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Invisible Ink
cc&d (v248) (the January / February 2014 Issue)




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Death Bed

Jim Meirose

    Father’s lying under clean white sheets, in the hospital room. The half full bag of dark urine’s hung under the bed. The morphine drip is flowing. The clear tubing curls from the drip down to his arm. He’s on his side with mouth gaping and eyes half open. His breathing is shallow, and he says nothing. He’s comatose, waiting for the end. The word is cancer. Colon cancer. You sit in a chair by the death bed. Your sister stands leaning against the wall with her arms tightly folded before her.
    The miserable old hag should be here, she says. The Goddamned miserable old hag.
    Your eye’s drawn to the corner across the room where the walls meet the ceiling. There’s a crack there. Your mother sits at a small round table with her friend Mrs. Jennings. A bottle of brandy’s on the table, and two half full glasses.
    She’s probably down at Findon’s bar with that other old hag—the one she drinks with all day. They’re probably at Findon’s while we’re here where we should be.
    Mother takes a piss colored pill bottle from her bag. She shakes two pills free. She downs them. She offers the bottle to Mrs. Jennings.
    No, says Mrs. Jennings. Her grey hair’s bushed out and she picks up her glass. I’ve had enough, she says. She downs the glass.
    Your eye follows the crack toward the center of the room.
    You walk through his kitchen toward the living room when he was still at home. You worked at an office tower nearby and went to see him during lunch. A fat bottle of Percocet set on the table. You eye it as you go into the living room
    Dad, you say—he’s in his recliner. Dad how you feeling—
    Okay, he says.
    Unseen she stands in the kitchen eyeing the Percocet, as you sit in the living room on the overstuffed couch, talking to him.
    The job is something Dad, you say.
    The job is really something—
    He smiles as you look toward your sister as she speaks.
    We’re here with him day and night because we love him. That miserable old hag doesn’t.
    Mother drinks the glass of brandy. Mrs. Jennings laughs at nothing.
    She’ll be here tonight, you say. She’s working—
    Your sister scowls.
    Sure, right. She’s at Findon’s. You know it and I know it.
    A red telephone sits unused on the bedside table. The nurse call button and television controller hang from the wall brushing the floor. You look back in the ceiling corner. Your eye follows the crack. You were here when they put him in the bed. When the morphine was kicking in. He cracked a bleary-eyed smile.
    I—I don’t know what I’m saying—
    His smile said he was enjoying it—he was enjoying it—and then he went out. His last words. From the Morphine. You glance up at the morphine bottle. His Percocet set on the kitchen table. Your bleary-eyed mother put her bottle of pills in her bag. She and he were not as unlike as you thought, as it turns out. A plastic urinal hangs from the side rail. A bedpan’s on the floor in the corner. The IV pole towers. His white plastic wristband holds his name. They must make sure he is who he is. You hear him again from the crack in the ceiling.
    I—I don’t know what I’m saying—
    Your sister steps away from the wall and you rise as the doctor enters in a white sweater and blue pants. He looks dressed to watch golf.
    Guys, he says—how you holding up?
    All right, you say, shaking his hand. Your sister nods.
    He goes to the head of the bed and looks into your father’s eyes. You remember taking your father to the surgeon’s office. His belly was stitched up from his navel to his breastbone.
    That puckering at the ends of the stitches is something I can fix, says the surgeon.
    I nod. My Father nods.
    I found two hernias in there too, says the surgeon—I stitched them up too—
    The surgeon wrings his hands. There really isn’t much to say.
    The doctor in the white sweater listens to your father’s breathing and heart with his stethoscope. He straightens up and comes up to you and your sister.
    How long, your sister asks.
    Hours. Days. Who can tell? But this is definitely it. This is definitely the end. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you want to hear—
    It’s not your fault Doctor.
    The doctor shakes your hand and leaves.
    Well, you say to your sister. You should go home. I’ll take the day shift.
    Day shift?
    Go get some sleep. I’ll stay here until tonight. You can come back later and stay through the night. Then I’ll come back in the morning. We’ll do it like that. Okay?
    She looks confused. She waves a hand.
    Speak English. We’ll do what like that?
    Watch over him.
    She stepped back and pointed to the floor.
    What about the old hag? Do you really think she’ll come by tonight? I should be here when she does. So I can give her a piece of my mind—
    No, you say, raising a hand. Nothing unpleasant please. It’s hard enough he’s going. Go now. Go get some sleep. I’ll handle Mom.
    All right, she says. She grabs up her bag after putting on her sweater. It’s a cool day. Outside is early Spring. She leaves heading toward the early Spring. Toward the sweetness of the open air. Not like this room. This room has no smell. This room is dead. You turn to him lying there. His bottle of Percocet was on the kitchen table. Are Mother and Mrs. Jennings really at Findon’s? you wonder. Your sister is usually right about these things. You remember being taken to Findon’s once by your mother. You remember it was dark between the barstools and up above and back behind the bar and the stools were too high for you to sit on. She took a bottle of pills from her bag and took two and slid the bottle into her bag and then she drank her beer.
