Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And ...” Miriam rambled on, “this one said ... Then that one gave me ... Then I took ... I already had that test but I couldn’t tell Doctor Denham because I didn’t tell him I was seeing ...” Finally, “Why did you call?”

  “Just to say Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Did you catch something from one of those girls you go with?”

  “What?!”

  “Those floozies. That redhead! I don’t think our family will ever live that down.”

  “What red ... You mean ...”

  “And that Carter girl! She’s been married five times.”

  “I don’t think s ...”

  “But you’re all right?”

  “Huh? I’ve got ...”

  “From that floozie. Is she part Negro?”

  “Sara?!”

  “Oh, if Mrs. Meredith ever saw her ... You know, you could move back here. You could leave that floozie and come home.”

  “Back off. That’s not what I called for.”

  “Well, if that’s not what you called for, why did you call?”

  “Do you know that I’m very ill? From Agent Orange.”

  “Oh, come, Rob! Agent Orange is a crock of poo. I saw that on TV. Now if you’d been a decent young man ...”

  “I don’t believe I’m listening to this.”

  “Just as long as you remember the check. Why didn’t you sign it last time? How come she signed it? It wasn’t even—”

  Bobby hung up. His arms were shaking. His breathing was shallow.

  By the time Sara and the children arrived, along with Tony, Linda, and their children, and Don Wagner and Tom Van Deusen, Bobby had calmed. But tiredness lingered.

  Sara acted as gatekeeper. She would not allow the visitors to enter en masse. She parceled his time, granted them brief audiences, even Noah, Paul and Am.

  “I’ve got something for you.”

  “What, Pawpee?”

  “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

  Am wiggled. “Uh-huh.”

  “Give me your hand.” The little girl reached up, grasped Bobby’s hand. He squeezed. “How’s that?”

  “What?” She giggled.

  “Pretty strong, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You told me you wanted me to get strong for your birthday. So I did.”

  “Can you give me a piggyback ride?”

  “I don’t have any clothes on.”

  “Ye-ees youz do!”

  “Just pajamas. Maybe next time. I ... I gave Uncle Tony your present. Did he give it to you?”

  “Uh-huh. I got a crown.”

  “A tiara, huh? That’s because you’re a princess. It’s a magic tiara.”

  Paul came in. Shy, quiet. “I love you, Paulie. Hold my hand a minute.”

  “I love you too, Papa.”

  “Trust your own heart in all things. Do you know what that means?”

  “No.”

  “Trust yourself.”

  “Don’t go, Papa.”

  “I won’t. I’m so glad you’re my son.”

  Then came Tony. “How ya doin, Man?”

  “Ah, the kids ... you know, I really want em here but it’s a real struggle.”

  “Hey—” Tony’s face brightened. “You know the definition of a real good buddy?”

  Bobby began to chuckle. “No.”

  “He’s a guy,” Tony said, “who goes to town and gets two blow jobs, then comes back and gives you one.” They both laughed. “Maybe,” Tony continued, “you heard the one ...”

  Noah entered, remained, came out, came to the solarium waiting room, sat on Tony’s lap. “Pop says, on my birthday, he’s going to teach me to ride a bike. He’s going to tell me tomorrow. I’m going to come back tomorrow and he’s going to tell me. Just Pop and me.”

  On Thanksgiving morning Noah had the sniffles and Sara decided neither the children nor the adults, except Tony, should enter Bobby’s room, should expose him, immunologically spent, to a potentially lethal virus. Instead they talked, gestured, waved from the hallway. By evening Sara would not let the children be exposed to the sight of their father.

  He was frail. His hair was gray. A large patch had fallen out from one side making it look as if there was a hole there. From morning to evening his entire countenance changed. The sores that had been healing cracked and oozed and Linda helped the nurse re-bandage Bobby’s arms and legs with white gauze, and his back with large patches. His eyes teared. He drooled, coughed up bloody mucus.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re at the West Haven VA.” Sara’s voice was firm, controlled.

  “Is this our house?”

  “Yes.”

  “We live here?”

  “Yes. We live here.”

  Bobby’s words began to slur. “You and me?”

  “Yes. You and I.”

  “Just you and I?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Josh? Where’s Josh?”

