Wednesdays At One by Sandra A. Miller

Author:Sandra A. Miller
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

18

Gregory stepped out of the elevator into the Coronary Intensive Care Unit and spotted Margaret pacing in front of the nurses’ station, an island of activity in the middle of the long white hallway. His sister intermittently glanced at her phone, as if she might have missed a call or text in the five seconds since she last checked it. Gregory headed toward her.

“The doctor is supposed to be in again soon,” Margaret said in her rapid-fire way as they exchanged a quick hug. “Dad’s getting good care, but when he’s ready for rehab, I think we should move him to Spaulding, and maybe I can stay in your guest room for a while. I mean, if that’s okay?” She started down the corridor, Gregory hurrying to keep up, before she turned sharply into room 2-CCU, where he didn’t expect what he found inside: his father lying in bed with tubes and lines attached everywhere. There was one in his nose, another in his throat; a ventilator tube connected to a machine emitted a droning, rhythmic siss thump. There was also an IV in his wrist and an electrocardiogram monitor above the bed—its jolting green line flashing a reminder of life’s precariousness.

“Jesus,” Gregory said under his breath.

“I know, right?”

He followed Margaret to his father’s bedside and stood there staring. He suddenly felt so blessed to be alive in his body that he found it incomprehensible to think one day Petey and Carrie could be hovering over his hospital bed, wondering how long before he drew his last breath. Would they feel disconnected like Gregory did from his father? Would they care whether he pulled through to survive another day? He pictured Petey, his sweet-natured son, standing there, wringing a baseball cap between his hands, wishing Gregory had reached out to him more.

Gregory, though deeply saddened by how vulnerable his father looked, still couldn’t bring himself to root for his survival. Rather, he thought the old man needed to go in peace.

How many times had he sifted through his childhood memories, searching for one in which his father wasn’t admonishing him for mowing the lawn unevenly—if you can’t do something right, don’t do it at all—or reprimanding his mother for spending too much money on a new pair of shoes when the cheap ones she’d been wearing still had some heel left. Gregory was always on guard when his father was home, often with his bedroom door closed against the shouting. One day he followed the sound down the hallway to the living room. When he peered in, he saw his usually timid mother in a housedress and apron, standing up to his father. Tears streaked her ruddy face as her six-foot-tall husband bellowed down at her. But she kept her head up, for once refusing to back away. Gregory watched, dreading what would come next. No one challenged Bob Weber. When his father opened his palm and struck his mother across the face, Gregory drew back, his breath gone. He would never forgive his father, or himself.

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