Dad Page 9

  I’m packing clothes into the laundry bags.

  “Sure, Dad, maybe we can come up and bowl. I haven’t bowled in a long time either.”

  We pile our clothes in the car and Dad finishes his Popsicle. I don’t want him charging in the house with a Popsicle hanging out of his mouth; that’d do Mother in for sure. We drive the car into the patio and start unloading. Mom is out of bed and opens the side door. Dad and I carry the clothes in. When I go into the kitchen, I see she’s fixed lunch.

  I stand a minute trying to figure how to handle it. I resent treating her as a child; I don’t want her seeing me angry, either. I decide to accept. I can’t figure any other procedure more likely to discourage this kind of stupidity.

  Well, that’s the way our days go. Mom’s into everything and there’s nothing Dad or I can do right. She’s even complaining Dad isn’t brushing his teeth at night.

  “You have to watch him, Jacky; he’ll only scrub the front and forget the rest.”

  This is about a man with every tooth in his head. Mother has bridges across the whole back of her mouth. At first, we keep trying harder. We sweep, vacuum, line garbage pails, scrub toilets, dust, beat rugs, the whole scene; but it’s all wrong.

  Joan comes and I tell her what’s going on. She laughs and sits down.

  “Don’t you know, Johnny, nobody can please Mom? I thought you knew that. Every week I come here to help with heavy cleaning like washing windows, scrubbing floors. I know she’ll do it all over again, wash every window a second time, muttering the whole while. It’s Mom’s pleasure to convince herself, and everybody else, that nobody’s as good at anything as she is. The world is filled with two kinds of people, Bette McCarthy and the rest. The rest are incompetent and basically filthy. Relax, Jack, live with it. You and Dad have a good time; you can’t win.”

  Hell, I know all this. Only in my enthusiasm about how well Dad’s doing, I forgot.

  Joan can’t get over how sharp, full of life, he is. It’s hard to believe it’s the same man. I tell Joan some of the things we’ve been doing; the Oar House, sailing, motorcycling. She thinks it’s all fine but we’d better not let Mom find out.

  “She’ll make life miserable for him, Johnny. And if she ever hears about that beard; God in heaven. All the noise I’ve listened to about your beard; it’d kill her for sure.”

  We’re both giggling. Mom’s napping, Dad’s out in the greenhouse.

  Plowing for sod corn, new-cut ground turned close, one row onto the other, small tufts of grass and reeds marking the depth of furrows. Jimmy pulls, slowly, easily; and I lean, just strong enough to turn over topsoil; corduroying the earth.

  The next day when I go to do the bathroom, the tub’s been scrubbed. This is too much. If there’s anything a heart patient shouldn’t do, scrubbing a tub must be high on the list. Mother’s in the patio sunning with Dad. I go out.

  “Mother! Did you scrub the tub?”

  “Jacky, it was such a mess, rings of dirt and water splashes all over everything, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’m sure you two step straight out of a tub and never look back; you leave curly hairs over everything and an inch thick of scum. I may be sick but I don’t have to live in a pigpen.”

  “Come on, it wasn’t that bad. I just went in to scrub it out. You only had to wait another ten minutes. For ten minutes with a few hairs in a bathtub you put your whole life on the line.”

  I’m working up a stupid mad.

  “Dad and I are doing our best while you spend your time making things difficult. Mother, I’m telling you right now, if you don’t lie back, take it easy and do as the doctor says, I fly home tomorrow. If what we do isn’t good enough, hire a professional nurse. Do whatever it is you have to do but I’m not taking any more nonsense.”

  Mother looks at me, then starts crying.

  “If I can’t even do a little work around my own house, what’s the use of living. You know he can’t do anything.”

  She flings her arm in Dad’s direction.

  “Joan never comes and you’re only waiting so you can go back to Europe with all the foreigners.”

  I turn and walk into the house while she’s raving. Dad comes in after me. I’m getting lunch ready. He’s upset; we all are.

  “It’s not her fault, Johnny; don’t be so hard; it’s not easy for her to relax, you know how she is.”

  “Sure, Dad. But remember: this isn’t only the usual spoiling, letting her have her own way; she can very easily die. I don’t intend to watch her kill herself out of pride, and a frustrated need to dominate.

