Ultimatum

by K. M. Walton

  Vance winces. “I don’t know if I believe that. He’s in a coma.”

  My lips form a tight, thin line. I’m not sure I believe it either. It sounds too much like something a hospice nurse would say to a weeping son. “He’s probably just breathing.”

  Vance turns and rests his forearms on the bed. “Dad? Can you hear me? Do you know that Oscar and I are here?”

  One of Dad’s regular labored breaths releases. There is no sigh.

  I lean in on the bed too.

  Vance keeps going. “Dad, Oscar and I are here with you. We have been the whole time. I don’t know if Joey and Bill talked to you when they were here, but they came over to see you tonight.”

  Dad’s hand jerks. Vance and I yelp.

  “Holy shit! Holy shit! Why did he do that?” Vance shouts.

  I panic, thinking Dad’s heart stopped or something, and I repeat the same hand hovering over his mouth. When his warm breath hits my palm, I exhale along with him. “He’s still alive.”

  “Sh-should we get Marnie?” Vance asks.

  I return Dad’s hand to underneath the sheet. “She was just in here. There’s nothing she can do. She keeps saying he’ll go when he’s ready.”

  Vance stands and faces the window. “What if I’m not ready?”

  Who is ever ready for death? Mom died suddenly. One moment she was there, and then she just wasn’t. Dad’s decline feels both fast and slow. We know it’s coming, but we’re not prepared.

  “I’m not ready either,” I announce sharply.

  My brother doesn’t turn around. He exhales onto the window, fogging it up. “Why are we arguing again?”

  My eyes go wide. Typically I’m the one who acknowledges when we bicker. He’s always been too busy being Vance. This is…new. “It’s what we’re programmed to do. We don’t know how to find common ground, Vance.”

  He rests his forehead on the glass. “Maybe we should start trying sometime soon.”

  Vance

  Ten months ago

  It was the last day of junior year, and Dad was on his way to a nice buzz at two in the afternoon. Growler and I walked into the empty Blue Mountain, soaking wet. A bunch of juniors had organized a water-balloon fight out on the field. Let’s just say our lacrosse skills came in handy because we nailed lots of kids with balloons. For a while, no one would throw one at me, not even my teammates. Then Growler caught me in the back, and it was on.

  Dad said, “You two jackasses jump in a pool or something?” We explained and he laughed. “When are you headed to the shore, Growler?” he asked.

  Growler grabbed a maraschino cherry and popped it into his mouth. “Not till August this year.”

  His family went to the shore every summer for two weeks. I’d been invited over the years, but my invitation was revoked after my “drinking at the prom/suspension” incident. I’d never blabbed that the hidden vodka was Growler’s idea or that he was shit-faced too. He just didn’t get caught. His secret was safe with me.

  Maybe Dad would let me drive down for the day, and Growler’s parents would change their minds and insist I stay the night. It was a long shot, but it would be worth a go when the time came.

  Actually, I had no doubt Dad would give me permission. One thing my father wasn’t was an overprotective dick. He let me and Oscar live our lives and actually do stuff. He believed that life was for living, and too much worry never did anything but make you feel like shit. That was a rock-solid philosophy.

  Who wanted to sit around thinking about sad stuff? Or lock yourself away to listen to boring violin music and draw? Definitely not me. I’d rather be like Dad and live.

  Dad put three shot glasses on the bar and filled them with Fireball. He took one and lifted it. “To the end of school, the beginning of summer, and feeling gooooood.”

  We each grabbed one, clinked them together, and tossed them back. “Ahhhh!”

  “That burns so nice!” Growler said.

  Oscar was all of a sudden standing at the end of the bar. Frowning. Sucking the fun out of the moment. Not living. He must’ve come in the back door. “You can get—”

  Dad cut him off. “Shut down. Yeah, I know, you’ve announced that since you were thirteen. Relax, Oscar.” He threw his arms out to the side. “It’s all right. We’re celebrating. Do you see another human being in the bar?” He laughed and held up the bottle. “You gotta live a little! Wanna join us?”

