The Bookie's Daughter (38 page)

“No, the boys in blue don’t seem to be interested this year.” He sounded almost wistful.

“It’s okay, Dad.” My sympathy was tinged with sarcasm. “I’m sure there is a cop out there who wants the privilege of slapping his cuffs on you. Cheer up. You’ll be arrested before you know it.”

“Ha! You’re a smartass just like your mother!”

“Dad! Since when did you take up swearing? I just might have to get a bar of soap and wash your mouth out when we get back!” I screamed, with feigned indignity.

“Miss Big Shot, with her new car. Not big enough to wash my mouth out, but I’d like to see you try!” After teasing me, he issued an order. “Get me back to the store. I have business to attend to. Come get me about seven and we’ll go out to dinner.”

I dropped him off and headed home, but his unsettling remarks kept running through my mind. I arrived early that evening and found my mother in the family apartment. I filled her in on my earlier conversation with my father and asked if she knew of anything that should cause us worry. She was a bit surprised by his strange utterance, but insisted that he was acting normal.

Al and I drove into Pittsburgh and had dinner at a restaurant atop scenic Mount Washington. After a leisurely meal, we took a short stroll along Grandview Avenue, taking in the stunning view of the city and rivers below from atop one of the mushroom-shaped overlook decks that, in the evening light, appeared to grow organically out of the mountainside. Pushing aside my fears about my father’s health, I enjoyed the evening and was grateful to find nothing to support my earlier anxieties. He seemed his old self and was in fact in good spirits, excited about chasing a shipment of fireworks that had come in from China. They were, he assured me, the most beautiful and powerful he had ever seen. I marveled at his boyish glee and wondered once again about the power the explosive beauties held over him.

Our drive home was dominated by one of his famous “windshield” speeches, which as usual, centered around my mother. I knew the speech from heart but took new interest when he began to talk about how he worried that my mother’s reluctance to “emotionally connect” might prove troublesome for our relationship in the future. “You know your mother had a difficult childhood and that’s why she can’t show how much she loves you. I worry that you two will drift apart when I’m no longer around. She loves you in her own way. You have to see that.” There was desperation in his voice.

The direction our conversation was taking was deeply unsettling. “Dad, that is the second time today that you have talked about dying. What is going on?”

“Life is full of surprises. That’s all I’m saying. If I go before her, who will be the buffer between you two? You have to make allowances for her. Okay?”

“Dad, I love Mom but she is so difficult to be around. She constantly throws barbs at me. She’s exhausting.” I sighed. Then I inquired firmly, “You need to tell me the truth. What’s going on with your health?”

“Daddy’s been sick for years, you know that. But I promise, I’m not hiding anything. Just feeling tired lately.”

“Well, maybe you should get some rest and not make the run tonight. Your sleeping pattern is abysmal. You spend too much time playing cards and chasing excitement. Get some rest and see a doctor,” I implored. “Promise me you will make an appointment to see the doctor?”

He agreed reluctantly. “Okay, I will but not until the Fourth is over. But seriously, I’m feeling fine.”

By the time we reached the store, I had a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. The feeling intensified a few weeks later, on the morning of July 2, when my mother called and asked me to come to the store as soon as possible. I arrived on the heels of my sister, who had also been summoned. We found Bonnie standing in the door to the store, a look of concern written on her face. “Now don’t freak out, but I think there is something wrong with your father. I need you to talk to him and see what you think. I may need you both to help convince him to go to the doctors.”

Vanessa and I entered the store and found my father at his post behind the counter. “Hey, girls! What brings you here so early on a Saturday morning?” There was a subtle slur in his words. Not wanting him to know Bonnie had called us, we made an excuse and sat down for an investigative chat. A few sentences later, we were sure that he was having trouble speaking.

“Dad,” Vanessa asked, “are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I lost a fight with the cooler door yesterday and got a nasty bump on my head. But other than that, I’m fine,” he replied, seemingly unconcerned.

“Dad, you’re slurring your words,” I explained as I inspected his forehead, which sported a large, red bump. “How did you do this?”

“The cooler door was loose and when I grabbed it to put it back on its tracks, it came off completely and slammed into my head. It’s nothing.” He waved me away.

“Dad, we’re taking you to the hospital right now!” Vanessa declared loudly.

“No, you’re not. I’m fine,” he insisted, looking into the concerned faces of his daughters. “It’s just a bump. I’m slurring my words because I didn’t get any sleep. I’ve had a headache all night. Seriously, I’m okay.”

In unison, Vanessa and I demanded again that he go to the hospital. Again, he refused but this time gave the real reason. “I’ll go to the doctors after the Fourth. I’m not missing the parade and fireworks. Besides, I have a lot to do in the next two days. After the Fourth, if I’m still feeling tired, I’ll go. But not before.”

Speaking to Bonnie outside, we decided that pressing the issue was pointless. He would not budge and we knew it. If we called an ambulance, he would become irate. Our hands were tied. My mother assured us she would keep a close eye on him and sent us on our way. She called later that afternoon and gave us good news. He was doing much better and his speech was back to normal. I stopped in to see him that evening and found him in good spirits. Despite his improved speech, I again pressed him to see a doctor. He agreed but “not until after the Fourth.”

Checking on him the next morning, I found all the alarming signs of the day before had vanished. He was in a jovial mood, excited about the celebration scheduled for the next day. We went to breakfast and he insisted I come back the following day and watch the parade with him. Although I had not planned on attending, I agreed.

