When Home Calls

Even though my chest cavity lay in the pit of my stomach, I had been adamant about bringing Dad home from Sir Alma Hunt Memorial. He hated hospitals with a volatility that permeated me.

“I heard you the first, second, and third time,” I tell the doctor, “but I’m taking my dad outta here!”

A memory imprinted. Scarred across synapses.

In the Autumn of ‘87 aboard Lainey, we clean fresh-caught grey snapper. His Boston Whaler moored at Red Hole Bay, a constant childhood presence. An extended family member during school holidays and weekends when life revolved around a routine schedule of nothing but ocean sun.

Straight out of the Bermuda blue, he turned to me and said,

“Brian, don’t you ever leave me in no hospital or nursing home, y’hear me? EVER. I’d sooner die first.”

The forceful icy glare he gave possessed a haunting chill never before seen in my life; a granite resolve hewn from a place of which I had no knowledge. His dictate clasped a vice-grip around my neck. At 13 years old, too shaken to even answer, I dropped the fillet knife on my foot. By happy chance, the handle struck first, but a week later, Hurricane Emily struck fast with 112mph winds and damaged Daddy’s prized boat along with numerous others. What remained of the white hull lay in the Harbour Road parking lot at a weird angle for five weeks, clutching the grayish edges of soft sandstone wall in a death embrace.

That last fishing trip cemented by his command warning.

My dad lived fishing.

He never purchased another boat. I never could eat fish again.

It baffled Mama why all of a sudden even the smell of it on the stove sent me to my room with waves of nausea.

A few years later, I left for prep school in Boston. Then I got accepted to Yale. Two years after that, Juliette studied actuarial science on a partial scholarship at Auburn U.

Aldwin James Jr. was a practical man. Family first and family always.

Now I watch his chest rise and fall. Listen for the sound of his breathing in the queen-sized bed he carved from Bermuda cedar. A wedding gift for a wife who now can no longer say his name.

His body, while muscular and toned at 81 from years in construction and carpentry, looks out of place in a hospital gown. A rapid discharge pre-empted such concerns. Plus, I knew the danger of moving him. It couldn’t get any worse than this.

I signed every indemnity waiver and legal document the doctors pushed at me with only a cursory glance. Continued to ignore my senior editor's phone calls.

Like people don't believe in voicemail.

Time was ticking.

An old acquaintance who serviced the hospital ambulances volunteered with a co-worker to transport us (under the radar) to the Paget homestead four minutes away. I figured he overheard my loud intention to “Get my father the hell out of here" and into a van replete with IVs and drip stands.

Factor ten crazy desperation clears a path awful quick. At least before security arrives. I barely manage a thank you.

Juliette hurled every curse of foul murder when she found out, pounding my chest, piercing my heart with cries to skewer pent rage as I offered no defense. The anguish neither of us knew what to do with spilled out of her, turmoil I only emitted in silent wet streams down my face. She knew Daddy would want this.

Dad's straightforward philosophy: "Weren't born in one. Ain't dying in one."

She knew.

But it meant accepting the CT results: Intracranial hemorrhage with parietal edema. Inoperable. DNAR on file. End-of-life care protocols to commence.

*

“Nobody is putting my Linda in a rest home.” He was calm and matter of fact when I brought up the subject two years ago on a visit home from New York. Repeat police callouts when Mama got “lost” were not sustainable or safe going forward. Even with hired help, Jules and her husband Craig struggled to support our parents.

“But Pops, it’s not a rest home, it’s respite care—just so you get a break every now and then.” I tried to explain. “Mama comes back home after. Right now she needs observation 24/7.”

“You don’t get it.” He stood up from the dining room table, a cluttered mix-match of used ivory and sea blue china plates, cutlery, and half-filled cups around a center vase of fresh pink and red hibiscus. “You don’t take breaks from a marriage, son.” The last utterance hung in the air before he disappeared into the bedroom where Mama slept for only three hours a day.

I didn’t believe he meant it that way, but it still stung.