  “And you’ve got to stand up to her, too, Dad; for her good and yours. It’s something we can’t put off. If she’s going to wash out bathtubs, there’s no chance she’ll live; I’m not kidding.”

  I can’t tell if he understands. He’s so scared he’s into his nodding routine, looking serious and doing his worker-boss thing.

  “You’re right, Johnny. You’re absolutely right. I’ll talk to her. She’s crying out there alone; she doesn’t cry much; crying can’t be good for her heart, either.”

  “It’s better than scrubbing tubs, Dad.”

  God, will we have to watch her all the time? I go back out with sandwiches, beer and some Coke for Mom. She’s still red-eyed, wiping away tears. She won’t look at me.

  “Listen, Mom. You’ve got Dad worried to death with your bullheadedness but I’m not going to say another word. If you want to climb up on that roof right now and start tap dancing, I’ll sit here and applaud. If you get a scrub brush and start scrubbing the lawn, that’s OK with me.

  “Then, when you have your next heart attack, I’ll try to help, I’ll try getting you to the hospital on time again and maybe they can save you. If they can’t, I’ll make arrangements for the funeral and help set Dad up. But that’s it. I refuse to treat you like a baby! You’re a grown woman, you’re not senile and it’s your life. If you want to kill yourself, that’s up to you.”

  I pause to let it sink in. She’s looking at me now.

  “Do you understand, Mom? There won’t be another word from me. It’s up to you; you take hold of your own life. I think you have more sense than you’ve shown so far. I think you really want to live but you enjoy pestering the life out of Dad and me. Eat your lunch.”

  After this it’s better. Now she has to prove she isn’t stupid. But her idea of what she can do without hurting herself is bizarre. I feel sorry for Dad because the whole guard duty falls on him. I shake my head in disbelief when she makes a bed or washes out undies, but I say nothing.

  Marty calls most evenings and says she’ll come over to spell me if I want. I tell her it’s OK; I know how much Mom bugs her and almost everything about Marty annoys Mom. Mostly that she’s young and has her own life.

  After two weeks, it’s time to take Mother back for a checkup. I call the doctor ahead of time and ask him to throw the fear of God into her because she’s too active.

  He does a great scene but I can see Mother sitting inside herself resisting. He shows her the X-rays but she scarcely looks. He gets out the cardiograms, explains her blood chemistry, pulls out charts to show which part of her heart is affected. It’s not registering; she doesn’t want to know. Afterward, when I’m pushing Mom out to the parking lot in a wheelchair, she turns and looks back at me.

  “Jacky, I don’t think he’s a real doctor. I’m sure he’s not a heart specialist. Did you see that belt he was wearing and those tight pants? He’s another hippy. They let anybody get through medical school these days. He’s probably only a student anyhow, he can’t be thirty years old.”

  I disappoint her and keep my mouth shut. All the way home she stays on the same themes, knocking Dr. Coe and the Perpetual Hospital. Then she starts on the “nigger nurses.” She’s pulling out all stops.

  I keep smiling, nodding like an imbecile and concentrate on the driving. Mother’s putting on the brake and clutching all the way. I swear next time I’ll slip a sack over her head and put her in the back
seat.

  At home, she begins telling Dad how she’s had a very light heart attack, so light in fact it’s doubtful she had one at all. She isn’t saying anything of what the doctor told us, only what she wanted to hear. I’ll give Dad a straight story later; I don’t want to start her crying again. Dad’s right, crying can’t be the best thing for a heart patient.

  After lunch she’s at full steam.

  “Look how the paint on this house is peeling. The garden is going to pot, nobody’s weeding. The windows are filthy. We haven’t had any really balanced meals since I’ve been home. Dad isn’t taking his pills regularly, he doesn’t look well and he’s running around so much he’s going to have another stroke.”

  Far as I know, he hasn’t had a first one.

  I try to reassure her Dad’s doing fine and he’s getting good food. But nothing will do. Things are slipping away from her, and she’s in a minor panic; her very reason for living is being pulled out from under her.

