Odd Adventures with your Other Father

by Prentiss, Norman

  Shawn fumed. The intern spoke to them, even though they hadn’t seen Celia in over ten years. The hospital staff saw Celia’s hyphenated last name, matched it to Edward and Charlotte, and granted them full rights. In contrast, he’d called the hospital every hour from his car, requesting information, and he’d been put on endless hold or brushed off. The hospital had Celia’s medical forms faxed from her camp, and apparently that gave them enough authorization to treat her—so they didn’t seem interested in his calls. But he was here now. They should listen to him. They should take him to Celia now.

  Charlotte tapped her fingernails on the countertop and spoke sweetly to the on-duty nurse. “Can you page someone? Find out where Celia Glazer-Pruett is? Her father hasn’t seen her yet.”

  “I’ll try.”

  The nurse started punching in numbers, a sudden model of efficiency. Was that all it took—a sweet smile, and asking for something that should have been offered freely? He was mad at the nurse, and at Charlotte, too, for sensing his rage and stepping in to mediate. Jack’s mother always wanted to fix things—an irritating habit, especially when she was successful.

  After a few back-and-forths, the nurse had better information. Celia was in radiology, and would be moved upstairs in the next twenty minutes. In the meantime, the physician who examined Celia would check in as soon as she finished with her current patients. “I’ll have her meet you in the waiting area,” the nurse said. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks,” Shawn said, grateful.

  He thanked Charlotte as well, who smiled and gave a faint nod of greeting. She looked good: her reddish-brown hair was nicely styled, and she wore a tasteful application of blush and lipstick. Unlike her husband, she looked wide awake, unaffected by the late hour. She was a tall woman, with immaculate posture; although Jack had inherited his height from her side of the family, he’d always tended to slouch a bit, both sitting or standing.

  They stepped away from the counter and headed to the waiting annex. Charlotte returned to her previous seat, and Edward took the one next to her. Shawn remained standing—so he could pace, or leave the area if he got agitated. To sit down with them would signal too much of a commitment.

  He stood behind the facing row of chairs, leaning against the closest. “Tell me exactly what happened,” he said to both of them.

  “I was upstairs, and Edward called to me. Of course, I rushed down immediately. He was on the floor, and he held Celia close to him.”

  “Like this,” Edward said, his arms hugging the air in front of him. “Her eyes were closed, like she was resting.”

  “I checked Celia’s airways, then checked her pulse—healthy, a little elevated. I lifted her eyelids, and tested the responsiveness of her pupils to light.” Charlotte spoke as a nurse, detailing more of his daughter’s vital signs—her skin pallor, body temperature, the strength of her breathing. “Everything seemed fine, but she wouldn’t respond to her name. She was asleep, or in a kind of trance.”

  Shawn started to interrupt—“Didn’t you . . . ?”—but she lifted a hand to cut him off.

  “So I had Edward call for an ambulance. Now, they always say not to move somebody, but he insisted Celia hadn’t hit her head. I thought it was more important that she be comfortable, so we carried her to the den where she could lie down on the sofa. I put a pillow beneath her head and kept track of her vital signs while we waited for the ambulance.”

  Edward nodded in silent confirmation of his wife’s account. It was over. Neither of them added anything.

  “Wait,” Shawn said, looking from one to the other. “Celia woke up, right? She’s not in some kind of coma, is she?”

  Silence. They both assumed a sheepish expression, and Shawn feared the worst. He looked daggers at Edward. “You told me she was fine.”

  “Oh, she is. She woke up.” He glanced at his wife for help. “On our couch, a few minutes before the ambulance. It’s just . . . ”

  Again, Shawn imagined the worst. There was a reason the hospital wasn’t letting him see his daughter. A loss of oxygen to her brain, perhaps. She’d been unconscious for too long.

  His hands were shaking. “Please tell me.”

  Charlotte summoned the nerve to speak. “They had to sedate her. Celia said some strange things when she woke.” She lowered her voice, even though there was no one around to overhear. “About monsters.”

