Dad. William Wharton
emergency and they move her up to intensive care. I’m left in the emergency waiting room.
Half an hour later, a young doctor comes down and asks for me. He tells me she’s having another attack and they’re doing everything possible. He says there’s nothing I can do and I should go home. They’ll call me if there’s any major change. He means if she dies.
I need to take a piss something awful, and go into the rest room. I glance in the mirror and I’m almost pale as Mom. I’d no idea how much shock I’m in. I’m also feeling guilty about the birthday party and them sleeping together. She fooled me. She probably fooled herself, too. It’s so hard to know where to draw the line.
I take a cab home. Dad’s standing at the door waiting. He’s still in his pajamas but he’s had the sense to put on a sweater and his new cap. I pay off the taxi and go in.
‘How is she, Johnny? How’s she doing?’
He’s close to tears; he has his rosary in his hand.
‘She’s OK, Dad; don’t worry. She’ll be OK. They put her back in the intensive care unit. The doctors are doing everything that needs to be done. They have all the backup machinery.’
I lead Dad to his bedroom and help him into bed. While I was gone, he remade the bed completely in his meticulous way. I put out the light and close the door. I think of phoning Joan but decide against it. It’s out of our hands. There’s nothing we can do and Joan needs her rest. I’m feeling wrung out. I go back to bed and somehow do get to sleep.
The next morning I phone the hospital; there’s no change. I go over things with Dad. He seems OK; he hasn’t gone into any withdrawal symptoms like the first time. He’s with it, wanting to help.
‘This has to be a lesson for us both, Dad. We can’t listen to her. She doesn’t want to believe she’s sick so she isn’t to be trusted. We need to protect her from herself.’
Dad nods.
‘Yep, it’s hard keeping ahead of her, John. You never know what she’s really thinking.’
I call Joan and tell her what’s happened. She’s shocked and feels as guilty as I do. She agrees to meet me at the hospital. Dad says he’ll stay home, clean up the kitchen and work in his greenhouse. It’s best not laying too much on him.
Mother’s heavily sedated and all the monitors are on. She’s tied into IV and catheter; the whole works spinning to keep her alive. The nurses remember us. They say Dr Coe has examined Mother and wants us in his office.
We go down. He tells us there’s definitely been another attack but it doesn’t seem’s severe as the first one. He asks if there’d been any sudden shock or stress situation. I tell about the birthday party and Dad sleeping with her. He shakes his head.
‘We need to be more careful with her, Mr Tremont. You’ve got to see she doesn’t overdo herself; she can’t take many more of these traumas, her heart’s not up to it.’
On the way home, Joan and I stop for a pizza. We’re both depressed. We try to think out what we can do. Dad can’t keep her down any more than we can. I want to remove all the cleaning equipment from the house so she can’t get to it. I’ll lock the dirty wash in the garden bedroom. It’s like hiding razor blades from a potential suicide. Joan shakes her head.
‘Look, John, we’ve got to let her live her own life. She has a right to that, at least.’
I can’t be so sure. It’s hard for me to let go.
Joan says she’ll come twice a week and try keeping things impossibly clean. I volunteer to buy her a toothbrush so she can clean out cracks in the hardwood floors.
We talk about my ticket; I’m almost run over the forty-five days. Joan says she and Mario will split the cost of the return ticket if I can only stay on. She knows I want to get home but what else is there to do?
Next day I take Dad to see Mom. She’s conscious but still heavily sedated. She’s weepy. Dad’s crying, too, and in shock seeing her so low. He hadn’t seen her at the worst part the first time. Mother speaks in a thin, broken voice.
‘If a little thing like a birthday party is going to give me a heart attack, what’s the use of living? Just to stay alive I’m not going to be an invalid all my life.’
I hesitate, then play my last trump.
‘Mother, that’s despair; the more you talk and think like that, the less confidence you’re showing in God. It doesn’t help your chance for recovery and you’re endangering your immortal soul. Also, it’s cruel to Dad.’
I hate using this line, but it’s looking desperate to me. If Mother decides not to live, nothing in this world could keep her alive.
Dad looks at me as if the local paperhanger had suddenly turned into an axe murderer.
‘Mother, when you talk this way, it’s sinful; false pride, an insult to God and his mysterious ways.’
What the hell, it probably won’t do any good but it’s worth the try. Mom’s torn between spite and salvation, but gradually settles down. She doesn’t have many choices.
Dad and I go back to our old routines. Dad begins perking up. We both enjoy the camaraderie we had before. With Mother home it was a rat race: scurrying around trying to please her; continually feeling inadequate.
First, we build a handrail for the staircase from the side door to the patio. It’s healing to work with good tools and oak in the sunshine.
Later, after we store the lounge chairs and turn the sprinkler off in the back garden, we stand staring at the lowering sun.
‘Johnny, what would you say if we go down to the ocean and watch that sunset?’
I jump at the chance.
‘Sounds good to me; maybe get our minds off things.’
Dad goes inside for his coat and I start warming up the car. Dad comes out with the motorcycle helmets.
‘No use dragging the car out, John; I thought we’d go on the motorcycle.’
So we strap on the helmets and putt on down to Venice. At the beach, Dad takes off his shoes and rolls up his pants as we stroll along the edge of the sea. There’s a soft, slow sunset with red approaching purple. The ocean is calm; long, easy rollers. The tide’s out. Sunlight reflects on the wet sand as water slides back under breakers.
There are other people walking along; a few joggers. Everybody smiles or says hello. An Irish setter is running and chasing with a young girl; she’s throwing sticks, stones or shells out over the breakers. It’s a magic moment; a chance to forget how hard life is sometimes.
We don’t talk much. Stolen pleasure like this, undeserved, unplanned, you don’t talk about.
It’s almost seven o’clock and we haven’t prepared anything for dinner. I suggest eating at a restaurant called Buffalo Chips next to the Oar House. It’s owned by the same people and has a similar general atmosphere. In fact, you can walk from one place into the other by a backstair passage.
We head over and I find a parking place right in front. They’re already checking ID cards for the Oar House because it’s Saturday evening. These young guys must get a kick seeing a fifty-two-year-old dude riding a ten-year-old motorcycle with his seventy-three-year-old Dad hanging on back. A pair of them come over while I’m pulling the bike up on the kickstand.
‘I sure hope you two have your ID cards; nobody under twenty-one’s allowed in here.’
Dad’s slowly taking off his helmet, his feet straddling the bike. He’s smiling.
‘Well, I’ll tell you something, sonny. I’ve been working on being twenty-one for years. This is the fourth time around but I just can’t get the knack of it.’
We laugh and shake hands. They say they’ll keep an eye on the bike for us.