to a clip and he has one . It just doesn’t add up.”
“He’s got
dementia,” she said softly. “Nothing
adds up.”
We stood in the
waiting room. On a flat-screen
television on the wall above our heads, CNN or Fox News or MSNBC or some other
24-hour news channel ran continuous coverage of an airline crash in Europe. Air France,
it said. Twisted, smoking wreckage,
foreign-looking ambulances swallowing men and women on stretchers, police in
odd uniforms holding back the crowds. The death toll stood at three hundred, with more to come because the
plane had plowed into an apartment complex on the outskirts of Calais and they hadn’t
sifted through all the rubble just yet. An industry spokeswoman called it the worst airline disaster in European
history and the largest single-incident loss of civilian life on the continent
since the Second World War. I blinked at
this calamity on the other side of the world and looked back at Kate.
“Are they going to
let me see him?” I asked.
“He’s medicated,”
she said.
“I want to see
him.”
They had dosed him
with Thorazine or whatever they gave crazy people and handcuffed him to a bed
in a tiny, glass-fronted room that reminded me of a reptile cage at the zoo in Asheboro. His eyes were closed, his mouth open to the
acoustic tile ceiling. His white hair
poked out from his scalp in an unruly mess. Pink stains—ketchup or strawberry jam, I couldn’t tell which—marred the
chest of the LL Bean pajamas Allie had picked out for him the Father’s Day
before. His wrinkled face bore the
stubble of a man who needed to shave. Dr. Ernest Swanson had performed surgeries at this hospital—he had
actually performed the first heart surgery at Catawba Valley
after it opened—and this is where he ended up. Handcuffed to a bed in the ER, with food stains on his jammies.
I should have
broken down in tears. But instead, I
found myself angry. Irritation at the
inconvenience he’d caused me back at work didn’t figure into it; I looked at
him cuffed to the bed, and I thought, how
could you let it get to this? Obviously, he could have done something to prevent it. This had to be his fault somehow. There had to have been steps he could have
taken to prevent himself from descending into this, and yet clearly, he’d
screwed up.
He opened his
eyes, turned his head to stare at me, then closed them again. For a moment, I thought he didn’t recognize
me. But then he said, “Hello, Kevin.”
“You okay?” I asked.
He tried to raise
his hands, but the handcuffs stopped them at hip level. “My nose itches.”
Kate reached
forward and scratched it for him. He
sighed with relief.
“God damn,” he
muttered.
“You want to tell
us where you got that gun?” I asked.
Kate shot me a
look. My father shrugged.
“Well, I guess I
got it at a gun store, Einstein. By the
way, nice to see you, too. You’ve put on
weight.”
I stood beside the
bed with my arms crossed over my chest, staring down. Kate stood on the other side, holding one
handcuffed hand.
“You could have
killed somebody,” I said.
He sighed at this
and looked away from me. He shook his
head. “I know,” he said.
“Do you?”
“Kevin, be nice,”
Kate admonished me.
“It’s okay,” Dad
said with another sigh. “Your old man
gets you out of bed in the middle of the night to come visit him at the loony
bin, it’s irritating, I get it. You’ve
got things to see, people to do. Crazy
old relatives can be inconvenient.”
I pushed aside the
guilt trip. “You know, I don’t think
inconvenient is the word here. I think
‘miraculous’ is a better term—I think it’s a miracle that you didn’t kill one
of the neighbors. Or Kate.”
He closed his eyes
and appeared to engage his own ki breath, even though I knew he had never set foot in an aikido dojo or any other kind of martial arts
establishment.
“He’s got
dementia,” she said softly. “Nothing
adds up.”
We stood in the
waiting room. On a flat-screen
television on the wall above our heads, CNN or Fox News or MSNBC or some other
24-hour news channel ran continuous coverage of an airline crash in Europe. Air France,
it said. Twisted, smoking wreckage,
foreign-looking ambulances swallowing men and women on stretchers, police in
odd uniforms holding back the crowds. The death toll stood at three hundred, with more to come because the
plane had plowed into an apartment complex on the outskirts of Calais and they hadn’t
sifted through all the rubble just yet. An industry spokeswoman called it the worst airline disaster in European
history and the largest single-incident loss of civilian life on the continent
since the Second World War. I blinked at
this calamity on the other side of the world and looked back at Kate.
“Are they going to
let me see him?” I asked.
“He’s medicated,”
she said.
“I want to see
him.”
They had dosed him
with Thorazine or whatever they gave crazy people and handcuffed him to a bed
in a tiny, glass-fronted room that reminded me of a reptile cage at the zoo in Asheboro. His eyes were closed, his mouth open to the
acoustic tile ceiling. His white hair
poked out from his scalp in an unruly mess. Pink stains—ketchup or strawberry jam, I couldn’t tell which—marred the
chest of the LL Bean pajamas Allie had picked out for him the Father’s Day
before. His wrinkled face bore the
stubble of a man who needed to shave. Dr. Ernest Swanson had performed surgeries at this hospital—he had
actually performed the first heart surgery at Catawba Valley
after it opened—and this is where he ended up. Handcuffed to a bed in the ER, with food stains on his jammies.
I should have
broken down in tears. But instead, I
found myself angry. Irritation at the
inconvenience he’d caused me back at work didn’t figure into it; I looked at
him cuffed to the bed, and I thought, how
could you let it get to this? Obviously, he could have done something to prevent it. This had to be his fault somehow. There had to have been steps he could have
taken to prevent himself from descending into this, and yet clearly, he’d
screwed up.
He opened his
eyes, turned his head to stare at me, then closed them again. For a moment, I thought he didn’t recognize
me. But then he said, “Hello, Kevin.”
“You okay?” I asked.
He tried to raise
his hands, but the handcuffs stopped them at hip level. “My nose itches.”
Kate reached
forward and scratched it for him. He
sighed with relief.
“God damn,” he
muttered.
“You want to tell
us where you got that gun?” I asked.
Kate shot me a
look. My father shrugged.
“Well, I guess I
got it at a gun store, Einstein. By the
way, nice to see you, too. You’ve put on
weight.”
I stood beside the
bed with my arms crossed over my chest, staring down. Kate stood on the other side, holding one
handcuffed hand.
“You could have
killed somebody,” I said.
He sighed at this
and looked away from me. He shook his
head. “I know,” he said.
“Do you?”
“Kevin, be nice,”
Kate admonished me.
“It’s okay,” Dad
said with another sigh. “Your old man
gets you out of bed in the middle of the night to come visit him at the loony
bin, it’s irritating, I get it. You’ve
got things to see, people to do. Crazy
old relatives can be inconvenient.”
I pushed aside the
guilt trip. “You know, I don’t think
inconvenient is the word here. I think
‘miraculous’ is a better term—I think it’s a miracle that you didn’t kill one
of the neighbors. Or Kate.”
He closed his eyes
and appeared to engage his own ki breath, even though I knew he had never set foot in an aikido dojo or any other kind of martial arts
establishment.
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