow.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie glanced at the piece of paper in her hands, “I’m just worried.”
“It will be all right, sweetie.”
Maggie smiled but barely.
“Just go on through.” She pointed down the hall again, only this time the doors were wide open.
Maggie took a tentative step. She’d travelled the halls of this hospital numerous times after an episode with her father. Even though it had only been a year since he’d been in a coma from a three-day drinking binge, sometimes it felt like a lifetime ago. The ups and downs of his illness had a way of wearing her down.
After he woke, the doctors had finally done what Maggie had never been able to. They’d convinced her father to check into a drug and alcohol rehab facility, but not before he’d done permanent damage to his vital organs.
The distinct smell of antiseptic burned her nostrils. Memories flashed before her eyes, nightmares really. Maggie hated hospitals, almost as much as she hated her father.
Forgiveness wasn’t coming as easily as she’d hoped, but his actions had always spoken louder than his words. And her father had decades of actions to overcome.
A pain ached in her chest. What if he was dying? Suddenly, the idea of forgiveness seemed a little easier to swallow. She knew from past experience, her emotions for her father would continue to swing wildly from one extreme to the other, care and concern one minute then all-out fury within the span of a minute. She’d experienced every emotion imaginable when it came to her dad.
“Maggie,” someone called from a side corridor.
She turned to find Brenda Ashford, the director of Stoneway Sober Living standing next to a closed curtain. “He’s in here.” She nodded. “We’re just waiting for the doctor.”
“Brenda,” Maggie reached out and hugged the tall, slender woman, “you didn’t have to come.”
Brenda squeezed her tight and spoke into Maggie’s hair as she kissed her head. “Well of course I did, silly. Bill is one of mine. I’d never send anyone off in an ambulance alone.”
Maggie stepped out of her hold and studied the woman. Her dark hair was cropped short, her rich caramel skin in contrast to light hazel eyes. It was hard for Maggie to understand the blind faith and loyalty Brenda had in the residents of her sober living facility. Even after a year of sobriety, Maggie still didn’t trust her dad. How could Brenda?
“What’s wrong with him?” Maggie asked.
“He passed out. His roommate found him unconscious on the floor.”
Immediately Maggie’s mind went to the obvious. “Has he been drinking?” Her voice was harsh and panicked. Why did she even care? You’d think it would no longer hurt when he let her down.
“No, sweetheart.” Brenda reached out and stroked her arm. “You know we test them regularly.”
Maggie did know, but old habits died hard, and she still didn’t fully believe in her father. Not even with the countless number of amends letters he’d written to her could change her mind. Of course, she’d never read them so…
“Has the doctor been by at all?” Maggie asked.
“No, not yet,” Brenda answered. “He woke up in the ambulance and a nurse assessed him as soon as we arrived. I was just stepping out to go talk to the nurse and find out what’s taking so long.”
Maggie stood and stared at the closed curtain. Inside laid a man who had caused her more pain than she could voice. The scars weren’t visible to most, but for her they ran deep to the bone.
You’re too stupid to understand, Maggie.
You’re only good for one thing, Margaret Anne, and it’s not your brains.
Where have you been all night, whoring around like your mother?
The words still stung and rang in her ears as if he’d just said them.
“Maggie?”
Maggie glanced down and saw Brenda’s hand on her arm.
“You okay, sweetie?”
Maggie drew in a deep, steadying breath and counted to three, something she’d learned to do a long time ago to keep from going crazy.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just need a minute.”
“Sure, baby.” Brenda squeezed. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Brenda, you don’t have to stay. It’s late—”
“Now you hush that talk, young lady. All my residents are like family, and that includes you, Maggie.” She nodded toward the curtain. “Go on in. He’s been asking about you.”
Why? Maggie wanted to ask. Before his sobriety, her father had never cared about her whereabouts.
Maggie nodded and reached for the curtain as Brenda walked away. The drape scraped against the track when she pulled at the fabric. Another memory of her high school years tripped through her head.
Well, I guess you expect some sympathy now, being here in this fancy hospital with those nosey doctors yanking your tonsils out. Couldn’t you have just stayed home and taken the medicine I bought you?
Dad, my fever was so high and the doctor said we didn’t have a choice.
It wasn’t that high. You’re just a baby. Jeez, how much is this little stint going to cost me? Good Lord Maggie, we can’t afford this. I can’t afford you.
Pushing down the memory, Maggie stepped in to the small space and gazed at her father lying in the bed. His eyes were closed but she knew sleep was difficult for him. Not wanting to wake him, she stood at the foot of the bed, studying the man she’d called father.
His thinning gray hair was a mess atop the crisp white pillow. Deep wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes even in sleep. Frown lines permanently affixed around his thinning lips had prematurely aged him, adding to the splotchy complexion and ashen hue that made him look twenty years older than he really was.
“Maggie.” Her father’s eyes fluttered open. “Is that you?”