  #

  The doctor arrived shortly thereafter. She wore the usual white coat, stethoscope in the front pocket. Her hair was tied back, her face smooth and pale, and Shawn worried she was too young and inexperienced.

  The doctor quickly dispelled his negative first impression. She directed all her comments at Shawn—the first real acknowledgement he was Celia’s father—and she had a straightforward, no-nonsense manner, speaking clearly and without consulting her clipboard. “I examined your daughter, and she’s doing well. The blood report was good, no problems in the X-ray. We’ll get her in the room soon, so you can see her. Any questions for me?”

  Shawn sighed in relief. With that breath, a tension in his shoulders began to ease away—a weight he’d carried during the long drive, carried with him into the hospital and into the awkward reunion with Jack’s parents. Things were better now, but he still needed to see Celia, judge for himself. It was hard to take someone else’s word.

  He was afraid to ask a question. Afraid his words would make the doctor revise her diagnosis. “She’s awake?” he said. “Alert?”

  “Yes. It’s late at night, and she’s groggy from the Diazepam they gave her, but yes.” The doctor’s no-nonsense manner broke down for a moment, and she laughed and shook her head. “Your daughter joked a bit with the radiology tech. She’s funny. Very imaginative.”

  “Thank you,” Shawn said.

  Charlotte leaned forward in her chair, a hand lifting slightly as if to get a teacher’s attention. “What did she say? Anything strange?”

  The doctor glanced at her briefly, then directed her response back at Shawn. “Nothing worth repeating. I’ve heard a lot of things before, believe me. The Diazepam make some people as drunk as a sailor.”

  The doctor lifted the fastener on her clipboard then handed him Celia’s forms, indicated the contact number if Shawn had further questions.

  “When can she come home?”

  “We’ll keep her under observation for the night, but she should be released by noonish tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good,” Shawn said. “Thanks again.”

  He was happy to thank her. A simple examination and a routine diagnosis, for one of countless patients she’d encountered this late night. But after his hours of fearful imaginings, it almost felt as if she’d brought his daughter back to life.

  The doctor left, after assuring him they’d bring Celia up soon. He couldn’t wait to see her.

  Another long exhale. More tension leaving his shoulders.

  Now. Now he could face the awkwardness with Jack’s parents.

  They were in his life again, and Celia’s, too. Maybe his daughter had played some small part in that, but could he blame her? Perhaps they’d manipulated her, but only in that time-honored pattern grandparents unintentionally slipped into: a generous, well-meaning love that secretly hopes the grandchild will prefer them to her parents.

  He took a seat in the facing row of chairs. He was in a much better frame of mind. They were grandparents, not kidnappers. They were part of Jack. Family.

  And he owed them a profound apology. They weren’t blameless, either; they probably didn’t remember half the things they said during Jack’s illness. But it had been a difficult time for all of them. What Shawn did was worse—his sudden departure ten years ago, as their son was dying; his rejection of contact during the years that followed, keeping them from their granddaughter.

  They’d want explanations, which he couldn’t provide—not any that they’d believe, at least. But he could apologize.

  He gathered his thoughts, considered the best way to begin.
>
  Charlotte filled the silence, wondering aloud. “I’d like to know what Celia said to the technician.”

  Her husband cleared his throat, possibly an innocent gesture, but she interpreted it as an attempt to silence her. “No, Edward. It could be important.”

  “Shawn hasn’t seen Celia yet. Let’s wait quietly.” A firmness in his voice, but a novelty to it as well—he wasn’t used to contradicting his wife.

  Why was Charlotte so obsessed over what his daughter said to the lab tech? How did this all relate to Celia’s fainting panic in their home, the comments when she woke—about monsters, Charlotte had whispered. Edward had downplayed the comment earlier, said Celia had a nightmare, nothing more. Charlotte had clammed up in uncharacteristic silence, then, but this time she was determined to have her say.

