The memories come back to haunt me almost as soon as we enter the lobby. Sometimes memories come at you like that, coming with the suddenness of a flashbulb — like a jolt of electricity, or a clap in a silent room. The lobby doesn’t look as imposing as it did when I was a kid, though. The colours are soft, muted pastels, the kind where the swatches read Monterey instead of yellow — muffled, quiet colours instead of the hospital green of my youth. The lighting’s brighter too, the appearance made to be more user-friendly, if there is such a thing. There are fake plants in the corners, all delicate ferns and tropical things, like floating philodendrons. There are plaques and prints on the walls, too — Norman Rockwell type prints, cute and cuddly magazine covers with kids and Teddy bears — and photographs of babies done up in costumes, looking like giant fruits and vegetables, or flowers. I forget the woman’s name that does them.
But I remember walking across the lobby floor with Russell, waiting for Mom to shake her umbrella closed and Dad to finish speaking to the nurse at the reception desk. I knew Dad was asking the nurse which room Grampa was in, but there was a strange expression on his face I’d never seen before — a look of more than just helplessness — something that told me how much he didn’t want to be here, anymore than I did. And just as quick, a look of sudden determination clouded the image — I saw it in the line of his clenched jaw and narrow eyes — but it was too late, I thought, the mask had been pulled back long enough for me to see the young boy frightened for his father.
He looked at the banked row of elevators across the lobby, and then turned to look at us, and back to Mom. I watched her watching him. It was as if they could speak to each other without having to say anything; that’s what Caroline and I were missing out of our marriage. There’s an intimacy in knowing another person as well as you think you know yourself. You see it in couples that have been together forever. Caroline never gave us a chance to be that couple, but I do have visits with Ronnie as a consolation of the divorce last year.
Dad gave Mom a look — an imprint of confusion that rippled across his face — and Mom pulled me across the lobby. She told Russell to hurry up and follow her, or she’d leave him behind. Dad stepped into the first elevator that opened up, not bothering to see which way it was going. Mom hustled us in behind him. He pressed the button for the fourth floor without asking me if I wanted to, and began swearing under his breath when the car dropped. He pushed the button for the fourth floor out of frustration, and Mom reached out to him.
“It’s alright, Hon, we’ll just ride it down and then go back up again. Try to relax.”
“I’m trying, Momma. It ain’t easy,” he said in a soft voice, forcing a smile.
“I know. We’ll get through this, same as we always do. Together.”
Now, I find myself standing at the same desk thirty years later, about to ask the same questions my father did — the same questions a hundred thousand other people have asked over the years — when I look for the bank of elevators and realize they’re on the other side of the lobby. I’m confused for a moment. I grapple with the idea that it’s the Reception area that’s moved and not the elevators. I smile at the woman behind the desk, but it’s the sort of smile that tells her I’m doing everything I can, I’m just not capable, I’m not in control. And then Ronnie reaches for my hand and leads me across the lobby to the elevators.
As I step into the elevator I remember Russell whispering into my ear — without moving his lips so Mom and Dad couldn’t hear him — and I smile at the memory.
“We’re going down to the morgue,” he said.
His voice reminded me of the ocean — when you’re listening to a seashell pressed up to your ear — a sound that’s distant and faraway. It wasn’t just the message that was frightening, but the thought of something crawling out of the shell and into your ear.
“That’s where they keep the dead people before they bury ‘em. They’ve got thousands of ‘em in there,” he added with that conspirators’ whisper all children use — even Ronnie uses it, because I hear her telling Mrs. Duncan not to worry.
When the doors opened up, I stared straight ahead of me. I was too afraid to even look at Russell, because there was a sense of terror spreading through me like hot liquid. All I remember is feeling that I had to pee. I didn’t want to see any of the things I was picturing in my mind. I was prepared to bury my face into Mom’s coat in case a dead body happened to walk by. I could see Dad pressing the buttons anxiously, not fast enough as far as I was concerned, and I could see Russell grinning at me out of the corner of my eye.
Mom reached over to take Dad’s hand in hers. She looked up at him and I saw her try to force a smile; there were tears in her eyes. Dad heaved a sigh of relief as soon as the elevator began its slow climb up, and then leaned back against the wall. I remember he closed his eyes — trying to collect his thoughts I suppose, just like I’m doing now — and I watched Mom move toward him and pull him into her arms so he could rest his head on her shoulder.
I reach out for Ronnie, and she looks up at me and smiles, telling me everything will be alright — the same thing I tried telling her on the car ride over. But all I can think about is how Mom comforted Dad as if he was one of us kids, only it looked as if he somehow meant more to her. It seemed as if they didn’t even know Russell and I were there. I saw tears in Dad’s eyes, not a lot, but enough for me to think it was one of those moments you only see on T.V., or in a Disney movie. Mom and Dad never showed their feelings for each other in front of us — and certainly never in public.