She walked around the bed, her hands skimming the railings. “Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”
“Where am I?”
Maggie was sure he’d asked the question ten times since the ambulance had picked him up. His early onset dementia came straight from years of long-term alcohol abuse. She wondered if young people could see her father now, would they stop abusing alcohol.
“You’re at the hospital, Dad.”
Confused eyes rolled up to meet hers and he squinted to focus.
Maggie leaned over the bed rail slightly so she was out of her father’s central vision. Macular degeneration was another effect of the alcohol and she knew it was hard for him to see sometimes.
“Why am I at the hospital?” He rubbed a large bump on the side of his head.
“You fell, you passed out.”
His eyes shot wide as he stared straight ahead as if trying to recapture a memory. “I didn’t drink Margaret Anne, I swear I didn’t.”
Maggie noted the alarm on his computer screen began to beep. His heart rate was beating erratically, something that happened with patients suffering from cardiomyopathy.
“Dad, just calm down.” Maggie stroked his hand, careful to avoid the IV they’d inserted. “I know you weren’t drinking.
This happens to you sometimes.” Too many times, Maggie thought.
The drive to St. Helena Hospital in Blue Falls was long, especially in the winter and on winding roads. But Maggie couldn’t avoid the nagging emotion that always tugged at her heart whenever her father needed something. Devotion. Loyalty. Duty? She couldn’t name it, and didn’t want to. It certainly wasn’t love that propelled her into action.
“Mr. Lawrence, is everything all right?”
Maggie turned at the sound of a man’s voice. He wore a white lab coat, indicating he was probably a doctor. She tried to focus on the monogram, but couldn’t read his name.
Her father sat up straighter in the bed. “I was just talking to my daughter is all,” Bill said.
“Yes, well, I’d like to avoid any stressors if we could.” The doctor stared at her like she’d done something wrong and she had to work not to squirm.
“And you are?” Maggie asked, turning the table.
“I’m Dr. Aditya Bhatia, your father’s ER physician.” He spoke with a marked accent.
Maggie held her breath and prayed her father wouldn’t embarrass them both. He’d been known to spout off racist comments before and he wouldn’t be pleased his physician was of Indian descent.
“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Bhatia,” Maggie said, taking his offered hand and shaking.
Dr. Bhatia dropped her hand and walked around the corner of her father’s bed, extending his arm again. “Hello, Mr. Lawrence, I’m Dr. Bhatia.”
Her father studied the man, his eyes roaming up and down the doctor’s body.
Maggie closed her eyes, bracing herself for the insults.
“Do know what you’re doing there, fella? You don’t look like a doctor.” Her father’s eyes narrowed as his entire face tightened.
“No? Why’s that?” The doctor asked quietly.
Please, God, don’t let him do this to me.
“You’re too skinny,” her father finally said. “And too young.”
Maggie sighed in relief.
“Thank you for the compliment, but I assure you Mr. Lawrence, the state of Colorado has put every faith in me that I can take care of you.” The doctor smiled and Maggie noted it was warm and friendly. Two things she’d never been to her father.
But then Dr. Aditya Bhatia had never seen Bill Lawrence at his worst—passed out, stone drunk, hanging from a bathroom urinal at a seedy bar, his face covered with vomit. And Dr. Bhatia had never had to clean up her father’s messes, drive him home at two o’clock in the morning, pay their bills, all as a young teenager.
“So, what’s going on with him, doctor, why did he fall?” Maggie asked. “Is his heart condition getting worse?”
“It’s hard for us to say right now. First we want to treat his head wound and make sure there’s no concussion.” Dr. Bhatia pulled out a small light and flashed it in her father’s eyes.
Her father winced.
The doctor slipped his pen light in his pocket and put his finger in front of her father’s nose. “Follow my finger with your eyes only as I move it.”
Her father stared at the doctor like he was crazy.
“Dad,” Maggie prompted, “just do it.”
Her father stared at Maggie, as if asking permission.
She nodded once.
“All right, Margaret Anne.” He smiled.
Maggie winced at her full name but watched as her father followed the rest of the doctor’s instructions. It seemed as if the doctor was running her father through a sobriety test. Maggie was familiar with the procedure, having seen her father tested on the side of the road countless times.
“What year is it Mr. Lawrence?” the doctor asked.
“Hopefully the year the Broncos win the Super Bowl.” Her father laughed.
Maggie scowled. Was it just a joke or did her dad truly not know what year it was?
The doctor smiled. “Can you be more specific?”
Her father looked at her for help. She gave him none.
“I know Maggie here is about twenty-two, twenty-three…”
She was thirty-one. Maggie clamped her lips together, pressing down to keep in a small sob.
“So, I’d say it’s around,” her father’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he counted out loud. “Nineteen ninety-two, ninety-three.” He paused then his face fell. “That’s not right, is it?”
Sensing her father’s frustration and obviously not wanting to upset him farther, the doctor let the question go.