  “He wasn’t there.” She glared at her husband, daring him to stop her. “He wasn’t there when Celia cried out in fear. Of you Edward, afraid of you, which is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. He wasn’t there when she shouted about hands reaching for her, walls closing in, monsters threatening to kill her. He wasn’t there when the paramedics arrived, poor Celia out of breath from crying, and she needed the oxygen they tried to give her, but she screamed as they brought the mask near her face—screamed about being poisoned, and we had to help hold her down so they could give her a sedative.” She spoke in a stage whisper, growing shrill as the details became more upsetting. She pointed at Shawn each time she repeated He wasn’t there—and the phrase scratched at that other wound, his unexplained absence while Jack was dying. Shawn hadn’t been there then, either.

  She finally spoke directly to him, used his name. “Shawn, if that was a nightmare . . . she was still in it when she woke. That’s what’s so important about what Celia said to the technician. We need to know if she’s still imagining things.”

  She’d dropped to a less emotional tone, which gave Edward courage to contradict her again. “Celia’s fine. Let’s not talk about this now.”

  “Not now? We may not get another chance.”

  Of course. Charlotte was afraid Shawn would break off contact again. Maybe it wasn’t the appropriate time, but she had to speak to him now, while he was a captive audience. Before he ran away.

  “I thought I was to blame,” she said. “Celia seemed so mature. Polite and level-headed, like a little adult. So I told her about Jack’s last days, just as she asked.

  “She wasn’t ready to handle it, after all. That’s what I’d decided. That meant Celia’s fainting spell was my fault. All that time—when we waited for paramedics, followed her ambulance to the Emergency Room, sat downstairs praying for good news from the doctors—all that time, I was beating myself up. What have I done? I haven’t seen my granddaughter in over a decade, but I spend three hours with her and trigger some terrible breakdown. Oh, I’d never forgive myself.” Charlotte reached toward the seat on the other side of her husband, and Shawn thought she was reaching in her bag to retrieve a tissue. “Then Edward found this.”

  Shawn had been distracted with worry, but he still couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed earlier. Not Charlotte’s bag, which was a stylish purse that matched the color of her dress. In that chair, a bulky shape of black nylon with thick straps, one of them typically looped around his daughter’s right shoulder.

  Celia’s backpack.

  The top was open, and Charlotte reached in. She pulled out a cardboard box, so large it would have taken up most of the space in the main compartment.

  This was Celia’s property, and he always respected her privacy. “You went through her things?”

  “We were checking for contact information. Papers from her camp at Graysonville. Edward didn’t mean to snoop.”

  “The titles caught my interest,” Edward said. “And our granddaughter’s name in them, of course. We were so long in the emergency room, then waiting up here. There wasn’t much to do.”

  “We both read them.” Charlotte opened the cardboard flaps and lifted out a thick stack of papers. The typed pages were stapled into sections, with a binder clip fastening the largest section. “All of them.”

  She handed the stack of papers to him. On the first page, Celia had written her name in the upper right corner. A centered title appeared in the middle of the page: “Bread Crumbs.”

  He turned to the next stapled section, with a title of “Beneath Their Shoulders.” Another story was titled “Conversion Therapy.” The final one, seventy pages held together with a binder clip, bore the title, “The Manikin’s Revenge.”

  Shawn was bewildered. “Celia’s written these . . .?”

  “They’re in your voice,” Charlotte said. “You told her these stories, didn’t you? They certainly didn’t come from a child’s mind.”

  He flipped through the pages, scanning phrases, catching names and bits of dialogue. Celia had written these. Nearly two hundred typed pages. But it would be more accurate to say that she’d transcribed them. She polished them up. Used better grammar, added more details, with a few things anachronistic or out of sequence. But they were his stories.

  The stories he’s told Celia, about his odd adventures with her other father.

  #

  Why had Celia written them down? The stories were for her to hear, only for her. And now Jack’s parents had read them.

  This was the kind of ammunition they could use in a custody case. Exhibits A through D.