  Oscar winced and shook his head.

  Dad turned his back on him and cranked up the sound system. Jimmy Cliff’s “Many Rivers to Cross” filled the bar, and Dad shouted, “This right here really is my favorite song.”

  My brother disappeared down the hall.

  Oscar

  Vance sits in the smaller chair, and we resume staring at Dad. His declaration of “Maybe we should start trying sometime soon” was shocking. What did he mean? Was he weighing his options with me? Would he stay after Dad died? Asking him to clarify was terrifying so I’d just dropped my eyes.

  Vance refuses to go back to the pullout, but he lets me have the recliner. “What’s fair is fair,” he says. I swallow a laugh. He has never in his whole life subscribed to this philosophy. He’s more of an “If I want it, I take it” kind of guy.

  “Thanks?” I say, unsure if he’ll suddenly change his mind.

  I take out my sketchbook and begin a new drawing of Dad. I haven’t drawn him from over here.

  “What are you doing?” Vance snaps.

  I lift only my gaze. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Are you seriously drawing Dad right now?”

  I take a deep breath. That was a familiar tone. Here we go. “Yes, Vance, I’m seriously drawing Dad right now. Why is that a problem for you?”

  He shakes his head wildly. “You’re too fucking much. You really are. You make everyone around you feel like they’re stupid or lower than you. You even do it to Dad sometimes. And you, you—” He stops abruptly and exhales. I remain silent. “I can’t believe you have the balls to sit there with your little book and draw him. He’s dying!”

  What I can only describe as steam shoots from my nose. He’s attacking me for drawing? We both just said we didn’t want to argue! So much for trying to find common ground. If I respond, I may crack and leak and puddle. If I don’t respond, he may lose his mind. My hands sweat. The walls suddenly crowd me. I want to run away.

  Instead I clear my throat, glare at him, and find my voice. “Is this you finding common ground?”

  “Stop staring at me like a psycho!” Vance’s eyes just might pop from their sockets. “You’re too much.”

  Our silent scowls duel for some time until Vance says, “Don’t you have anything else to say? What’s that? You’re a selfish prick?”

  I look down at the floor. “That’s not fair.”

  “Fair? Do you hear yourself, Oscar? Fair? None of this is fair!” He yanks the sheet up in the air. “Dad’s feet swelling like stuffed pigs, that’s not fair! We’re going to be orphans, that’s not fair! You getting your feelings all bunched up because you know I’m right? Who gives a shit! Not me. It’s obscene to draw him like this. It’s just fucked up. Do you really think he’d want this captured in your book?” He points to our comatose father.

  “Just because you’ve always been Dad’s favorite doesn’t mean you know what he wants. I can draw whatever I want. Besides, you’ve never laid your eyes on a single thing I’ve drawn.” While this is true, I’m not sure it’s the best response to his outburst.

  Vance paces the length of the bed. “It’s about you, huh? Of course it is, baby brother. Well, boo-frickin’-hoo. I’ve never seen the shit you’ve drawn. Has it ever occurred to you that you’ve never shared it with me? Because you haven’t. Ever. Not once. But believe me, it’s not like I’ve been too broken up about it. I seriously don’t give a shit.

  “Yo
u can keep your drawings. In fact, how about you shove that whole book and your pencils straight up your ass?” He stomps toward the door. “And let’s stop pretending like you care about Dad. You want him to die! I know you do!” Vance turns away. “You’re such a hypocrite.” He says over his shoulder, “When Dad dies, we are completely fucked, by the way. Shit. Man, I need some air.”

  I’m alone with Dad. He shows no signs that he’s heard the blowup between his boys, the ugly truth Vance just yelled out. Dad is just breathing. Guilt forces me to concentrate. So Vance believes everything’s over for us. Maybe we should go our separate ways and live our lives. Kids lose parents every day all over the world. Who says we have to rely on each other? Where is that law?

  Dad’s chest rises and falls three times in a minute. I time it.

  I want more time. No doubt my brother wants more time. Finally, common ground established.