My divorce from Cynise a few months prior left me in emotional turbulence for weeks on end. Was I that lousy a husband? Maybe I just expected her to be by my side forever, no matter what. Pipe dreams of unconditional love. Could I have helped out more after the baby? But everything I did, from sterilizing the bottles to soaking the baby clothes in Napisan, was wrong. Or late. Or took too long. I felt wrong, late, and slow so I backed off thinking it would help. It didn’t.

I could face time with Brianna almost every day and took the mid-afternoon Jet Blue return flight to JFK every other weekend. I’d rent a car to Tribeca, yet I still felt like a parenting part-timer. Dad had made it look so effortless. Why did I fail miserably at it?

Then Mama’s diagnosis of advanced dementia came and between Julie, her hubby, and sons A.J and Shane, juggling a hundred balls became a precarious mode of existence. We all occupied different levels of exhaustion which we covered in lame jokes and mischievous teasing. Now, no one was laughing.

*

A problem-solver who didn’t ask for help, Dad climbed the ladder to fix the satellite dish yesterday mid-morning. Ordinarily, I would have been there. He’s surefooted and strong but family or the neighbors kept an eye and ear out to be ‘conveniently’ there to help/supervise/chat.

Either he lost his footing or his consciousness. I can’t think about the distance he fell without the need to scream. Yesterday back-to-back online conferences cut into my quick ‘check-ins.’ I would have been there. Who else could I blame but me?

The community nurse’s white Mitsubishi rumbles down the dirt and cane grass-lined pathway, slipping out of view. Rear taillights flash red as she nears Pomander Road in the waning sunlight, a white silhouette visible through the low bedroom window. She explained what each medication in the syringe driver did, but faded to silence with my vacant, pained expression.

I got you out Daddy, I thought, but I’ll be damned if I got a clue how to stay here while you leave me.

*

Nothing stayed in my memory past the doctor’s frank prognosis.

“Your father probably won’t last the night. I’m sorry that all we can do now is keep him comfortable.”

“Can he hear me?” I ask. “When I touch him, can he feel it? Does some part of him sense people?”

Damn doctors and standard not-straightforward answers.

My second cup of coffee courtesy of Aunt Edith rested with its dregs on the oakwood nightstand near the nurse’s phone number. Half slouched in the chair next to Dad, weariness creeps up, zeroing in on my lack of sleep.

I hear a sigh. A rattle sound on his next breath. A low faint staccato that comes and goes.

He doesn’t look in much pain but the left side of his face is bruised with reddish-purple hues. There’s some swelling protruding around his left ear.

He’d have one helluva headache were he awake, so I only whisper,

“Daddy, wake up. You’re home.”

I still smell the pungent antiseptic used for his head wound as I slide to my knees beside him. I want to crawl in bed just like I did as a boy, right underneath him, but I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep. I want every waking moment. Every single one.

Aunt Edie cleans and hums in the kitchen. The way all women of that era have a way of humming. It grounds you to something bigger when you’re lost at sea, determination disappearing. Calls you over the wind. It is a comfort that cannot be explained. I hope upon hope Daddy can hear it. I’m grateful Aunt Edie’s here but don’t have the words to say it.

Juliette drove on a suicide assignment to get Mama from Pacheco’s Peace Haven Senior Home in Somerset, along with her husband and the boys for final goodbyes. Might be near two hours in rush hour traffic at a minimum.

I don’t know how long it will be but I’m fighting heavier eyelids. I need every second.

*Sno-ooork…hunnnnn…snorrk—kkyun*

“Dad?”

There’s a brief flicker beneath his eyelids but hot tears are all mine.

The tree frogs bleep-blurp-bleenk the traditional night chorus as the Spring evening darkens and the birds’ songs fade.

The metal gate from Aberfeldy Plant Nurseries clangs shut as the last workers leave for home. Maybe they have fathers who are healthy and strong at home and maybe they don’t. I get a sudden strange urge to ask them. Demand of them. Yell at them.

I think of how little life here has changed, and somehow, everything has. As the lines etched at the sides of my father’s mouth collect liquid, I grab the white cloth off the oakwood nightstand giving gentle dabs. His skin is warm and firm, reminiscent of everything trustworthy and old school that is missing from today’s existence.

If Dad and I weren’t so much alike, there might have been fewer butting heads in my twenties and thirties like Mama said.