“I think you may have a slight concussion, Mr. Lawrence.” the doctor said, flipping through a chart. “To be sure, I’d like to order a CT scan first, then an echocardiogram to judge heart size and function.”
“Why?” Maggie asked.
“Because of his ongoing conditions.” The doctor studied her like she was the one who was confused instead of her father. “We’ll do it step by step.”
“You know he has dementia, right?”
“Mr. Lawrence, why don’t you hang tight? I want to speak to your daughter outside for a moment, then I’ll put in the orders for your tests.”
Maggie glanced down at her watch. It was past one in the morning and she had to be at the lodge early. Drawing in a deep breath, she pushed down her anger at having to take care of her father once again.
“Ms. Lawrence,” the doctor motioned outside of the curtain.
“Don’t you go getting any ideas about my Maggie there, young doctor.” Her father laughed.
Maggie glanced back at her father, expecting him to say something cruel like, She’s not worth it, You’re too good for her, She’s dumb as a rock. Nothing came.
Dr. Bhatia smiled kindly at her father. “We’ll be back, sir.”
Maggie slipped through the opening of the curtain then followed Dr. Bhatia to the nurses’ station, out of earshot from her father’s hospital cubicle.
“I think your father has a slight concussion.”
“You know he suffers from dementia, too, though? I mean, someone told you that when he was checked in, right?” Maggie asked.
The doctor nodded. “Yes, I’ve read his chart. I think this may be a little different though so I’d like to do the scan.” He paused as if waiting for Maggie’s approval.
She nodded. “Why did he pass out?”
“I’ll have to wait for the echo, but my guess is that his cardiomyopathy is getting worse. The muscles in his heart are hardening and cutting off the blood flow. As a result, his symptoms will only increase.”
Something burned in Maggie’s chest. “What does that mean?”
“Because of your father’s prolonged abuse of alcohol, his body is deteriorating at a faster rate than a healthy person.”
“I know,” Maggie nodded.
“This means, it’s harder for him to recover from simple things. My fear is he may develop a simple illness, like the flu, something treatable and it could turn into a life-threatening situation.”
As many times as she’d wished her father gone, the talk of him actually dying scared Maggie. Somehow, it always seemed like there would be more time to make amends. More time for them to have the kind of relationship she’d always wanted. More time for her to get over the resentment buried deep inside. More time to forgive him.
“I’m not saying he’s there yet, Ms. Lawrence,” the doctor continued, “but I want to warn you. Your father will probably need more long-term care.” The doctor opened a laptop and read the screen. “He’s in a sober living facility right now, correct?”
“Yes,” Maggie’s voice broke.
“I know they have a limited medical staff there, mainly to monitor those with simple problems from their addiction,” Dr. Bhatia said. “I think your father may be moving into a more acute phase of his condition.”
“What are you saying, a nursing home?”
“Nothing like that just yet, but we are heading to that down the road.”
Her father was only sixty-one.
The doctor seemed to read her mind. “Physically yo
ur father is much older than his age, Maggie.”
She bowed her head, surprised to feel her eyes burn with emotion.
Dr. Bhatia closed the laptop and stood straight, gently touching her arm.
Maggie raised her head from the floor and stared at the doctor.
“Tell you what,” he said, “let’s get these tests done first and see what we’re dealing with. Sound good?”
She saw true empathy in his eyes, something she hadn’t always found in her father’s attending physicians. When someone’s health issues had been brought on by alcohol abuse, they weren’t always treated with respect.
“Okay,” Maggie said.
The doctor glanced at his watch. “At this hour it may take a while for the departments to get to your father. We don’t keep much of a staff during this shift. I’m sorry.”
Maggie shook her head. “It’s okay, we’ll be fine.”
“Can I get you anything?”
Maggie stared blankly at the wall wondering if asking for a new father was an option.
Chapter Seventeen
“You’re up early,” Ben’s mom said, her head down as she stared at the pan on the stove.
Ben groaned. Sleep hadn’t come at all last night. He’d been too stuck on wondering how Maggie was. He’d texted her twice and she’d answered with short answers—Fine—Okay. She never offered more, and as much as he’d wanted to prod, he hadn’t. He’d told her to call if she needed anything. She’d never responded.
“Couldn’t sleep last night,” Ben said.
His mother glanced over her shoulder. “Guilty conscience?”
Ben stared in confusion.
“When you were a kid and couldn’t sleep, it was always because you had something you had to get off your chest.” She smiled.
“No,” he shook his head. Yes. He wanted to sleep with Maggie Lawrence, the hotel manager and close friend of his mother. Did that make him guilty? Probably.
She turned to face him, spatula in hand. “You want some pancakes?”
Ben glanced at the platter next to the stove, piled high with pancakes.
His mother’s smile fell. “I just can’t seem to remember that your father’s not here anymore to eat the leftovers.” A hollow laugh filled the silence. It killed Ben to hear the emptiness in her voice and know his father’s passing had created a hole in her once-vibrant personality.