    You remembered the tall stools and the darkness and the pills.
    Looking down from the crack in the ceiling, you scan the yellow room for the hundredth time. There’s a brown rollaway dinner tray pushed against the wall. A square television hangs on an arm hung from the wall. You’re tempted to turn on the television but you don’t. For some reason you pull back the sliding drape and take your seat by the head of the bed. You look your father in the eye. A nurse comes in wearing a red and white outfit.
    Hello, she says. Need to check your Father’s IV.
    She checks the IV, and she takes his pulse. She write something down in on a clipboard she carries. She looks at you.
    Can I get you something, she asks.
    No, you say—thanks.
    A soda? Some water? We’ve got soda and water—
    No thanks.
    She nods and walks away and pulls the drape around behind her. In the hall you saw a tray of needles on a cart by the nurse’s station. You look into your father’s eyes. Your mother takes a drink of brandy and speaks to Mrs. Jennings, though your father’s eyes.
    It’s bad when it turns out who you married is someone completely different than you thought, she says, before taking another drink. Her eyes are red. Her hands tremble.
    And I don’t mean that in a good way, says Mother. He’s mean. Meaner than shit—stone cold sober, he’s meaner than shit.
    I know that’s rough, says Mrs. Jennings, as she lights a cigarette. The ashtray on the small round table is piled high with butts and the ashes spill over onto the table.
    Rough isn’t the word—
    You ought to get him to have a few. Maybe he’d loosen up—
    He won’t loosen up until the day he dies.
    She takes a drink. You look away from your Father’s eyes. She disappears. There’s drawers in the bedside table next to you. His breathing comes in fits and starts. His unfocused eyes are set on something beyond you—through you. You pull open a drawer.
    His wallet’s there. Money sticks out from the wallet. His watch is there. And his glasses. A small paper lunch bag’s there too, with the top rolled up tight. There’s nothing to do. You check the wallet—there’s ten dollars in there. You pick up the bag and look inside.
    Oh my God no.
    His bottle of Percocet, and some rosary beads, and a handkerchief.
    His bottle of Percocet.
    His bottle of Percocet set on the kitchen table. You went into the living room, where he sat. You sat in the couch across from him, in the time before.
    The job is something Dad—it’s really something—
    Your Mother sits smiling with a cigarette in her hand.
    His bottle of Percocet comes out of the bag.
    His eyes look through you. His lips tremble.
    You open the bottle and you take four.
    Your mother sits smiling—
    You find an empty envelope in the drawer. You quickly fill it with Percocet and fold it over and slide it into your pocket.
    Your mother takes a deep drag off the cigarette and looks you in the eye—
    His eyes suddenly focus on you. He lies there corpselike, mouth hung open and trembling, suddenly seeming to try to shake his head no and his eyes are focused into yours. Somehow he is seeing. Somehow, he is saying no. You slide the nearly empty bottle of Percocet back into the bag. You close the drawer. But it is too late.
    He knows. He can see—can they see when they’re like this? Can they see, and think?
    His head shakes and his eyes pierce you another moment and then they unfocus and look up at the wall behind you and his lips are still and his head lies motionless on the pillow.
    Has he seen? Maybe he hasn’t seen.
    Your mother wants the Percocet. You want the Percocet.oYour Mother.
    Suddenly, your Mother is there. She comes around the drawn over drape wearing a light jacket and black pants and carrying a blue bag.
    Son, she says. I came as early as I could. My shift just ended. How is he?
    Like you see, you say shakily. The doctor says this is it.
    How long will it be?
    It could be hours. It could be days. The doctor doesn’t know.
    Is he on morphine—oh, I see—he’s on morphine.
    She gazes up at the IV.
    I—I don’t know what I’m saying—
    You shake your head as suddenly, it fills you—the last way he will see his son is seeing him stealing his pills. He was seeing—he was seeing and he was trying to say No.
    You rise shaken and you step away from the bed. You clasp your hands.
    Mother, you say shakily from the foot of the bed.
    What?
    Come here.
    What?
    Can he see Mom? Can they see when they’re like this—
    I don’t know—I don’t really know—what’s the matter son—you’re white as a sheet.
    It’s important to know if he can see. It’s important to know if he can know. It’s important to ask the doctor—where is the doctor—no but the doctor’s been here today the doctor won’t come back today you look at your mother you think you bitch, you miserable old hag this is your fault—this is all your goddamned fault—
    I said what’s the matter—don’t bite your lip like that—
    The four pills start to kick in. The feeling fills your head and your heavy eyes half close.
    You say Nothing’s the matter—
    It no longer matters what Father knows or thinks.
    Suddenly, you smile and put your arm around her.
    So Mom, what’s new—how’ve you been?
    You feel glorious.



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