exhausted and barely able to feel anything at day’s end—at least nothing he couldn’t dispatch with a tumblerful of scotch or a dozen cigarettes. When a nurse took him aside one morning and advised him to get some help, warning him that they all could smell the liquor on his breath when he came to work in the morning, he switched to vodka, a less detectable beverage.
Not that he’d ever gotten outright drunk. Nor did his drinking ever compromise a patient’s safety, thank God. But through it all, he committed an equally unforgivable betrayal, at least by his own judgment. He ran from Chet at a time when the boy needed him most.
“Physician, heal thyself,” he repeated through clenched teeth, a familiar bitter loathing settling in his heart, which no cardiologist could heal.
Steele woke that evening to see Chet sitting in a chair that hadn’t been there earlier. The boy balanced a book on one knee while using the other to support the three-ring binder he wrote in.
Doing his homework, thought Steele. Keeping his eyes half closed, he continued to study his son who so resembled Luana. All the nights he’d looked into the boy’s room at home and seen him concentrating on the ritual task flashed through his mind, stretching back to Chet’s first days of school, and becoming a yardstick of times past. To it, collages of other memories from the boy’s childhood tethered themselves and swirled around in circles, until the spin of images compressed all he’d lost with Luana and could still lose with Chet into a single dizzying panoramic sweep. It caused him to break out in a sweat. Shouldn’t I have gone through this when I was dying? he wondered, trying to chase the past from his head. But the presence of his son made that impossible.
Though Chet had gone through a few early growth spurts, he still seemed little in some ways—his curly black hair, so like hers, was no less resistant to a brush now than it had been when she’d been there to groom it for him. He also had the same complexion as his mother—one that appeared to change with the light— delicate as porcelain in winter while robust with the sun’s gold during summer. But the similarities of their eyes always struck him the most. The curves of their brows and the rich brown of their pupils had been such a close match that at times he could swear he saw her looking at him through Chet.
“Hi, son,” he said quietly.
The boy started. For an instant his face actually showed a flash of pleasure at the sound of his father’s voice. The look quickly vanished, replaced by the scowl of resentment that had become his more natural expression. “Hi, Dad,” he replied, the words given out like quick nervous chirps.
“I’m happy to see you here,” continued Steele.
Silence.
“What time is it?” In the clockless world of CCU—the cardiac care unit—it could have been three A.M., for all Steele knew.
“About seven.”
“Where’s Martha?”
“Downstairs, having a bite in the cafeteria.”
Martha McDonald was their live-in housekeeper. She’d been helping to take care of Chet in one way or another ever since his birth. When Luana died, neither Chet nor Steele would have survived without her.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. I’ll get something after she’s finished.”
“It’s late for your supper, isn’t it?”
The boy shrugged and returned to his books.
What is he feeling? Steele wondered. Afraid that I’m going to die on him just like his mother? Of course he is. Christ, I almost left him an orphan. And like father, like son, he’s still just as torn up inside about her death as I am. After all, he’s a child. How could he feel otherwise? Wake up,
Daddy
!
As he focused on what to say that would comfort Chet’s present fears, an old unwelcome puzzle rolled through his head. What if
I
had coped better before, during, and after Luana’s death? Might Chet find it less painful by now? Had I sentenced my own son to a prolonged
Not that he’d ever gotten outright drunk. Nor did his drinking ever compromise a patient’s safety, thank God. But through it all, he committed an equally unforgivable betrayal, at least by his own judgment. He ran from Chet at a time when the boy needed him most.
“Physician, heal thyself,” he repeated through clenched teeth, a familiar bitter loathing settling in his heart, which no cardiologist could heal.
Steele woke that evening to see Chet sitting in a chair that hadn’t been there earlier. The boy balanced a book on one knee while using the other to support the three-ring binder he wrote in.
Doing his homework, thought Steele. Keeping his eyes half closed, he continued to study his son who so resembled Luana. All the nights he’d looked into the boy’s room at home and seen him concentrating on the ritual task flashed through his mind, stretching back to Chet’s first days of school, and becoming a yardstick of times past. To it, collages of other memories from the boy’s childhood tethered themselves and swirled around in circles, until the spin of images compressed all he’d lost with Luana and could still lose with Chet into a single dizzying panoramic sweep. It caused him to break out in a sweat. Shouldn’t I have gone through this when I was dying? he wondered, trying to chase the past from his head. But the presence of his son made that impossible.
Though Chet had gone through a few early growth spurts, he still seemed little in some ways—his curly black hair, so like hers, was no less resistant to a brush now than it had been when she’d been there to groom it for him. He also had the same complexion as his mother—one that appeared to change with the light— delicate as porcelain in winter while robust with the sun’s gold during summer. But the similarities of their eyes always struck him the most. The curves of their brows and the rich brown of their pupils had been such a close match that at times he could swear he saw her looking at him through Chet.
“Hi, son,” he said quietly.
The boy started. For an instant his face actually showed a flash of pleasure at the sound of his father’s voice. The look quickly vanished, replaced by the scowl of resentment that had become his more natural expression. “Hi, Dad,” he replied, the words given out like quick nervous chirps.
“I’m happy to see you here,” continued Steele.
Silence.
“What time is it?” In the clockless world of CCU—the cardiac care unit—it could have been three A.M., for all Steele knew.
“About seven.”
“Where’s Martha?”
“Downstairs, having a bite in the cafeteria.”
Martha McDonald was their live-in housekeeper. She’d been helping to take care of Chet in one way or another ever since his birth. When Luana died, neither Chet nor Steele would have survived without her.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. I’ll get something after she’s finished.”
“It’s late for your supper, isn’t it?”
The boy shrugged and returned to his books.
What is he feeling? Steele wondered. Afraid that I’m going to die on him just like his mother? Of course he is. Christ, I almost left him an orphan. And like father, like son, he’s still just as torn up inside about her death as I am. After all, he’s a child. How could he feel otherwise? Wake up,
Daddy
!
As he focused on what to say that would comfort Chet’s present fears, an old unwelcome puzzle rolled through his head. What if
I
had coped better before, during, and after Luana’s death? Might Chet find it less painful by now? Had I sentenced my own son to a prolonged
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