13
Wyatt
2010
All hospitals smell the same, like chemicals and alcohol sanitizer. Every hospital looks the same, sterile and unwelcoming. Medical staff moves around like it’s a typical day. Meanwhile, someone is dying, and another is born. It becomes a monotonous task to them.
My mom loops her hand in mine, and I pat it. She’s shrunk since the last time I saw her, and not just physically. There is something withdrawn about her. Like the light has left her. This is the easy part, I remind myself. What’s to come will be far worse for her. And the worst part is that I won’t be able to be here for her. I’ll be away, and she’ll be left alone to deal with the aftermath. It was the saddest part of the life I’d chosen, how I could never be where I wanted to be when it mattered.
“It’s good to have you here, Wyatt.” She looks up at me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and I give her hand a squeeze.
“There is nowhere else I would rather be, Mom.”
My father is dying. Correct that, he is gone. He suffered multiple heart attacks over a couple of days, and when the final one hit, his organs couldn’t take it. His lungs collapsed, and he has been on life support and in a coma for the last two months. Then, just when we thought he had a fighting chance, we were told there was a restriction of oxygen to his brain. He is brain dead. All that is left is for us to let him go. In theory, that sounds simple, but having to actually do it is a whole other thing.
I’m not afraid of death. I’ve been living and breathing it for years. I’d seen headless bodies fall at my feet. I held some of my fellow men in my arms as they begged and pleaded for death to come and for the pain to stop after losing a limb. Death is part of the lifecycle we have been conditioned to believe, yet my heart aches just a little bit when I walk into the room and see my father. His hair completely grey, his face hollow, causing his cheekbones to protrude. He looks small lying in bed covered in a hospital sheet and hooked up to all kinds of machines. The swooshes and beeps of the devices the only sound in the room.
I’ve been in this room every day this week, and I’ve read to him from Moby Dick, one of his favorite stories. I told him stories I never told anyone before, tales of the war and my heroics. I told him about the stupid things I used to do that he never knew about, and what I hoped for us when we finally left this place.
My mother loosens her hand from mine and goes to sit by his bed. She pats his hand gently. I know I should give her some time alone. We would all get an opportunity to say our final goodbyes. But I feel it — the void in the room as if his soul has already vacated the earth.
I was never an easy kid. I made his life a misery, and I paid for it with whippings. He was a good father. He expected a lot, wanted me to be the best I could be, but there was no doubt that he loved me and wanted what was best for me.
“You’re gonna be great, my son; you might as well live with it,” he’d tell me when I tried to tell him he pushed me too hard. “If you settle for mediocre, you’re bound to get it.”
I close my eyes and settle my head against the wall of the corridor, his face before me. I wish that I could hear his voice one more time, get reprimanded for going out of line or have him smile at me the way he did at the end of a day. He was the kind of father I strived to be one day. To give my own kids the type of upbringing he gave me.
“Wyatt.” My thoughts are brought back to the present.
I look up to blue eyes that hold me captive, and for a second, I’m transported back to a time long ago when things were simple.
“Hayley?” I stand and wrap my arms around her. She feels so good. Like home. She struggles out of my embrace, staring at me awkwardly.
“Sorry,” I offer. I sit and pat the chair next to me.
She settles into the plastic chair and looks over at me. “I’m really sorry about your dad. How’s your mom holding up?”
“She’s with Dad now,” I whisper the words. “She may not have more time.”
She leans over and places a hand on my shoulder. The contact stuns me for a second, and I frown and almost shrug her off. She looks embarrassed and immediately moves away.
“It’s all so unexpected,” she tells me. Her eyes are conveying that she means it. “Your dad was great to me and my mom, always fixing things around the house and running out with his gun the moment he heard anything over at our place at night.”
“I remember that.” I smile. “He almost shot your mom once, if I recall.”
The chatter feels comfortable, nice even, but I know I shouldn’t feel that way. She smiles as her eyes light up the way I remember. She’s still a small thing; her head would tuck neatly under my chin. I used to tease her about her height for years. The white summer dress she’s wearing is sexy, but not in a provocative way. I find my eyes drawn to the exposed skin of her chest a few times. Her golden hair falls loosely around her shoulders, and she smells of honeysuckle every time she moves it over her shoulder.
“We should have coffee sometime, or a drink, whichever you prefer.” She blurts the words but seems to regret it after. “If that’s okay with you.”
“I’d like that,” I tell her. “It’ll be good to catch up and get my mind off this for a while.” I motion to the door.
It’ll be a bad idea, I know that, but I’m going to do it anyway. There were things left unsaid when we parted ways. I broke Hayley’s heart when I left, and despite my promise to come back, I never did. I stopped writing. I ceased contacting her. A part of me wanted her to forget about me, to move on with her life. But another part of me just wanted to know she was out there waiting for me. Maybe I am a selfish asshole to do that.
