Page 53 of The Two of Us

14

NOW

Iwalk aimlessly through endless white corridors, my vision blurry and knees wobbly. I’m lost in some sort of maze—my only guide the sounds of hospital monitors and doctors’ unintelligible conversations.

And then I hear it again. The groaning.

The sounds belong to my dad, I’m sure of it. They’re subtle but carry enough pain to have me running down the white halls. Left. Right. Left. Straight. I can’t tell if I’m heading in the right direction because the new sounds emanating from my dad—distraught whimpers—echo off the walls as if they don’t have a singular source. As if they came from everywhere.

“Dad?” I cry.

The sounds are unbearable. Knives to my ears.

“Dad, tell me where you are!”

I reach out, my hand seizing the wall to steady myself, but I find myself falling into the plaster. I scream, yanking my arm back out. My legs crumble and I sink to the floor on all fours. I hear him again, this time louder.

Crawl to him if you must.

My palms recoil from the frigidness of the floor tiles. Why are they so cold? I crawl faster.

“Mara,” he begs.

As I make another turn, I see a small door ajar. I crawl toward it, ignoring the crushing sound beneath my knees. The floor beneath me has turned to ice. I finally reach his room, my line of vision putting me at the foot of my dad’s hospital bed. His whimpers have taken on a childlike quality. As if he’d be better off being soothed by his mother than me. Still, I crawl to him.

Limbs numb, I grab hold of the railing near his head and lift myself up, the movement sensationless. I hover over him.

“I’m here, Dad,” I say, reaching for his hands.

He jerks back in pain. His whimpers become sobs. Crystalline icicles hang from the tips of his stiff hair. His purple lips are swollen and cracked and I want to look away, but I can’t. The same way you drive by a car crash, afraid of what you might see, but are beckoned to observe the catastrophe, nonetheless. Goose bumps race across the length of his arms and I know that if I don’t get him warm quickly, he’ll die.

I reach for him one last time, clasping his hands between mine. He yelps and uses what little strength he has left to pull away from me again, my heart plummeting.

Desperation fills me. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

“You can’t help me.” His words are chilled and the temperature drops lower than its already abysmal state. “You’re cold, Mara,” he says, pained. “So cold, you’re numb. There’s nothing for you to give me.”

I stare back in horror. Not willing to give up, I clutch his arms and will whatever warmth I have in my body to transfer to him, but the longer I hold, the colder the room becomes. I change my mind, trying to release my grip but can’t. My hands are locked on him.

He cries out as frost oozes from my fingertips, leaching onto his body, hungry for his warmth. I pull and tug as his crying amplifies.

“I’m sorry,” I yell. “I’m trying to let go! I’m sorry!”

His body seizes up and just as quickly goes slack. A small white puff escapes out from his mouth as he whispers, “Nothing for you to give me.”

I jerk awake, smacking my elbow on the bedside lamp. I curse and make a mental note to move it to my dresser in the morning. I bring my hand to the front of my nightshirt, pulling the soaked fabric off my chest. The nightmares started last week and haven’t let up since. I rarely sleep as it is and now the few hours I manage to scrape by with are compromised as well. I’ve traded one nightmare for another. I can still recall Laura’s face when she told me that my dad’s health had some new developments. It’s code for he’s getting worse.

Even if she didn’t tell me, I would’ve put two and two together from the sounds that come from his room. The wheezing is excruciating to hear and his occasional groaning has me running upstairs in cowardly retreat.

I stick my hand out in the dark, grabbing for the glass of water I always leave for myself. Leaning my head back, I anticipate the cure to my dry mouth and grunt when I realize it’s empty.

I slide out of bed and step into my softest pair of slippers, the only ones quiet enough to evade Otso. The rickety stairs are silent under my soles and I send up a silent thank-you to God. The kitchen is pitch black, but I don’t need a light to find my way to the fridge. I’m not the architect of this house, but I can move around seamlessly with my eyes closed, the floor plan embedded into the fabric of my being.

I fill my glass to the rim with water, my hands lit by the sliver of light leaking from the fridge I left slightly open. It’s two in the morning and the house is encased in a kind of silence that feels intrusive instead of comforting.

I gently nudge the fridge door closed and am walking past my dad’s door when I hear it.

The groaning.

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