  “Why are you dying?” I whisper.

  No response, which is not all that different from when Dad was up and around. A fresh jolt of shame shoots straight to my heart. Why is my first reaction always to go negative? Am I even capable of remembering the good?

  I lean my head back and close my eyes. Dad coming home from work with new packs of Yu-Gi-Oh! cards pops into my brain. Vance and I used to lose our minds with excitement ripping those plastic packages open. Dad would stand there smiling, asking if we got any powerful monster cards. My brother and I would race to the basement to duel, and of course we’d argue. Dad did always let me and Vance duke it out on our own. It was a rarity if he stepped in. He said brothers as close in age as us had to figure it out ourselves. I think that is positive.

  But after Mom died, there were times I’d stomp to my room, furious that he hadn’t seized the moment to teach my brother humility, compassion, kindness. I’d usually go to bed promising myself I’d be nothing like my father if I had children.

  I’m being negative again. Damnit. I’m hopeless.

  With defiance surging through me, I resume drawing. He’s my father too, and if I want to sketch him, I will. I concentrate on his face, specifically his eyes and forehead. There’s no crease between his brows. It’s smooth.

  My father furrowed his brow whenever he talked to me. If he was interacting with me, his forehead was pinched.

  Why haven’t I noticed his relaxed forehead till now?

  I tuck my book underneath my arm and stand to get a closer look. Flat as can be. I run my fingertips above his brow. I’m drawing him for me. Vance is right. Dad probably would be angry. But deep down, I like to think he’d understand that I have to draw him. I have to capture every single second he’s still here. That’s not selfish, is it? My hand slides down to his shoulder, and I rest it there. “Maybe it is selfish.”

  Vance

  Eight months ago

  I parked a block away from Growler’s rental house and headed to the beach. He said they were to the left of the Thirty-Fourth Street lifeguard stand. He was supposed to tell his mom I was coming to hang, like, a half hour ago, just so she wouldn’t be that mad when she saw me.

  I took off my sneakers and socks and left them at the top of the stairs. Walking on the beach with shoes on was for dorks. I spotted Growler and his mom down by the water.

  “What are you doing here?” his mom said when she saw me. Not exactly in a nice way either.

  “Hey, Mrs. Fulton,” I said. I could tell by her pinched face that Growler hadn’t softened the blow.

  “Oh crap, Vance. S-sorry,” he bumbled and hopped up from his chair. “Mom, I forgot to tell you that Vance was coming to hang on the beach for the day.” He turned to me and mouthed, “Sorry.”

  I punched his shoulder and mouthed, “Fuck you.”

  “Hello, Vance.” Growler’s mother pulled her beach chair up to a sitting position and gave me a once-over. “And your father just let you drive down here by yourself? Does he even know where you are?”

  Wow. Hostile. “Yes. He knows.” I forced a smile, trying to pile on the charm.

  “I suppose it’ll be all right,” she said, her lips tight. “You’re only staying the day?”

  “You could stay overnight, right, Vance? Didn’t your dad say it was cool if you stayed over?” Growler needed to chill out. He was ruining the whole plan. Sleeping over was supposed to be her idea.

  I watched his mom’s expression. She winced. Shit. I was driving home tonight.

  She said, “Let’s play it by ear, gentlemen.”

  Perhaps the deal wasn’t dead yet.

  “We’re gonna get something to eat, Mom,” Growler said. He flicked his head and started walking.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Fulton.” She had already laid her chair back, so all I got was a wave.

  As soon as we were far enough away, I said, “Dude, you almost blew it. Nice going.”

  “My parents got into a wicked fight this morning before my dad left. That’s why she’s extra salty. I forgot to ask her. But she’ll cave. She always does.”

  We climbed the steps to the boardwalk. “You mom really hates me now, doesn’t she?”

  Growler stomps the sand from his feet. “She’s definitely still mad about the whole drinking thing.”

  I had a perfect way to wipe his mom from my head. “Wanna smoke before we eat? I packed the glass bowl.”

