A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (10 page)

We were embarrassed. It was all so gaudy, so gruesome—here we were, inviting everyone to come and watch us in the middle of our disintegration. We smiled and shook hands with everyone as they walked in.
Oh hi!
I said to Mrs. Glacking, my fourth-grade teacher, whom I hadn
’
t seen in easily ten years. She looked good, looked the same. Huddled together in the lobby, we were sheepish and apologetic, trying to keep things breezy. My mom, wearing a flower-print dress (it was the best thing she had in which she could conceal her intravenous apparatus), tried to stand and receive the comers, but she soon had to sit, grinning up at everyone, hello hello, thank you thank you, how are you? I thought about sending Toph to another room, half for his own benefit and half so the guests didn
’
t have to see the whole horrific tableau, but then he went off with a friend anyway.

The minister, a corpulent stranger in black and white and that churchy neon green they wear, was at a loss. My father was an atheist, and thus this minister, who knew my father only through what he had been told an hour before, talked about how much my father
enjoyed his work
(Did
he? we wondered, having no idea one way or the other), and how much he enjoyed golf (he did, we knew that much). Then Bill got up. He was dressed well; he knew how to wear suits. He made some jokes, bantered brightly, a little too brightly, perhaps, a little too a-few-jokes-to-warm-up-the-crowd (he was at the time doing a lot of public speaking). Beth and I nudged my mother a few times in solidarity, embarrassed further, always looking for fun at his expense, mocking the leavened earnestness. And then we filed out, everyone watching our mother and her slow careful steps, she smiling to all, happy to see everyone, all these people she hadn
’
t seen in so long. We milled a little in the foyer, and then told everyone that we
’
d be having a little party at home, we had so much food people had brought by, thanks by the way, if anyone wanted to come by.

Many came, my mother
’
s friends, brother
’
s, sister
’
s, my friends from high school and college, home for Thanksgiving, and with everyone there and it dark out and winter, I spent much of the time trying to convert what was a sort of dour affair into something fun. I hinted that someone should get some beer—
Someone should get a case, man,
I whispered to Steve, a college friend—but no one did. I thought we should be getting drunk, not out of misery or whatever, but just—it was a party, right?

Bill was out from D.C. with the girlfriend we didn
’
t like. Kirsten got jealous because Marny, an old girlfriend of mine, was there. Sitting in the family room, we tried to play Trivial Pursuit, still dressed in jackets and ties, but it wasn
’
t much fun, especially without the beer. Toph played Sega in the basement with a friend. My mother sat in the kitchen while her old volleyball friends stood around her, drinking wine, laughing loudly.

Les came by. He was the only friend of our father
’
s who we actually knew, who we had ever really heard anything about. Years ago, they had been at the same downtown law firm, and even after they each left and went elsewhere they still commuted into
Chicago together occasionally. As Les and his wife were gathering their coats and scarves to leave, Beth and I met him at the door, thanked him. Les, a kind and funny man, meandered into talking about my father
’
s driving.

“
He was the best driver I
’
ve ever seen,
”
said Les, marveling.
“
So smooth, so in control. He was incredible. He would see three, four moves ahead, would drive with a only few fingers on the wheel.
”

Beth and I were eating it up. We had never heard anything about our father, knew nothing about him outside of what we
’
d seen ourselves. We asked Les for more, anything. He told us how our father used to call Toph the caboose.

“
Yeah, I didn
’
t even know his name for a long time,
”
Les said, shaking his shoulders into his coat.
“
Always
‘
the caboose.
’”

Les was great, so great. We had never heard this term. It was not used in the house, not once. I pictured my father saying it, pictured him and Les at a restaurant off Wacker, him telling Les jokes about Stosh and Jon, the two Polish fishermen. We wanted Les to stay. I wanted Les to tell me what my father thought about me, about us, the rest of us, if he knew he was in trouble, if he had given up (why had he given up?). And Les, why was he still going to work, a few days before he expired? Did you know that, Les? That he was at work four days before? When did you last talk to him, Les? Did he know? What did he know? Did he tell you? What did he say about all this?

We ask Les if he
’
ll come for dinner sometime. He says yes, of course. Just call, whenever.

I did not know that the last time I saw my father would be the last time I would see my father. He was in intensive care. I had come up from college to visit, but because it had been so soon after his diagnosis, I didn
’
t make much of it. He was expected to undergo some tests and treatment, get his strength back, and return home in a few days. I had come to the hospital with my mother, Beth, and Toph. The door to my father
’
s room was closed. We
pushed it open, heavy, and inside he was smoking. In intensive care. The windows were closed and the haze was thick, the stench unbelievable, and in the midst of it all was my father, looking happy to see us.

