 He hadn’t known what to expect when he entered the room. Seeing his father lying there, hooked up to an oxygen tube, the I.V., the machine tracking his heartbeat, he looked much less the man he always was. He never seen him look so frail, so helpless. Yvonne and his mother sit beside, not looking at one another, daring not to acknowledge the other’s existence. Yvonne holds one hand, his mother the other. They’re so lost in thought they haven’t even noticed he entered the room. He just stands there, at the foot of the bed, looking down at his father, helpless. It is Vera who notices him first, looking up, then slowly rising to her feet, embracing him before the tears begin to flow. This attracts Yvonne’s attention, who also rises from her seat and walks over to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. The contrast between the two women couldn’t be more stark. Both in their sixties, like his father, his mother looks ten years older than she actually is. Yvonne, on the other hand, looks as if she hadn’t aged a day, still elegant in her black summer dress, not a streak of grey in her hair, thin, well put together, donning make up. His mother looks beaten, defeated, old, and for a very brief moment, he feels the anger surge within him, glaring at Yvonne for a moment before catching himself. No, now is not the time for any drama. There hasn’t been any in all these years, why start now? How is he? He’s going to be okay, his mother says, raising a tissue to her eye to dab a burgeoning tear. He had gotten the call late last night, from his sister Alicia, who is curiously absent. What happened? It just came on suddenly, Yvonne says. He was perfectly fine, making a cup of coffee. Then I heard a crash and came out to the kitchen to see him lying there… She can’t continue, fights back the tears. It takes a moment to compose herself. When I realized what was happening, I called 911, she continues. Then I called Vera. They rushed him to the hospital. At first, I thought he was gone. He was so still… She can’t continue. They did emergency bypass, his mother says. It was close but he’s going to be all right. An awkward silence descends over the room. Victor, not knowing what else to so, approaches the bed and looks down at his father. It’s as if he aged twenty years in the two weeks he last saw him. It disturbs him to see him so helpless. Helpless was never something he associated with him. Making matters worse is knowing there’s nothing he can do. He takes his father’s hand. He isn’t sure, but he swears he can feel his father’s thumb gently caressing his hand. He watches the thumb but sees no movement. Does he even know he’s there? A flood of emotions. In order not to lose control before the women, he briefly steps out into the hallway. There he can let go, not feel ashamed, but why should he feel ashamed? As he tries to collect himself, he watches the activity in the hallway. The gurneys being pushed with sick patients, the elderly woman in a wheelchair, hooked up to an oxygen tank, just sitting there, a way to escape the confines of her room, the old man staking slow, cautious steps while pulling his I.V. along. Faces of sickness and death. Hospitals always depressed him. And the smell, that peculiar mixture of antiseptic and decay. A priest exits a room, crossing himself, carefully removing his stole with one hand as he clutches a bible with the other. He’s followed by a young man and a young woman, perhaps in their twenties, their faces red, streaming with tears. How depressing all this is and he just wants to get the hell out of there. Meanwhile, the doctors and nurses carry on as if not surrounded by such misery. When he’s sufficiently collected, he returns to the room. His mother and Yvonne are again sitting bedside, each holding one of his father’s hand. They say nothing to one another. They don’t even look at one another. Where’s Alicia? She’s on her way, his mother says. Victor doesn’t say anything. He’s not even sure how he feels about seeing her. For the past few years she’s been living in her own world. He’ll deal with it if he has to but he’s not looking forward to it. A nurse walks into the room, changes the I.V., checks the machine, draws some blood. She’s a pretty girl, perhaps Dominican or Puerto Rican, a little on the chunky side, her black curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, her face young, innocent, common, with thick black eyebrows and beautiful dark, penetrating eyes. She looks like someone from the neighborhood and perhaps she is. She carries out her duties as if no one else is in the room. She says nothing as she finishes her task and walks out of the room. Victor, for reasons he isn’t sure of, checks out her big ass and how it pushes the fabric of her scrubs to the bursting point. Then he feels guilty for it, but then stifles a laugh because he knows his father would have appreciated that, see the humor in it. He wants to smoke a cigarette. He’ll have to wait. The three of them just sit there quietly, watching Lou in the hospital bed. Again, awkward, but so many years have passed, so many things have been settled, he doesn’t understand why he feels so uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s seeing his mother and Yvonne in the same room, the awkward tension between them. It isn’t hatred, or anger, or any kind of animosity. More a quiet resignation. The two women in his father’s life. Victor glances at Yvonne, studies her face, that same face he was once so enamored with, ashamed to acknowledge how it once stirred him the way it did. Now she’s just an older woman, no less beautiful, but those feelings are no longer there. Then he looks at his mother, who looks beaten down by life. Then he looks at his father, looking grey and helpless, weak, like a corpse, though his vital signs are good. Again, he wants to cry but he doesn’t dare, Not in front of his mother. Not in front of Yvonne. In order to stave off the continued awkwardness, he removes his cellphone from his pocket and sends Patricia a text. He’s fine. Just depressing to see him that way. He then turns off the phone because he knows Patricia will keep sending message after message. Seeing his father in such a state brings him face to face with the idea that one day he will pass on. That he will no longer exist other than in memory. It brings up mortality issues for himself. What would happen to Patricia and Nicholas when it’s his time? Does he have enough to be sure they would be taken care of? He can’t imagine a world without his father in it, and despite their issues, he loves him. Resentment gives away to sympathy now. It’s the first time he realized his father is no longer the strong, young man he used to look up to as a child, that he’s just a human being, that he isn’t Superman. But his father is a survivor, had always been a survivor, and now is one of those times where he again proves it. Knocked about, perhaps, on his back, but not defeated. Not yet. He knows his father’s will to live is strong and he will get through this, though not without the changes he needs to get used to. He wishes he would sit up, talk to him, show them the life he still has within him, but being under such heavy sedation, it isn’t likely. He has to settle on just watching him lay there, as helpless as a child, and him being powerless to do anything about it. New York City, Summer 2023 Julian Gallo is the author of 'Existential Labyrinths', 'Last Tondero in Paris', 'The Penguin and The Bird' and other novels. His short fiction has appeared in The Sultan's Seal (Cairo), Exit Strata, Budget Press Review, Indie Ink, Short Fiction UK, P.S. I Love You, The Dope Fiend Daily, The Rye Whiskey Review, Angles, Verdad, Modern Literature (India), Mediterranean Poetry (St. Pierre and Miquelon), Borderless Journal (Singapore), Woven Tales, Wilderness House, Egophobia (Romania), Plato’s Caves, Avalon Literary Review, VIA: Voices in Italian America, The Argyle, Doublespeak Magazine (India), Bardics Anonymous, Tones of Citrus, The Cry Lounge, Deal Jam, 22/28, Active Muse (India), Flora and Fauna, and Zero Readers.
Image by Marcelo Leal
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