“Okay, sweetheart, why don’t you go and have a look around her bedroom. I’ll be in the kitchen when you’ve finished.”
I nod and make my way through the back of the house to her room. I open the door, and I’m hit with the smell of her. It hasn’t gone; it lingers as if she were in here only yesterday and it knocks me back. I wasn't expecting it. I sit on her desk chair and stare at her huge lilac room; it looks so bare without her in it. I’m not sure how long I spend looking at her things and reminiscing about every piece I come across, but it feels like a long time. I use one of the storage boxes leaning against the wall and fill it with a pile of old journals. Em was religious about keeping a diary. I tried once; I wrote in it for maybe a week and then lost interest. I’m a reader, not a writer.
I place two pictures of us in the box along with Collin, a threadbare ratty old stuffed dog that she used to cart everywhere when we were in kindergarten. Her dad had to pay her to stop taking it to school. She took it everywhere, and Pam used to have to steal it from her bed at night to wash it. I’m suddenly sad that it wasn’t buried with her. I decide that Collin can come live with me. I know Ethan will tease me about it, but I don’t care. I check my cell quickly at the thought of him. He’d texted me last night to let me know he’d gotten to Arizona and was planning on visiting with his father today. My tummy twists at how anxious he must be. I know he doesn’t want to do it. He told me he would call once he’d spoken with him. I’m still waiting, and the more time that passes the queasier I feel. I really hope that everything went okay.
I say my goodbyes to Pam and promise to check in again when Bill is home. She laughs when she sees Collin peeping out from the box I’m holding. She tells me not to be a stranger as she walks me out to my car and I mentally kick myself for staying away this long. I miss her, and I miss my best friend.
THIS ISN’T WHAT I was expecting; not that I had any pre-conceived notion of what would happen but I’m just thrown, I guess. We arrived after visiting hours last night, so we stayed at the hotel and got some sleep. Well, no, that’s a lie; tossed and turned all night wondering what to say to my dad is more accurate. Is it wrong to unleash eighteen years’ worth of hurt to someone that might be dying? I spent a long time wondering if I should try being civil, pleasant, and that way if he did die, maybe he would go in peace. The trouble with that scenario is that he’d get to leave thinking that everything is okay, and it’s not.
“Mrs. Jamison, and…”
The consultant pauses, giving me time to fill in the blanks.
“Ethan. I’m his son.”
“And Ethan, right, of course. I’m not sure what you’ve been told about Frank’s condition, so I’ll explain a little of what’s happening. Individuals such as your husband and father with a spinal cord injury are at increased risk for developing respiratory complications. Any loss of respiratory muscle control weakens the pulmonary system, no matter what the level of injury is. However, the risk for complications is greater for persons with a complete injury, as is Frank’s case. He lacks the ability to breathe without assistance. His lungs have collapsed from the lack of air being drawn into them.
“Now, we have made adjustments and we're able to counter this with his ventilator. However, Frank is now suffering from pneumonia. In cases such as this one, it is the leading cause of death. We have him stable at the moment; he’s falling in and out of consciousness and is suffering from delirium. At present, Frank is not what we would consider to be strong enough to withstand the surgery that is needed to re-attach his skull to his spinal column. We have postponed the procedure, but I would urge you to make arrangements in case the worst happens.
“I realize that this is an upsetting time. I’m going to leave you to digest what I’ve just said. Please feel free to go in and visit with Frank. From what the nurses tell me, he has been asking for Ethan. Good day.”
Out of everything that the guy just told us, the news I’m struggling with most is that Dad has been asking for me. He did say that he was delusional, though, so maybe that explains it. I look over at Mom sitting in the dull grey chair against the dull blue wall of this dull fucking room. Why would they make it so depressing? It’s a family room, or at least that’s what it said on little white plaque on the door. I'm under no illusion of what it’s used for—to deliver bad new to the patients’ relatives—so why make the room so cold and miserable? The room alone makes me want to slit my goddamn wrists, and that was before the doctor came in and gave us the bad news.