  He’s not a fit parent, your honor. Saying such things to an impressionable, adolescent girl, barely in high school. There’s sex in here, all kinds of deviant behavior. Notice how the stories are all in his voice. He’s clearly out of his mind, telling such perverse fantasies to his adopted daughter—then encouraging poor Celia to validate this awful material by putting it all in writing.

  There’s something called Münchausen syndrome by proxy, where a parent grows delusional and passes those delusions to the child. Ask him if he believes these outrageous fictions. Ask her what she believes, too.

  We’ve feared this all along. This is what comes from not having a traditional household. We’re her grandparents. Celia should live with us.

  Was it possible? Would they really try to take Celia from him? Shawn remembered some of their well-meaning offers in the days of Jack’s illness. Jack could (no, should) stay in their home, with Charlotte as his full-time nurse. When it became clear that neither he nor Jack were willing to accept this offer, they’d proposed an alternative: they’d take care of Celia, “for a short while.”

  We’d love to spend more time with our granddaughter. She’s so young. She’s too much for you, with everything else that’s going on.

  They meant well, in the charitable interpretation. Only thinking of what’s best for Celia. Charlotte tried to convince him, listing their parenting credentials the same way she’d outlined her experiences as a nurse. Although she proposed a temporary visit, she outlined long-term benefits of nearby day care facilities and schools, their large house and two-acre yard, the other kids Celia’s age in the neighborhood. A sinister implication arose: You’re not good enough. In every respect, we’re in the better position to raise her.

  On top of that, the idea of taking Celia away during the crisis, that sweet girl whose smile was sometimes the only comfort as Jack’s illness grew more serious.

  Well meaning? Perhaps. But thoughtless, too.

  It was one of the reasons Shawn had cut himself off from them. Another reason was that earlier insult, when he’d first mentioned Jack’s illness. They immediately assumed he had AIDS. Such was the common mindset at the time—if a young man was gay and seriously ill, it must be AIDS. The assumption itself wasn’t the problem; rather, the unspoken judgments behind it, so easy in those ignorant days. The victim had been promiscuous or at the very least unsafe; his own behavior was responsible for the disease.

  Jack’s mother was a nurse. She should have known better.

  “Those stories,” Charlotte said now. “They’re why Celia had that fa
inting spell, and that terrible waking nightmare. And I thought it was my fault. Something I’d said.”

  How was Shawn supposed to respond—tell them they were blameless? Admit he was a horrible father?

  Minutes earlier, he’d been prepared to apologize to them. He’d actually considered some modest renewal of contact, for Celia’s sake.

  He pushed the papers back into the box, closed it then held out his hand for his daughter’s backpack. “You shouldn’t have gone through her things,” he said.

  #

  The piped muzak quieted for an instant and Shawn’s name sounded over the intercom. He turned to notice an orderly at the nurse’s station, a wheeled stretcher beside him. Charlotte and Edward gathered themselves together, prepared to stand and follow, but Shawn held them down with a glance. He would go alone.

  He carried the backpack with him, his legs moving as fast as hospital etiquette would permit. The stretcher was miles in the distance; it rolled farther away as he approached, the hallway tilting under his feet as he raced forward. When he got there, he’d realize the shape under the blanket couldn’t be Celia—he would pull the covers away to find nothing beneath. He’d find a pregnant jackal beneath, her wet births oozing painfully onto the gurney, tiny mouths snapping at sterilized air. He would pull the blanket and sheets apart, like tearing the flayed skin off a freshly killed rabbit. He’d find the rotting corpse of a frail old man, and bruises along his throat would match the shape of Shawn’s own fingers.

  He’d find Celia, her eyes closed. He’d shake the gurney, call her name, shake the gurney again as his voice spiraled into panic. Finally her eyes would open, but they’d be the eyes of an adult. She’d ask Shawn who he was, demand to see her real family.

  The orderly lifted the white sheet. He was lifting it to cover the face of a patient who’d died.

  No. He was folding it down. Fluffing the pillow behind Celia’s head.

  Celia. Her eyes flickered open, annoyed by the orderly’s attentions. Shawn reached the side of the gurney, positioned himself in the angle of her gaze.