No one talked much. We stayed for maybe ten minutes, huddled on the far side of the room, attempting as best we could to stay away from the smoke. Toph was hiding behind me. Two green lights on the machine next to my father blinked, alternately, on, off, on, off. A red light stayed steady, red.

My father was reclining on the bed, propped against two pillows. His legs were crossed casually, and he had his hands clasped behind his head. He was grinning like he had won the biggest award there ever was.

After a night in the emergency room and after a day in intensive care, she is in a good room, a huge room with huge windows.

“
This is the death room,
”
Beth says.
“
Look, they give you all this space, room for relatives, room to sleep...
”

There is another bed in the room, a big couch that folds out, and we are all in the bed, fully dressed. I forgot to change my pants before we left the house, and the stain from the spill is brown, with black edges. It is late. Mom is asleep. Toph is asleep. The foldout bed is not comfortable. The metal bars under the mattress dig.

A light above her bed is kept on, creating a much-too-dramatic amber halo around her head. A machine behind her bed looks like an accordion, but is light blue. It is vertical and stretches and compresses, making a sucking sound. There is that sound, and the sound of her breathing, and the humming from other machines, and the humming from the heater, and Toph
’
s breathing, close and constant. Mom
’
s breaths are desperate, irregular.

“
Toph snores,
”
Beth says.

“
I know,
”
I say.

“
Are kids supposed to snore?
”
“
I don
’
t know.
”

“
Listen to her breathing. It
’
s so uneven. It takes so long for every breath.
”

“
It
’
s terrifying.
”

“
Yeah. It
’
s like twenty seconds sometimes.
”

“
It
’
s fucking nuts.
”

“
Toph kicks in his sleep.
”

“
I know.
”

“
Look at him. Out cold.
”

“
I know.
”

“
He needs a haircut.
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
Nice room.
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
No TV, though.
”

“
Yeah, that
’
s weird.
”

After most of the guests left, Kirsten and I had gone into my parents
’
bathroom. The bed would squeak, and we didn
’
t really want to sleep there anyway, the way it smelled, like my father, the pillows and walls soaked in it, the gray smell of smoke. The only reason any of us ever went in there was either to steal change from his dresser or to go through their window to get onto the roof— you had to go through their window to get to the roof. Everyone in the house was asleep, downstairs and in the various bedrooms, and we were in my parents
’
walk-in closet. We brought blankets and a pillow into the carpeted area between the wardrobe and the shower, and spread the blanket on the ground, in front of the mirrored sliding closet doors.

“
This is weird,
”
Kirsten said. Kirsten and I met in college, had dated for many months, and for a long time we were tentative—we liked each other a great deal but I expected someone so normal and sweet-looking to find me out soon enough—until one weekend she came home with me, and we went to the lake, and I told her my mother was sick, had been given time parameters, and she told me that that was weird, because her mother had a brain tumor. I had known that her father had disappeared when she was young, that she had been working, year-round, since she was fourteen, I knew she was strong but then there were these new words coming from her face, these small shadowy words. From then on we were more serious.

“
Too weird,
”
she said.

“
No, this is good,
”
I said, undressing her.

Everywhere people were sleeping—my mother in Beth
’
s room, my friend Kim on the living room couch, my friend Brooke on the family room couch, Beth in my old room, Bill in the basement, Toph in his room.

We were quiet. There was nothing left of anything.

Beth remembers first, with a gasp, in the middle of the night. We had been vaguely conscious of it, in recent days, but then we had forgotten, until just now, at 3:21 a.m., that tomorrow—today—is her birthday.

“
Shit.
”

“
Shh.
”

“
He can
’
t hear. He
’
s asleep.
”

“
What should we do?
”

“
There
’
s a gift shop.
”

She will not know that we had almost forgotten.

“
Yeah. Balloons.
”

“
Flowers.
”

“
Sign Bill
’
s name.
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
Maybe a stuffed animal.
”
“
God, it
’
s all so gift-shoppy.
”
“
What else can we do?
”
“
Ow!
”
“
What?
”

“
Toph just kicked me.
”

“
He turns in his sleep. A hundred eighty degrees.
”
“
Hear that?
”
“
What?
”
“
Listen!
”
“
What?
”

“
Shhh! She hasn
’
t breathed.
”
“
How long?
”
“
Seems like forever.
”
“
Fuck.
”

“
Wait. There she goes.
”
“
God that
’
s weird.
”
“
It
’
s terrible.
”