“Stubborn hellbent ol’ goats,” she called us.

He wondered what the issue could possibly be with my Bermudian girlfriend—he liked her. How come I gave up football? What was wrong with learning the carpentry trade too? Why couldn’t my wife move here since her family lived in Manchester? Why did I want an English degree instead of a Law degree? The word ‘stupid’ surfaced. I hung up the phone and wouldn’t speak to him for weeks after.

He softened a bit when I secured the post of Commissioning Editor at Riverside Publications. I never told him he was right about my wife; we should have moved home for family support. The sawdust made me itch and I hated the smell. I couldn’t take playing football through Connecticut winters, freezing my gonads off—and Tracy—she fell out of love with me and into love with someone else while my heart sank to the glass bottoms of Chivas Regal, non-beating for weeks.

*Snor-rrrt—HYUUUUUUK*

“Daddy?” I slip my hand in his, slide my fingers around his thumb, standard position for arm-wrestling when young, scrappy, and determined to prove my strength, doubling up to win at any cost. Pop’s biceps were cast iron. Implacable. Like the rest of him.

“I don’t know who hated that hospital more.” Aunt Edie’s hand rests on my shoulder.

I glance up and notice she’s left a fresh cup of coffee.

“It was different in them days, Bri. Not much anybody could do to fight back.” Aunt Edie has to know she’s lost me from the blank look on my face.

“Al, before you draw last breath, we gon’ tell these chil’ren. Y’hear?”

It’s a sign for me that Dad can hear. His closed eyes dart under eyelids from the sound of Auntie’s voice.

“Our father died in that hospital, with not a doctor to give a damn!”

My head whipped around so fast it hurt my neck. Aunt Edie didn’t use even the lightest of cusses.

“Near as Mama could tell, he had a stroke. She and friends got him quick to Emergency—record time since we was next door at Botanical Gardens.” She paused. Searched her palms.

I turned more to face her, not letting go of Dad’s hand.

“Racist white bigot of a doctor wouldn’t e’en look at ‘im.” Aunt Edie’s voice got quiet. “Jus’ left him in pain to die like a dog. Never…we ain’t never forgot. Chil’ren sat there with our father’s eyes open on a rusty trolley…only…he ain’t see us.” She eased down into the chair and sighed.

*

The tree frogs were in full symphony mode as the lightest of breezes blew the sheer jade bedroom curtains. Not yet daylight saving time. Darkness had set. The light on the syringe driver stayed green. Digital LED-lit window readout showing meds going through the tubing.

“Your Daddy, Bri, he couldn’t let it go. By 24, he’d saved a good amount for lawyer’s fees. Set to sue that stupid hospital. No one would take the case.” She fixed her eyes on the sturdy ebony dresser adorned with my mother’s embroidered cloth. On it perched a black and white gold-framed picture of a traditional wedding.

“Then of course,” she said pulling her handkerchief from between the second button of her blouse, “he had children.”

Aunt Edie reached for the nightlight in the socket, then stood and walked around the bed in the yellow glow as a few of the wooden floorboards creaked. She bent over and told my father she loved him, lingering a kiss and tears on his cheek.

“Your boy brought you home, Al. You home now.”

Dad’s breathing is sluggish. Shallow.

All of Dad’s fight. All of his stubborn fight-for-family fight.

Already, I choreograph a conversation in my head for school and long summers here with Brianna. For starters.

“Daddy seldom talked about Pa,” I said, shifting weight on my knees. Remembering how I’d strain to drink in a faded sepia-toned photo of a grandfather I never knew at Nana’s house.

“One time, I asked him how come I wasn’t named Aldwin III.”

“Cuz your granddad’s middle name was Aldwin.” Auntie neared the bedroom door, ready to head back to the kitchen. “Folks teased him so ‘bout his first name. Said Lainey sound like a girl’s name.”

At 48 yrs. old, I crawl into bed next to him, curling my body into “I love yous” gibberish through sobs and sleepiness.

May have been a reflex, but I can’t care. My father’s arm is over me.

I’m fading to dreams, breathing in his scent until drifting, I’m not. Jarred awake by Julie’s sharp cry in the doorway, standing there with Mama and the boys.

Daddy’s already home.

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