“Any time.”
“You truly mean it, don’t you?”
I let a smile be the answer, because I do, in fact, truly mean it. “Bye, Natalie.”
“See you around, Holden.”
What an intense day. The shop is still quiet and desolate, so instead of staying here, I make the executive decision to closeearly. I feel the urge to go hug my girls and never let them go. To read them stories until they fall asleep. To let them have that extra dessert and stay up five more minutes. I get the urge to call my parents and talk for hours. To walk barefoot on grass. To laugh and cry. Because I still can, and I don’t want to take that for granted.
9
THE VILLAIN IN MY STORY
Heartbeats by Aron Wrights
Holden
Something about Nataliestays with me for the whole drive to the hospital and the walk to the kidney care unit. Her kind, knowing eyes stay behind my eyelids, and every time I blink, all I see is them. All I hear is “you have your answer”. I’m not easily persuaded, but her assertive words sent me straight here to see him.
“There he is,” the kind nurse says. Taking a breath that fills my lungs until they feel like they would explode, I step through the space where patients receive their treatment and take a seat next to Jerry. His head’s laid back on the reclining chair, his arms stretched out with what looks like straws connected to a machine. There’s a worn blanket draped over him, and with his mouth slightly open, soft snores escape it.
The machine whirs softly as his blood pumps through the tubes, filters, and is sent back into his body. It’s both fascinating and terrifying, but he looks peaceful. That is, until he coughs.This time, unlike the other day, there’s no blood when he covers his mouth. He doesn’t open his eyes at first, but when he does, he gives me a double-take when he finds me here.
“Son,” he croaks. I hold back the urge to roll my eyes and snap at him.
He looks fragile, almost brittle, and he’s not even that old. I always imagined that things like this, dialysis, were reserved for older people, for people who aren’t able to move, walk, run, or even talk lucidly, and that was definitely a misconception.
Since the doctor told me about his diagnosis the other day, I’ve read some on kidney failure, and I was shocked when I saw it can even happen to kids. Yes, sure, we know about cancer and some chronic illnesses, but we certainly take health for granted.
“I’m sorry, Holden. What are you doing here?”
That’s a good question. What am I doing here? Am I looking for answers? Am I seeking apologies? Am I here tithing like a good Christian would if I actually were one? Or am I here because I don’t want him to die, and I’m willing to pay my dues by doing this?
“I don’t know.” It’s the only answer I’m able to form. I truly don’t know. “I didn’t even know if I was going to find you here, since the doctor said you’ve missed appointments.”
“I was hoping you’d come.”
He sits up straighter, pulling the blanket closer to his chest, tracing his face with his hand after. It’s not cold here, not in comparison to other areas of a hospital, but he looks miserably cold, even with a jacket and a blanket.
“Do you need an extra blanket?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“It won’t help. It’s cold like deep in my bones.”
I point to the machine with my chin. “The treatment?”
“Mmhm.” He doesn’t say anything else as he waits, sitting there, holding my gaze and searching my face for something Ican’t quite name. I wish I had any other feeling for this man right now other than the same sympathy I would offer a stranger going through something like this.
I wish I could sit here and tell him how sorry I was for the years gone by and missing between us. Or how the past is the past and that I forgive him.
“Listen, I know I said it the other day, and I’ll say it again. I’m sorry. I know my words carry no meaning unless I back them up, but I am. I’ll probably tell you the same every time I see you.”
“The thing is, I believe you. I just don’t know what you’re exactly sorry about.”
“So much, son. So much.”
I want to scream at him to stop calling me son. Mom used to call me son.
So many parents have sweet pet names for their kids, and Mom did for Liz.Lizzibear, she’d call her, and oh boy, how she hated that. Me? She called me son, and I loved it.