  “He’s ... upstairs.”

  “Good.”

  In the hallway, Sara, “Tony, take the children home.”

  “Okay. I’ll drive em, then come back. Or Linda could drive ...”

  Word spreads quickly in a small town. By Friday it seemed everyone knew Bobby was dying. And everyone was upset.

  She banged on the door.

  Miriam answered. “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Wapinski?”

  “Cadwalder-Wapinski. Who are you?”

  “Josephine Pisano. I’ve been taking care of your grandchildren for three months.”

  “Oh. Which ones?”

  “How could you?! Your son is dying!”

  Now defensive, her voice sharp, piercing, “How could I what?!”

  “If I had only one kidney, or one lung, or my heart, and one of my children needed it ...”

  “Well, I’m not you!”

  “You didn’t even go for the blood test. Three hundred of his friends went. They’re his true family. You wouldn’t lose anything. You—”

  Miriam slammed the door.

  The road, the dirt mud road with the stone wall running to the mountain, the paddy. Why am I in white? In white! Snipers! In white. Next. Cover me, Man. One more assault, Sir. We almost had em last time. We lost three bodies ... Ty? Ty! Ty, go over ... up Man, cover me, we’ll have a beer when this is over. Then we’ll talk. Next. Not that one. Put him in the ... One more sunrise. One more first light. Are you my dad? Dad! Dad, I’m just like you. Am I just like you? Death is unlife. Death is not being part of life. Death is an inducer of false exile, false estrangement, false expatriation. One more first light, Josh, ol’ Buddy. Good buddy ... two blow jobs ... mallards on the pond. You don’t have to scare em. Look at those hinges. They’ll last a hundred years. Who’ll cut the Christmas trees? Put this one in the corner ...

  For a week Bobby’s hallucinations, flashbacks, periods of confusion and delirium flip-flopped with periods of total lucidity. His physical deterioration was erratic. At times, though bedridden, he seemed strong. Emotionally, when lucid, he was confident. Twice he received whole blood transfusions. Twice he received platelets. Three times his antibiotic mixture was adjusted. On Wednesday, 7 December, the hematologists began a new chemotherapy, a totally new treatment that had never before been used on leukemics. Dachik was hopeful. Wilcoxson had reservations. Before deciding, he had outlined the procedure, the theoretical response, the actual response in culture and animal studies. Bobby, totally lucid, had asked a multitude of questions, had read the new permission-to-treat form, signed it, signed too a form titled Permission to Perform Autopsy. “Don’t withdraw on me now, Doc,” Bobby had said to Lily Dachik.

  “As long as you understand the risks,” she’d countered.

  Bobby’d smiled. “Let’s give it a shot. No pussy-footin around. We’re not politicians. We don’t have to do just enough to appease ...”

  “Bob—” Wilcoxson had laid a hand on Wapinski’s bed but had not touche
d him. “We’re at a very critical point. But I don’t want you to think last shot and give up.”

  “No, Doc. Really. I understand. We’re going to get through this.”

  “We’re going to get through this,” Bobby repeated to Tony that evening. He was nauseated. The new chemo was kicking in.

  “Yeah.” Tony wanted to believe, wanted to sound up, sound positive. “Hey, I ever tell ya—”

  “About the good buddy?” Bobby chuckled.

  Tony laughed too. “Naw, I was doing the farm books. This last spring, we got a hundred and fifty gallons of medium amber syrup from two hundred taps. At fifteen bucks a gallon that’s over twenty-two hundred bucks. Not bad, huh?”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  The conversation lapsed. Bobby became more nauseated. He coughed. Tony cleaned his chin.

  “How old am I?” Bobby asked.

  “Thirty ... Yer about a year and a half older than me. Thirty-seven, huh?”

  “Um. I thought I’d die at twenty-five.”

  “Across the pond?”

  “No. I mean even before Nam. When I was a kid. I thought I’d die by twenty-five. Even after Viet Nam—” again the cough, the cleaning, “I thought, you know ...”

  “Yeah. I think I ... When I was bumming around. I figured ...”

  Bobby wasn’t listening. He wanted to talk. He cut in. His words began to slur again. “God gave me twelve more years. I did a lot in twelve years, didn’t I?”