  The truth is Dad is getting away, gaining independence. He’ll go back, and in his new breezy way ask how she’s doing and what he can do. This bugs Mom, the roles have been reversed, so quickly, easily. He’s bringing her glasses of water, fixing her medicine, straightening her bed, regulating the electric blanket, giving her massages and trying, generally, to help her relax. Everything he does makes it worse. She’s caught in an unplanned double bind.

  Dad’s cooking is improving, too. It isn’t serious cuisine, but then there’s never been anything resembling good cooking going on in this house. Dad’s opening cans of soup and making sandwiches in the toaster. He makes a couple complete dinners without my assistance; nothing difficult—lamb chops with canned peas and mashed potatoes, or some steaks with canned string beans and defrosted French fries—but it’s good.

  Sometimes Dad will go into the bedroom to see how Mom is and he’ll forget to take off his apron; this drives her up the wall. I almost begin to suspect he does it on purpose; that apron, like his aircraft-carrier cap, has become a badge of authority. And I know all this is almost worse for Mom than her overexertions, but I can’t think of any other way. I’ve got to leave sooner or later and Joan can’t do everything.

  Joan’s concerned, but can’t see any way out either. Dad has to take over. It would be even worse having a professional nurse. Mother makes no bones about that; no strangers living in her house.

  Well, this goes on another week. Dad’s getting better every day while Mom fumes and keeps overdoing herself. Dad’s seventy-third birthday is rolling around. We decide to have a quiet party for him, just the four of us; Joan, me, Dad and Mom. We don’t want Mother getting involved with the preparations, but we can’t keep her down. I’m baking the birthday cake and she’s convinced I’m going to burn the house down; wants me to buy a cake at Van de Kamp’s. She opens the oven door so often the damned cake falls. It’d drive anybody bats. I haul her back to bed at least ten times. She’s on the point of tears. Her lines are:

  “This might be the last birthday I’ll ever celebrate with my husband and you want to do it all. I know myself; I feel just fine; you can’t know how I feel…” and so on.

  Joan buys Dad a pair of blue striped flannel pajamas, also a button-down-the-front sweater from Mom. I buy him a new dark green aircraft-carrier hat. I want to give him a roller singing canary but there’s not one to be found anywhere; the Newcastle blight’s almost wiped out canaries in America.

  Dad enjoys helping with the cake. We do it from scratch, no cake mix. He can’t believe you can make a cake with only flour, sugar, eggs, milk, butter and salt, with a little flavoring and baking powder. It’s terrible how far removed from the fun parts of life most men get. We bake another cake after the first falls, and put them on top of each other.

  The party’s a big success. We cut the cake and it’s a bit compact but delicious. Dad blows out all the candles in one fell blow: seven big ones and three little. He makes a thing about opening each present, shaking to see if it rattles, making wild guesses and insisting on untying every knot and preserving the wrapping paper. He folds the paper carefully before he’ll go on to the next present. He’s dragging out the pleasure.

  “Come on, Jack, open it; stop playing with the paper; we don’t have all day.”

  Dad turns to Mom and smiles.

  “Oh, yes, we do, Bette; we have all day; today’s my day, all day.”

  He says it nicely and he’s smiling but it’s the first time I’ve heard him come back in more than twenty years. Joan looks over and gives me one of her looks. Joan’s look is to close her mouth, with her eyes wide, so white shows all around the iris. While doing this she nods then tucks her head into her shoulders. It’s best translated as “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  Because I couldn’t find a canary, I give Dad the Swiss army knife Billy gave me for my fiftieth birthday. I hope Billy doesn’t mind. There’s something fulfilling about owning a knife like that. This one has thirteen different blades and instruments, including a magnifying glass, an ivory toothpick, scissors, tweezers, a saw, two blades, two screwdrivers (regular and Phillips), a can opener, a bottle opener, a corkscrew and a leather punch. Dad’s fascinated and opens all the blades simultaneously. It bristles like a hedgehog. Mother comes on with the expected “simp” remark, and the three of us laugh.

  “You’ll see, he’ll probably cut off his finger before the day’s out.”

  She’s also worried about washing the flannel pajamas; they take so long to dry.

