I go warm the car and roll it out of the patio. I close the doors and sit there gunning the accelerator, giving Mom a chance to calm down. I go in and she’s up; I help her into the car. She doesn’t want to lie out in back, wants to sit in front. She pulls out the eyeshades she uses for sleeping and puts them on. Damned smart idea. She’s way ahead of me. So long as I don’t do anything sudden, she’ll be fine.
I drive like a one-man funeral cortège through the back-from-work traffic. A couple guys look in to see what’s up with this jerk driving in the right lane at twenty miles an hour. What they see is an old lady with the darkest, opaquest sunglasses, sitting straight up in the front seat ignoring everything. I try talking with her but she’s holding herself in. It finally dawns on me she’s just holding back from crying. Maybe Mom is a witch; it’d explain a lot.
The wheelchair is waiting; I help her in it and wheel her through the parking lot, past the reception desk, to the elevator. Mother turns her head.
‘It scares me just being back in this place, Jacky. When I think of being sick, I think of niggers and Japs.’
We get to Dad’s floor and I’m hoping he’s asleep or under sedation. If only she can visit him, see he’s OK, then we can go.
I roll her into his room and immediately I know something’s wrong. I’m tempted to twist the chair right around and push Mother out of there. I should have, but I’m going into light shock myself.
Dad’s awake. Boy, is he ever awake! His eyes are wide open so you can see the blue isolated in the white. He glances at us when we come in but there’s no sign of recognition. He’s twisting the sheet in his fingers and staring at the door to his room.
I quickly go to Dad and take his hands; they’re ice cold. He looks at me, briefly; nothing; tiny concentrated pupils. He turns away with a jerk as a nurse goes by the door.
When he looks at me again, his lips start trembling. His whole body is shaking; he’s trying to speak. I bend close to listen. His voice comes out, rattling, juicy, deep, scared.
‘What’s that! What’s that out there?’
I’m torn between getting Mom away and comforting him.
‘It’s nothing, Dad. You’re here in the hospital and there’s nothing the matter. You’re fine.’
He looks me in the eyes without belief, neither in what I’m saying nor in me. Mother has pulled herself up beside me. Somehow she’s gotten out of the wheelchair and reaches past me. She leans over and kisses Dad. He kisses back, lips puckered big, like a child kissing, burlesque of a kiss. Mother isn’t crying yet; she whispers in Dad’s ear.
‘Hello, Jack, sweetheart; are you all right?’
She holds his face in her hands. He stares that same round-eyed, childlike stare at her. He smiles but it’s not a real smile; it trembles, a smile of a child smiling on command. Mom holds his head against her breast and runs her hands over his bald head.
‘Baby, what’s the matter?’
She looks at me in despair, tears starting to roll down her cheeks. She mouths the words, ‘What’s the matter with him, Jacky?’
I don’t know what to do. I lean out, signal to the desk frantically. Mother could just up and die right here. How much can a heart take? My own heart feels as if it’s jumping into my mouth. I can’t make myself pull Mother away from Dad.
No nurse comes. I hold Dad’s hands while Mom holds his head. He makes no resistance. We hold him like that, hoping he’ll come back. He’s gone, this is only a shell; whatever he is is gone.
He keeps trying to see past me out the door. The reflection in the glass has him frightened. I go over to show him it’s nothing, only a glass door reflecting light. I run my hand in front of it, explaining all the time. He’s not comprehending. He’s frightened at a level beyond anything rational. Finally a nurse comes. I stop her at the door.
‘What’s happened?’
She looks at me, coldly, disdainfully.
‘Why? Is something the matter?’
‘Is he under heavy sedation?’
She looks at the chart.
‘No, not really. It’s not necessary in a case like his.’
‘Then what’s the matter with him? He doesn’t recognize us and is in terrible shock.’
She comes in past me. Mother’s still holding on to Dad’s head. She glances at the wheelchair.
‘What’s that doing in here?’
I hold myself back. No scenes.
‘My mother’s a heart patient, only five days out of the hospital.’
She looks at Mother, then leans forward to hold Dad’s wrist for his pulse; she slips on her cuff and takes his blood pressure. I’m having that terrible smothering feeling you have when you know you’re not getting through.
But the BP and pulse mean something to her. She looks into Dad’s eyes and feels his head. Mom is starting to sob. I go to her.
‘Whatever can it be, Jacky? He doesn’t even know me. What can be the matter?’
‘Come on, Mom, sit down over here. The nurse can handle this. They probably doped him up so he’s half asleep; after an anesthetic you know how it is.’
God, I wish it were easier lying to her. But she lets me take her back to the wheelchair. I know I need to get her away and home. Or maybe I should leave her here in the hospital. If she doesn’t have another heart attack now, she’s never going to have one. I go close and whisper to the nurse.
‘I’m taking my mother home, then I’m coming back. I want to see Dr Santana immediately.’
She looks at me, low-level authority brimming in her eyes.
‘Dr Santana was already here to see your father this afternoon. He’s not in the hospital right now.’
I begin to smell the rat.
‘Look, you have the hospital call Dr Santana. Tell him there’s been a tremendous change in the condition of Mr Tremont and that his son Dr Tremont wants an immediate consultation.’
I figure now’s the time to get some mileage out of that dumb Ph.D. Her eyes light up at the word ‘doctor’.
Twenty years ago, I helped run a study on nurses. We were trying to find out what made some nurses stick it and others drop out. The ANA was financing the study; they wanted to avoid training nurses who didn’t have it. It was a three-year study in depth and breadth. The two factors we found most highly correlated to long-term professional continuance were a father fixation and sadistic tendencies. The ANA didn’t publish our results.
But I can see I’ve automatically fitted myself into the father role with this girl. I’m now one of the white coats. I’m sure she’ll call Santana.
In the lobby I phone Joan. I give her a quick idea of what’s happened and ask if she can come stay with Mother. She’ll be there in half an hour. Mom cries all the way home and I’m trying to calm her. I have a hard time keeping panic and anger out of my voice, so I’m not much good. It’ll be better with Joan; she hasn’t actually seen Dad.
I get Mother into bed and give her two Valium. She insists I’m making a drug addict out of her but I know somehow I need to get her to sleep. Joan comes just after Mom’s swallowed the pills. She walks into the bedroom and Mother breaks down again. Joan looks across the bed at me while she’s hugging Mom. She begins to look scared too; it must be in my face. I leave them alone and go into the bathroom. I look awful. I comb my hair, wash my hands and face. Joan comes out of the bedroom as I leave the bathroom.
‘What is it, Jack? Mother