Page 43 of Corkscrew You
“I thought he was told to wear a heart monitor when he exercised?”
“Are you new here?” she said. “When has Dad ever done what he’s told?”
I forgave her for being shitty. I’m feeling pretty irate myself. Pity Dad’s in the hospital. Don’t think medical professionals look kindly on you if you slap a man on his sickbed.
Whole family’s here, clustered around Dad’s bed. Ava’s the only one standing, and the only one who looks angrier than she does upset. Danny has his arm around Mom, who’s leaning into his chest, and the twins are on her other side, hugging her and each other.
Dad himself is hooked up to a barrage of medical equipment, which he will no doubt resist when he wakes up. I guess he’s on the dreaded medication, too. Which is why he’s merely unconscious and not laid out on a slab.
There’s not much room, so I hover in the doorway. Danny glances over, nods in acknowledgement. Twins and Mom haven’t even registered I’m here. Ava gives me the once over and raises an eyebrow. Probably noticed that my shirt needs pressing and that I’m wearing the same clothes I left the house in yesterday morning. Bar the underwear, of course, but I’m happy for her to remain ignorant of that fact.
Danny gently nudges Mom, to let her know I’m here. She raises her head to give me a wan smile, and I’m struck, not for the first time, that she looks more like Danny’s older sister than our mother. She and Dad met when they were nineteen, and even distraught as she is now, Ginny Durant, née Adams, doesn’t look much more than thirty-five. Whereas Dad looks about a hundred-and-nine – gaunt and grey, and seriously unwell.
Izzy and Max know I’m here now too. Izzy smiles, and Max rolls his eyes. It’s a show of solidarity, bringing me into the group. But I know I’m here too late. Everyone was already at the hospital when Ava called me. I wasn’t on the spot like they were.
I recall Max joking about something he’d seen on the internet.
“The fuckening,” he’d said. “It’s when you’re having a great day but you don’t quite trust it. And then, sure enough, shit happens. And you go, ‘Ah, there it is. The fuckening.’”
The progress Shelby and I made today, the glow of us getting together and having the most pleasurable, joyous sex of my life – all of it may as well have never happened. I’m plunged into this black stew of resentment and anger, primarily at myself for not checking in as I’ve done every day since the family all arrived home. I didn’t call Ava last night, or this morning. I didn’t let anyone know I wasn’t coming home. OK, I’m a grown-assed man, not a kid, but I had a duty and I reneged on it, if only for a day.
A day, of course, when it all fell to shit. I wonder who led the charge to mobilize the family, Ava or Danny? Did it even matter that I wasn’t there?
I feel this urge to take control, to claw back some standing, create some reason for being here.
But my moment’s lost.
“Howdy.”
Doc Wilson’s the only man I know who actually says “Howdy.” When he’s stirred up, he says, “Boy howdy” and “Dang.” He and Shelby would get along great.
Shit. I don’t want to think about Shelby. My mind’s too fucking conflicted right now.
“Ray,” says Mom.
Her face has lit up. She’s so pleased to see him. So’s the rest of the gang.
I shift aside to let Doc in the room and cram against the back wall next to Ava, who’s still looking pissy.
“Ginny.” Doc bends to give her a pat on the shoulder. “What are we going to do about this dang fool?”
“Pull the plug,” Ava mutters next to me.
She doesn’t mean it. She’s frustrated, as we all are, at Dad’s stubborn refusal to accept reality. For someone always so driven by tangible, measurable success, he’s been absurdly resistant to taking what seems like the obvious path to his recovery. Sure, he has his quirks regarding modern medicine, but when he was first diagnosed, we’d all assumed that his desire not to drop dead would prevail over any weirdness.
Seems you can convince yourself of anything if you try hard enough.
Doc’s reading Dad’s chart.
“Mitch, you are one lucky S.O.B.,” he sighs.
Wow. S.O.B. Doc’sreallyriled.
This would be my second chance to step in, but it seems today’s not my day.
“They’re talking about inserting a device called an ICD to manage the arrhythmia,” says Danny. “But Dad’ll refuse to have any kind of invasive procedure.”
“Can we force him?” Ava gets straight to the point.