  “Dumb question.” Growler punches my shoulder. “My rental is right there. The house with the red roof.”

  “Your mom won’t pop in to check on you?”

  Growler shook his head. “She thinks we’re eating. And she doesn’t leave the beach until sundown.”

  We walked to his house and headed up steps to the wraparound deck, and he unlocked the door. This was a different house than they had rented the last few summers. “Whoa,” I said. “This place is nice!”

  “My dad got a huge bonus this year so we splurged on a house close to the beach. It’s sweet, right?”

  Hardwood floors, leather sofas, skylights, and a huge open kitchen. “It’s sick.”

  “Will’s not even here till tomorrow night. He’s finishing up a summer course. You could sleep in his room.”

  Granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, massive coffeemaker—this place was unreal. But I knew what would make this house even better. I pulled out the bowl. “Let’s smoke.”

  “Outside. There’s a gigantic shower. It’s private, and the smoke’ll just float away.”

  Growler wasn’t kidding. The outside shower area was bigger than my bedroom at home, and it was tucked underneath the house. All the newer houses at the shore had to be up on wooden pilings so the houses wouldn’t get slammed by the big storms. “There’s even a light down here?” I said, amazed. I handed him the bowl and lighter.

  He took a hit and passed it to me.

  He blew the smoke straight up. “There’s a bonfire on the beach tonight. Wait until you see the girls, dude. They’re tan and hot.”

  Who knew that things would get so messed up at that bonfire? Sure as hell not me.

  Oscar

  It’s not until I finish smudging and shading my drawing of Dad that I realize my brother has yet to return. I fear leaving this room. What if Dad is the sort who’ll wait until he’s alone to die? I couldn’t handle that. Vance would never recover if he wasn’t here, which makes me want to go find him.

  I step into the hall and I’m in luck. A nurse I haven’t met yet is sitting at the rolling station. “Excuse me. Is Marnie still here?”

  She looks up and smiles. “Hey, there. She’s at a different post. What do you need?”

  I explain that I’m afraid to leave the room, but I also need to find my brother. She offers to give the floor a look and report back.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Another bit of kindness from a stranger. I don’t know this nurse. She’s new to me. But I’ve yet to meet a cranky hospice e
mployee—they’re all awesome. I guess you have to be really nice to do this for a living.

  She’s back in no time with a dazed Vance on her arm. “He fell asleep in the Common Room.” He thanks her and then shuffles to his seat. “I’m just outside if you need me.” She slinks out and leaves us be. Again, more thoughtfulness.

  “Look at Dad’s forehead,” I say, choosing to drop the argument.

  Vance yawns and shrugs. “Yeah, so?”

  “Really look at it.”

  He leans in. “I am reaaallly looking at it. What am I supposed to see?”

  “No, look for what isn’t there.”

  “I don’t get it.” Vance huffs.

  Why is he so difficult? “The crease.” I stroke Dad’s forehead. “It’s not there.” I can tell by Vance’s bewildered look that he doesn’t understand. I furrow my brow with exaggeration. “Dad looks like that sometimes. Right here is always pinched together.” I point to my forehead.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I huff. “Don’t tell me you never noticed it before. It’s always crinkled. Right here.” I rub in between Dad’s brows.

  “Why do you care so much? I meant what I said before. I know you want him to die.”

  Admitting how I feel…that he’s right… I can’t. He would flip out again. What a mess.

  Vance’s cheeks redden. “You’ve never appreciated him! You disappeared into your cave after Mom died. You never even tried to help him…or me. And believe me, I’m not expecting you to somehow get close to Dad on his deathbed. Whatever, Oscar! You’ll have to live with all that bullshit, not me.” He turns his back to let me know he’s done, slams down into the chair, and gets lost in his phone.

  His words are like a punch in the gut. What he just said is true. All of it. My stomach grinds with this sudden reality. I should’ve tried harder to be present, to be there for both of them, and guess I stink at hiding how I feel. And all along I’d thought I was so good at burying my emotions behind blank stares.