When the elevator stopped at the lobby again, more people stepped in. Mom and Dad held each other, and I watched Dad turn away and wipe his eyes with a tissue Mom pulled out of her purse.
Every day after that, we drove to the hospital until Grandpa died two weeks later.
Our being here isn’t for our sakes Mom told us, but for Dad and Grandma. She said the same thing to our cousin Angie as we all sat together in the waiting room. She said what every adult says to their kids, even though we promise ourselves we won’t: “You’ll understand when you get older.”
But getting older doesn’t mean you have the answers, does it? I don’t have the answers. It’s just that we believe we can understand. Maybe it’s a matter of taking the easy way out because you don’t know what else to say? I’ve decided to hold onto that thought and promise myself not to bring Ronnie here again — even if Mom insists.
I guess there’s something to be said about a Death Watch in the family. There’s just too much emotion. Russell and I spent most of our time in the waiting room, with Angie and Uncle Ray. That first day though, we had to go in and see Grandpa laying in his bed with tubes hooked up to help him breathe; there was a bag of blood going into his one good arm. I couldn’t help but look at the mark where the patch on his left eye used to be, thinking that he didn’t look like a pirate anymore, wondering why they had to take the patch off. We kissed him on the cheek even though he didn’t know we did and we didn’t want to, and then we kissed Gramma. I have to wonder if she even knew we were there that first night. I think she gave up trying to understand the whys and wherefores of everything going on after that.
“She’s taking it bad,” Mom said to Auntie Jen before they shuffled us out of the room — but not before Russell heard Auntie Marge say something about sedatives and hysterics.
The doctor allowed immediate family members only that first night, but Mom and Auntie Marge went in anyway. When Auntie Win showed up with Uncle Ray, Mom and Auntie Marge sat in the waiting room with us watching T.V. and ignoring Uncle Ray.
I never understood their reason for treating Uncle Ray like an outsider, but it didn’t seem to bother him as much as it did me. I never understood it then, and I still don’t — and even though Mom told us that family needs to be with family, that rule didn’t seem to apply to Uncle Ray.
Mom and Auntie Marge took the time to explain why we had to be there, and why we’d be there every night until Grandpa left the hospital — one way or the other, Russell said under his breath. Auntie Marge sat beside Mom with her knitting on her lap, looking like a prison matron in a bad movie. She nodded her head and watched us to make sure we understood. She wanted to make sure Mom’s words were burned into our brains; all we wanted to do was watch T.V.
I’d glance over at Uncle Ray once in a while — thinking how he looked like an old mannequin in the back of a curio shop — wondering how he got that strange limp of his. I know he didn’t agree with a lot of what Mom was saying, but he didn’t say anything. He sat quiet — as if we weren’t even in the same room with him — smoking his plain-filtered cigarettes, and re-reading old, torn-up magazines. He used to move his lips when he read, and I used to think he was talking to himself. Uncle Ray didn’t talk much, but we did hear him say to Auntie Win that he wished Grandpa would hurry up and die because driving out here everyday was time consuming. He said everything would be easier if Auntie Win just learned to drive.
“Yes, it is inconvenient,” I remember Mom saying with more than just a trace of sarcasm in her voice. She looked at Auntie Marge after that and rolled her eyes as if to say: Will he never change?
I don’t know why I’m remembering all of this now — unless it’s because I remember Mom saying how I’d learn about it when I got older. I didn’t realize she meant I’d learn from Dad’s example. It was hard enough losing Uncle Freddie and Auntie Jen last year — the two of them two months apart — because I’m having a hard time explaining things to Ronnie. I can’t even explain things to myself, and I don’t want to: I don’t think I should have to.
She’ll learn when she gets older, I tell myself, and wonder if anyone can escape from saying that.
The elevator doors slide open and Ronnie sees Mom. She lets go of my hand, drops Mrs. Duncan on the floor, and calls out “Gramma! Gramma!” as she throws herself into Mom’s arms.
I wish I could do that.
Mom holds Ronnie tight and her body shakes like a shrunken leaf on an empty branch as she fights to hold back her tears. She turns to me and I hug her, a wave of nostalgia washing over me as I smell her coat in my face — a combination of perfume and hair spray that takes me back to my childhood.
I look at Mrs. Duncan lying on the floor, forgotten for a moment, neglected for a time, and as I bend down to pick her up, I envy the fact that she’s a doll and will have no memories to haunt her.
THE DAWN PATROL