  “Come on, Man. What kind of talk is this?”

  “I married Sara. Then Noah—” coughing more frequently now, “Paul, ha! you should have seen your face when we named him Paul Anthony. Am ...”

  “Paulie’s starting swim classes in January. I remember last summer, in the pond, he’s going to be a hell of a strong swimmer.”

  “Um. Twelve years. The farm. The ...”

  “Cut the shit, Bobby.”

  “Really ...”

  “Shit, Man! You’re bleeding. You’ve got blood in your mucus. I’m getting the nurse.”

  Alone, in the solarium—Bobby in his room asleep, being watched by the floor nurses—they took special care of him—Tony sank into a cheap chrome-framed armchair. He too wanted to sleep but he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he should call Sara. He’d talked to her earlier. Talked to Linda, too. Had angrily told Linda about them asking Bobby to sign the autopsy permission form, but she’d answered that it was pretty much standard. He told his wife about Bobby, fully lucid, saying, “If it ever comes to where I’m on a respirator, I don’t want anybody but you or Sara deciding on the quality of my life. If I want the plug pulled, I’ll pull it myself.”

  “Don’t,” Tony mumbled, “go unassing this AO, Man. Just don’t.” He slid farther down in the chair. His head rested on the hard seatback, his butt hung two-thirds over the edge, his knees were bent at ninety degrees supporting him uncomfortably, almost lying down. Tony’s eyes closed. His face sagged. He was in the room with Bobby but the room was dark, dank, small. They could not stand, could not sit, had to lie prone. Bobby was coughing, spitting up. He needed to pull him up, pull him through. Above, far above, outside the tunnel, they pulled, pulled the rope he’d looped over Bobby in the deep. Tony coughed. In sleep, dream, he raised his hand to clear his mouth but his hand was filthy with others’ sputum. His stomach tightened, churned ...

  Tony sat up. He was stiff. His neck was sore, his legs below the knees were asleep. He could go to the Boyers’. Could find an all-night diner. Could sleep on the floor except the floor was dirty. He rose. It was after two. He checked on Bobby. The night-duty nurse was sitting in the chair beside his bed. The table lamp was on. In its light she’d been writing her shift notes. She looked up, put a finger to her lips. Bobby was not asleep but seemed to be resting. Occasionally his chest trembled in a feeble cough.

  On Friday night Sara and the kids arrived. Bobby’s condition had remained stable. He had not eaten in two days, was being fed intravenously. His cough persisted. The blood content of the mucus had increased though not substantially. His eyes were bloodshot, the surrounding skin was black and blue as if he’d let his guard down and been pummeled. His skin was chalky. He was semilucid, semidelirious.

  “Bob.” She went to him, kissed his forehead.

  The children remained in the hallway with Tony. Bobby turned his head, looked at her, didn’t answer.

  Sara kissed him again. “I’ll be right back.” She exited. In the hall she whispered to Tony. Tony nodded. To the children she said, “Pappee is very sick right now. And very tired. We’re going to let him rest. Uncle Tony will take you to the Boyers’. I’m going to stay here. Right now he needs me more than you need me. Tomorrow we’ll try to have you come in.”

  Bobby coughed again, and again. He hadn’t slept since the onset of the coughing. “I talked to Mark Tashkor, today,” Sara said. “He heard from Victor Yannecone. The number of claims against the chemical companies has risen to two hundred and thirty-three thousand. Eighty thousand are for serious ailments. Something beyond chloracne.”

  Bobby looked at her. His eyes showed no comprehension of her words. Sara gritted her teeth. She talked calmly of the children, of school, of the call from Vertsborg and of Jo having gone to see Miriam. Then she simply sat with him, held his hand.

  Tony returned. He stood in the hall. He did not want to interrupt. He watched as Sara spoke, as Bobby watched her, as she repeatedly cleaned his face, as she silently cried, and as Bobby responded by crying too.

  Then his coughing became much worse. There was much more blood. He gagged. Tony ran for the nurse. Sara stood. Her arms shook. She tried to clean him, his face. Her gentle hands bruised his chin. His platelet count had dropped to nothing. The nurse found no blood pressure. No pulse. Another nurse came. A technician, a medic. Immediately they began CPR, injected him, through the IV tube, with digitalis and/or other drugs.

