Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
He narrows his eyes.
“Did you fall?” Mom gets to the point, pulling up a chair from one of the dining room tables.
A few residents remain in the room, picking at their food. One lady looks like she’s not breathing. Her plate’s untouched. And she’s asleep (I think) in her wheelchair with a floral blanket over her legs and skin so white it’s hard to imagine she has blood running through her veins.
“Why is your head bleeding?” Mom asks when Dad doesn’t answer.
He lifts his shaky hand to touch it, but I stop him. “Don’t mess with it.” I look around.
A lady in blue scrubs eyes me and steps away from her computer. She manufactures a smile on her way to us. “Your dad caused quite a commotion today,” she says.
“Oh?” I say, looking at his head.
“He wandered into the wrong room and fell. His catheter bag was on one side of the door, and he was on the other. I’m not sure how that even happened.” She holds out her hands as if they hold the world’s biggest mystery.
This place is understaffed. The employees are overworked, underpaid, and probably mentally and emotionally drained.
Still, this is my father, and I hate that something happened on their watch, and no one knows the details.
“Why does he have a catheter?” I ask.
“Because he’s lost so much weight, the diapers don’t fit him well enough to contain the waste. And it’s hard to transfer him from the bed to the toilet.”
“You mean he can’t walk?” I narrow my eyes.
“Correct,” she says.
“Then how did he wander into another room?”
Her courteous smile vanishes. “I’m not sure. I was helping another resident.”
I rub the back of my neck and inhale slowly.
“We’ve kept him out here to keep a close eye on him. It’s concussion protocol.”
My dad is terminally ill. We’re essentially counting the days until he dies. And they’re worried about a concussion?
“Thanks.” I muster a smile. “Can we take him to his room now?”
She looks at her watch. “Yeah. I’ll check on him after you leave.”
Mom unlocks his wheelchair brakes, then I push him toward his room. A lady sitting on the seat of her walker in the hallway reaches her hand toward Dad as we pass.
“Wish I could kiss your boo-boos,” she says.
Dad slowly reaches out his hand to touch hers. It’s a soft caress. Mom stiffens next to me with a look of horror on her face. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. She knows that, but I’m sure it still stings.
I pick up the pace to detach their hands.
“Are those your kids?” she calls.
“I’m his wife,” Mom says through gritted teeth, turning as though she’s going to pick a fight with a woman who can’t stand unassisted.
“He’s not himself,” I mumble, grabbing her arm to pull her toward his room.
His roommate smiles at me, pulling off his headphones. “Did you have a nice trip?” he asks while sitting up in his bed.
I’m not sure why Vincent is in here. He seems mentally sound. Sure, he uses a walker, but he walks faster than the nurses. I heard one of them call him Speedy.
“It was a nice trip. Thanks for asking,” I say, helping my dad into his bed.
Mom closes the curtain between the two beds. It’s not a sound barrier, but she must like the illusion of privacy. I nod for her to sit in Dad’s lift chair, but she crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head, standing by the door.
“What’s my name?” I ask Dad.
“William.”
I nod, removing his glasses. “Who’s that?” I point at Mom.
He squints. “Steffi.”
Again, I nod. “Is she your wife?”
“Yes,” he says as if it’s a ridiculous question.
I don’t know if his answer makes what happened in the hallway better or worse. From the scowl on my mom’s face, I’d say worse.
“Do you remember falling?” I straighten his covers over his legs.
“Yeah.” He nods slowly.
“They found you in another room. You’re not supposed to walk unassisted. You need to press this button to call for help.”
“I was going to see Jenny.”
Fuck. When I glance at Mom, she’s standing with her back to us, hands balled at her sides for a few seconds before she opens the door.
“Wait,” I say to her.
Her shoulders lift in a deep inhale. I know this is a lot. Maybe too much.
“Here.” I fish my Bronco key out of my pocket and wedge myself between her and the door since she refuses to look in my dad’s direction. There’s a tissue box next to me on the counter by the sink. I grab one and use it to wipe her tears. “He’s unwell,” I whisper. “Go home. You need a break from all of this. I’ll get a ride.”
She stares at her feet and sniffles while returning a tiny nod. I kiss the top of her head before stepping aside so she can leave. Before I sit in the chair, Dad drifts off to sleep.