  Later, Dad goes into the bathroom and comes out with his pajamas on, his new sweater over them, and the aircraft-carrier cap on his head. He stands there smiling and opens up the Swiss knife to the magnifying glass and peers through it like a lorgnette.

  Mom claims this proves he’s getting more senile every day and soon he’ll be crazy as his son. Dad says he feels like Dagwood, or a prisoner, in the striped pajamas. He sings a few lines from one of his all-time favorites, The Prisoner's Song by Guy Massey.

  His voice is tremulous but strong and in tune. I don’t think I’ve heard him sing since he used to sing us to sleep when we were kids.

  That night they want to sleep together. I move from the garden room into the side bedroom and Mom goes to sleep with Dad in the back bedroom. He smiles and says it’s the nicest birthday present of all. This is verging on the risqué from him; Joan laughs and he blushes.

  In the middle of the night I hear the buzzer beside my bed. I pick up the receiver but there’s Dad at my bedroom door; his face is white in the dim light.

  “Mother thinks she’s having another heart attack, Johnny. She looks awful.”

  I jump up and run back to their bedroom. She’s pale and sweating but conscious. She says she’s having terrible pain and tightness in the chest. She’s crying. I give her some digoxin but it doesn’t help. Now I have to do all the things I’ve been preparing Dad for. I leave him with her and tell him to yell if she goes unconscious.

  First, I call an ambulance, then phone the hospital to alert them we’re coming in.

  I go back to the bedroom. She’s still conscious but in great pain, crying. I think she’s crying mostly from disappointment and discouragement; she’d actually almost psyched herself out of that heart attack. She’s also scared.

  The ambulance arrives in less than ten minutes. They roll in a stretcher and oxygen; they put her on oxygen immediately. The paramedic takes her blood pressure, shakes his head and says we’d better hurry. We wheel her out to the ambulance; I say I’ll go with them and ask Dad if he wants to come along. He says, no, he’ll stay home and pray.

  We take off in the ambulance, with the orange light twisting and sirens blaring, through the red light on Palms. At the hospital, we go straight through emergency and they move her up to intensive care. I’m left in the emergency waiting room.

  Half an hour later, a young doctor comes down and asks for me. He tells me she’s having another attack and they’re doing everything possible. He says there’s nothing I can do a
nd I should go home. They’ll call me if there’s any major change. He means if she dies.

  I need to take a piss something awful, and go into the rest room. I glance in the mirror and I’m almost pale as Mom. I’d no idea how much shock I’m in. I’m also feeling guilty about the birthday party and them sleeping together. She fooled me. She probably fooled herself, too. It’s so hard to know where to draw the line.

  I take a cab home. Dad’s standing at the door waiting. He’s still in his pajamas but he’s had the sense to put on a sweater and his new cap. I pay off the taxi and go in.

  “How is she, Johnny? How’s she doing?”

  He’s close to tears; he has his rosary in his hand.

  “She’s OK, Dad; don’t worry. She’ll be OK. They put her back in the intensive care unit. The doctors are doing everything that needs to be done. They have all the backup machinery.”

  I lead Dad to his bedroom and help him into bed. While I was gone, he remade the bed completely in his meticulous way. I put out the light and close the door. I think of phoning Joan but decide against it. It’s out of our hands. There’s nothing we can do and Joan needs her rest. I’m feeling wrung out. I go back to bed and somehow do get to sleep.

  The next morning I phone the hospital; there’s no change. I go over things with Dad. He seems OK; he hasn’t gone into any withdrawal symptoms like the first time. He’s with it, wanting to help.

  “This has to be a lesson for us both, Dad. We can’t listen to her. She doesn’t want to believe she’s sick so she isn’t to be trusted. We need to protect her from herself.”

  Dad nods.

  “Yep, it’s hard keeping ahead of her, John. You never know what she’s really thinking.”

  I call Joan and tell her what’s happened. She’s shocked and feels as guilty as I do. She agrees to meet me at the hospital. Dad says he’ll stay home, clean up the kitchen and work in his greenhouse. It’s best not laying too much on him.

  Mother’s heavily sedated and all the monitors are on. She’s tied into IV and catheter; the whole works spinning to keep her alive. The nurses remember us. They say Dr. Coe has examined Mother and wants us in his office.