The Fourth of July dawned brightly in Jeannette. Clay Avenue was in a pre-parade frenzy as I made my way to the family store. I found my father holding court, having opened up the store at seven that morning. He was enjoying himself, visiting with friends and family who came to see Jeannette’s multi-hour parade. Vanessa appeared shortly afterwards and the Abraham family watched the parade from the store steps. Except for the worry over our father’s health, it was a blissful day. That evening the whole family attended a private party in a neighboring town. The highlight of the evening was a massive fireworks display, acquired, of course, by Big Al.

By the end of the night, the fields were enveloped with the familiar smell of spent fireworks. I remember standing back from the crowd, watching the joy on the faces of the children and my imposing, childlike father. Al clapped with delight at the explosions, as the colorful sparks shot across the sky. Almost thirty years later, I can still see his silhouette as he leaned against a tree, smoke swirling around his legs, and watched as the small manmade universes shudder to their explosive deaths, painting the sky with their ephemeral beauty.

The Fourth of July celebrations now over, Vanessa and I resumed our campaign to get my father to the doctor’s office. He agreed and made an appointment for the morning of July 6, and reported back that the doctor, although concerned with his usual high sugar levels, otherwise gave him a good report. Although relieved at the news, I could not shake the apprehension that had settled in the pit of my stomach. The next day, still consumed with worry, I stopped by the store on my way home from work and found that my father was spending the day in Pittsburgh with Vanessa. Knowing he was in good hands with my sister, I returned to my apartment. I fell into a troubled sleep, awaking with a start around eight pm. In a sleepy daze, I grabbed my keys and headed to the store. My unease grew when I found the store closed. Parking my car on the Avenue, I went to the family apartment and found my father watching television. “Dad, what’s going on? The store’s closed. Where’s Mom?”

“It was a slow night so we closed up early. Your mother went to the mall with a friend. I had a long day in Pittsburgh with Vanessa and needed to catch some sleep.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah, stop worrying. I’m just a little tired.”

“Okay. Tell Mom I stopped by. I’m going to head home. I’ll call you in the morning.”

Instead of turning to my left and leaving the apartment, I turned to the right and entered my mother’s room. I sat for a few minutes in the dark, trying to shake the anxious feeling that was consuming me. Chastising myself for allowing my silly fears to dictate my movements, I got up with the intention to leave but instead turned on the television and began flipping through the stations. A half hour later, I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Since leaving home the year before, this was the most time I had spent in the family apartment and although the ghosts of the past hung heavily around me, I could not bring myself to leave.

Walking back past my father’s door, I heard him calling to my mother. “Is that you, Bonnie?”

“No, Dad, it’s me.” I popped my head in his room, leaning against the doorframe and dipping my teabag.

“You came back?”

“No, I haven’t left. I’m watching television in Mom’s room.” My reluctance to leave was bewildering.

“You don’t have cable? You really need to demand a raise.” He was always a great teaser.

“I have cable. I just think I should stick around.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I have no idea why I’m here. I’ll leave when Mom gets home,” I decided aloud.

“Since you’re sticking around, how about you make yourself useful and get me a glass of water.” He handed me his empty glass.

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Aspirin. I must have pulled a muscle. My arm is aching.”

I returned with the aspirin and water. He asked me to sit and stay awhile. The request was not unusual as we had often spent many late evenings watching classic movies together. After about fifteen minutes, my father sat up, and began to rub his left arm.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“The pain in my arm is getting worse. Will you rub it for me?”

“Sure, Dad.” I responded, as I unbuttoned his nightshirt and began to rub his left shoulder and arm.

“Something’s wrong. It’s getting worse. I need to stand up.” I moved to help him up. He paced the floor for a few minutes and then returned to the bed. I assisted him in putting his nightshirt back on.

“Is it better?”

“Yeah, the pain is lessening. I’m fine,” he said, but I knew he was not. The slur was back.

“Dad, you’re slurring your words again. I’m going to call the ambulance. Stay on the bed. Don’t get up until I come back.” I ran for the phone in my mother’s bedroom. Dialing the ambulance service, I explained the situation and asked them to come immediately. I then called my sister and told her to come at once.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something’s wrong with Daddy. Come now. I have to get back to him.” I hurried back to my father’s room. “Dad, the ambulance is on its way. Is the pain getting worse?”

“Yeah, it’s getting bad again. I need to walk.”

“No, I don’t think you should get up.” I moved quickly toward the bed and tried to keep him from rising.

“This is bad. I need to get up.” He fought to rise to his feet.

“Please, Dad. Don’t get up,” I implored. I released my hold on him when he relaxed back into the bed. Realizing the door to the apartment was locked, I told him to stay put and ran to unlock the door. Leaving it wide open, I rushed back to my father’s room, relieved to find him still lying down. “The ambulance should be here shortly.”

“No, it’s too late,” he exclaimed, jumping from his bed with tears running down his face. He paced back and forth. “I still have things I need to do. I’m not ready yet. I need just a little more time.” He addressed an invisible entity above him.

Trying to calm him, I attempted to maneuver him toward the bed. “Dad, you have to get on the bed so the paramedics can treat you. They’re almost here. I can hear the sirens. Just hold on,” I pleaded, struggling to hold up his flagging body while steering him toward the bed.

As I inched him closer to the bed, he suddenly stood up straight, removing his weight from my shoulders, and howled in unimaginable pain. It was then that I noticed the blood pouring from his nose. Grabbing a shirt from the chair, I held it up to his nose just as he collapsed at the foot of the bed, pulling me onto the floor with him. Half pinned under his shoulders, I pulled his head onto my chest and tried to comfort him. His lips were moving, so I leaned over. “Om’ee,” he whispered, saying the word “mother” in Arabic, “I’m here…You came for me, Om’ee.” He spoke his last words to his deceased mother as he slipped into a coma.