Page 108 of Not On the Agenda

“I have half a mind to move back in with you until Mom is out of this place,” I told him honestly. He scoffed and I nudged him. “Seriously, Dad. We keep having this conversation. At this point, I’m more worried about you than I am Mom.”

He glared at me, his eyes brimming with reproach but I didn’t back down.

“Yeah, at least Mom has people taking care of her day and night,” I explained. “While you’re losing sleep and refusing to eat. Should I book you in here too?”

“Ha, we could never afford it,” he said bitterly, and a glimmer of understanding flashed in his eyes. I quickly steered the conversation elsewhere, not wanting him to ask about how we were able to afford as much as we did just then.

“Exactly, and you’d both just stress even more instead of getting better,” I said archly. “So do me a favor and at least try to eat two meals a day, and get six hours of sleep.”

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s the bare minimum, Dad.”

We bickered all the way up to the ICU; our voices hushed but fervent.

The ICU had an entire floor to itself, sealed at every point of entry and exit by electronic doors that required staff access cards. There was a waiting room just outside. Well, it would be more apt to describe it as a few chairs that once belonged to different wings of the hospital huddled together in an empty corner.

Dad and I sat down, him on a squishy-looking maroon chair and me on a blue, plastic-covered chair. The protective plastic, unfortunately, had already begun to peel off, and the loose bits stabbed at my legs.

Only two other people sat with us, and I recognized both of them from the last time I’d visited.

The first was an elderly woman whose son had been terribly injured in a football accident. She brought him flowers every day, or so the nurses had told me. In one of her hands she clutched an ornate, pearl rosary.

I’d never heard her speak, but her whispered prayers shoved icy knives into my gut.

The other person was a man, his head shaved and covered with tattoos. His round shoulders hunched in, and he stared at the ground, his blue eyes vacant.

The nurses hadn’t told me much about him, save for his sister’s frail condition.

“They’re all they have left,” one of the nurses had mentioned, and some part of me, long lost to my inner child, wondered at the bond between siblings.

Of just how deep the pain ran.

When the nurse finally came out, I nudged Dad forward.

“Go see her,” I whispered, nodding at the waiting nurse. “I don’t mind waiting.”

His frown deepened but he kissed my temple, getting up to see Mom.

The minutes ticked by as I waited by myself, thoughts churning relentlessly. I hadn’t been kidding when I told Dad I’d move back in with him. Panic-stricken and utterly terrified, I’d already wandered down a rabbit hole, the ‘what if’ of losing, not just one, but both of my parents. It was a possibility that grew each day, with each hour Dad didn’t sleep, and each meal he skipped.

I wondered idly if I shouldn’t move him into my apartment; it was closer to the hospital, and it was closer to the store.

Meaning I could keep an eye on him.

But then he’d likely find out about my second job at June’s…

“Frankie,” Dad said, slicing through my spiraling thoughts. “She’s waiting for you.”

I hopped to my feet, my joints popping and groaning in response, and followed the nurse inside.

The process of sanitizing and putting on a mask was as thorough as it was long, but soon enough, the nurse led me through another set of sliding doors. The temperature dropped, making me wish I’d brought a sweater.

The ICU itself was large, each bed sectioned off by frosted glass panels and individual doors. I was grateful for it. I didn’t want to imagine what other horrors slept in the ICU, how many patients were likely taking their final breaths as I walked by.

“Look at you, my darling girl.”

Mom’s voice, so much weaker than it once was, weaved through the incessant beeping and humming of the machines. She lifted her arms a few inches off the bed and I wanted to burst into tears at the sight. Tubes, drips, and needles, wire of all colors, all hooked up to Mom, whose smile didn’t dim.

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