  “Call Dachik. Call Wilcoxson.” “Start a unit of platelets.” “Call the unit. He should be down there.” “Where?” “ICU.” “No time.” “I’ve got a pulse.” “Start another IV.” “Tony, call the Boyers.” “He’s bleeding everywhere.” “Dachik’s on her way.” “Is he still on that new chemo?” “What should I do next ...”

  Next. Bobby tried to sit up. There are wires everywhere. Trip wires crossing jungle trails. His face is covered with blood. There is blood everywhere. Its stench permeates the room. He can smell it, taste it, see it. They’ve left him behind. Boyers. Bowers. Bowers and Eton. There is mud everywhere. The hillside is slick as blood mucus, sliding down, sliding down. “Cover me.” Bobby’s voice in the commotion. “I’m going back up.”

  “Stop the antibiotics. Just saline. And platelets.”

  They did not move him but worked on him, over him, worked him over, all night right there in his room with Sara right there, Tony there, Bobby totally docile, flaccid, then springing up wide-eyed, shouting, being restrained, shouting, “Bowers! Eton! L-T ...” Then mumbling, “L-T ... L-T ... I can’t remember his name.” Then docile again. Coughing, being suctioned. Resting. Then lucid, semilucid, “Tony. Tony, are they on the wall?”

  “He’s hallucinating,” a nurse said. “Spiders on the wall. It’s common.”

  Tony eyed her. Shook his head. Said to Bobby, “Yeah, Man. Their names are on The Wall. Right there in Lincoln’s thousand-yard stare.”

  “Good. I think of them ...”

  On Saturday, they had moved him to the ICU, with the chemo and antibiotics suspended, with additional platelets, Bobby regained a sense of the present. His breathing came easier. His coughing subsided. His pulse was steady, his blood pressure palpable. He rested. Occasionally he woke, looked to see Sara, now in a surgical mask, beside him, holding his hand. “They stopped all the drugs,” she told him. “Lily said they’ll reintroduce them one at a time to make sure they’re safe.”

  “Um,” he answered.

  To her it was the sweetest thing he’d ever said.

  “T
hey said I could stay in your room,” Sara said. She yawned. “Bobby, I’m going up to the room. It’s all cleaned up. Tony’s here. Bobby, I’ve got to rest.”

  “Um,” he hummed again. Then he said to her, “We’re going to get through this.”

  By Sunday Bobby had improved enough to sit up, to be propped up, for short periods. He was lucid, yet confused. When Tony came in Bobby thought he was the doctor. When Sara sat with him he thought she was his Aunt Krystyna. The children came but Tony told Sara he thought it best if they did not see him. “Not yet. Not until he’s a little better.”

  Sara acquiesced. She was exhausted. To Lily Dachik she said, “How much longer do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” the doctor answered.

  “He’s going to kill me,” Sara said. “I can’t stand this. I’m going to be dead and he’s going to be lying in his bed. I hate this. I hate chemicals. I hate veterans. I hate what this has done to us. Why do we have to use up our energy for this?”

  Doctor Dachik tried to soothe her.

  “You don’t understand.” Sara burst into tears. “I’ve watched him lose.... He’s lost the business. Lost the institute. Noah keeps collecting books for him so he can have more god damn books when he comes home. I’ve tried to be here for him. I have to work. I have to be in my classroom. It hurts. I’ve tried to be his wife. To take care of him. And ... I can’t watch him die.”

  “Go home, then,” Dachik said. “He’s responding well. It could be two or three more months.”

  Sara was too tired to drive home the night of the eleventh. She called her school principal, asked for Monday off. She spent the night at the Boyers’.

  On Monday, the twelfth, Bobby was returned to his old seventh-floor room. The crisis had passed. He ate an entire breakfast, his first food in four days. Mentally, too, he was back.

  “Oh, my God,” Sara beamed. “I thought we were going to lose you.”

  “Naw. I’m okay. Are the kids at the Boyers’?”

  “Yes. They’re packed up. We were going to drive back.”

  “How’s Tara?”

  “You know.”

  “I don’t know how they handle that.” Bobby grinned. “Maybe I do.”