One Last Thing Before I Go (6 page)

CHAPT
ER 14

T
he doctor who tells him he is going to die is the same man who will be marrying his ex-wife in two and a half weeks, which is either poetically just, or at least the sort of karmic fart that is emblematic of his life these days.

Rich Hastings is a tall, thin man, with a narrow face and bushy eyebrows that offset his receding hairline and make him look like a thoughtful owl. He is the one who bought Casey her car and will be paying her college tuition. He has not only replaced Silver as husband and father to his own family, but clearly fills that role better than Silver ever could. And yet Silver finds it impossible to dislike him, and not for lack of trying. He has expended no small amount of energy trying to cultivate a healthy disdain for Rich. But there is just something too innocent about him, something that defies cynicism. Also, he just seems to like Silver so damn much, and that is a rare trait indeed. And even now, as Rich tells him he is going to die, Silver can’t find it in himself to resent him.

“You have an aortic dissection,” Rich says, his voice low and grave.

“I don’t know what that means.” Silver’s ability to speak has returned, although the words still sound a bit funny to him, alien, hanging in the air until they lose their meaning.

Rich holds up his scans, not so much to show him the colorful nonsense as to hide behind it.

“There’s a tear in the inner wall of your aorta.”

“Well, that can’t be good.”

“It’s not.” Rich puts down the papers. “Your blood rushes into the tear, filling the wall, causing the layers of your aorta to separate and expand. This is also called a dissecting aneurysm.”

“Don’t people die of aneurysms?”

“Yes, they do. But you caught a break here. The TIA tipped off the ER doctors, who did an MRI and found the dissection.”

“Rich.”

“Yes?”

“You have to stop speaking doctor.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Silver.” And he is. The remorse cuts deep furrows in his wide forehead, making his eyebrows flex like caterpillars. When Casey was little, Silver would read a book to her about a caterpillar. The caterpillar would eat its way through fruits and vegetables and, ultimately, through the hard pages of the book. Casey found it hysterical. Silver never really got it, but he loved the unfettered way she laughed.

“A TIA is a transient ischemic attack. A ministroke. It’s why you briefly lost the ability to speak.”

“Oh.”

“The blood running into the tear has distended your aorta, which can sometimes cause small clots to form. When those clots break off and get up into your brain, they can impair various functions.”

Silver takes a minute to absorb this news. He imagines his aorta, like an unspooled garden hose, bent and torn. It feels right to him.

“So, am I going to die?”

“No!” Rich says emphatically. He gets to his feet. “We caught this in time. You need emergency surgery, but when we’re done you’ll be good as new.”

“Just like that.”

“Well, I don’t mean to minimize the risks of surgery, but you’re young and healthy—”

“I have an aneurysm. I just had a ministroke. I don’t feel healthy.”

“Well, yes, obviously. What I meant was, you’re a perfect candidate for the surgery. I’d like to operate first thing tomorrow morning.”

“You’d be the one operating?”

“Yes.” He considers Silver for a moment. “Would that be an issue for you? If it is, I could refer—”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“If I was having the surgery. Which I’m not.”

That shocks Rich, almost as much as it shocks him. Rich’s eyes grow wide with concern. Rich is a good person. Silver would like to punch him.

“Silver, without this surgery, you will die.”

“When?”

“That’s impossible to predict. But your aorta will ultimately rupture, I guarantee it.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I’m smarter than I look.”

Rich looks around the room, at a loss. Without realizing it, he turns in a complete circle, looking for an answer. He wasn’t on call today. He has come in for this.

“You have a daughter, Silver.”

“And she has you.”

Only when he sees Rich shake his head sadly does Silver realize he said it out loud. There is something about being around nice guys that brings out the asshole in him.

“I’m sorry, Rich. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Rich nods, accepting the apology. “Listen,” he says. But Silver can’t. He knows Rich is still talking, but his words are congealing into gibberish and fading to background noise. All he can hear is the ringing in his ears, scrambling his brain, and he closes his eyes and disappears into the soft angry noise.

* * *

He loved a girl named Emily. A lifeguard. She had wavy dark hair that always looked like she’d just stepped out of a light wind, and the first time they kissed it happened like this. They were in his car, hugging good-night. They had already established a manifesto of reasons why they could not get involved, reasons based largely on geography and chronology that they’d already talked to death. So she kissed his temple, and he kissed her cheek, and then they hugged some more. He could feel her shaking, could feel her smooth face moving against his rougher one, her fingers moving in his hair, their lips sliding along skin until their searching mouths could feign surprise at stumbling upon each other. And then, with gasps and groans, they surrendered to the hot wetness of their bad idea. There were reasons they could never be together, insurmountable obstacles he can’t recall anymore, but all they could have were those sweet, urgent, endless kisses, night after night, tormenting him with a perfect, unsullied love he would never be allowed to keep.

CHAPTER
15

H
e is vaguely aware, over the next few hours, of the quiet bustle of a small crowd swelling and dispersing in the hospital room. His parents are there, perched against the windowsill, quietly watching, as if from the balcony seats. His perfect brother, Chuck, three years younger, moves in and out of the room, distributing snacks and refreshing his parents’ coffee. Denise stands out in the hall talking on her cell phone, maybe dealing with final wedding arrangements. And Casey sits alone in the corner, curled up into the only available chair, one leg slung haphazardly over the armrest. She is staring sullenly at him with red eyes and a poker face. He feels the need to apologize to her for something, but then, isn’t that how he always feels when he sees her? Still, the general sense he gets is that he has pissed everyone off. Again.

“He’s up,” Casey says.

Ruben and Elaine perk up. Chuck puts down the packaged sandwich he was about to eat. “Hey,” he says. “We were worried about you.”

“Why are you here?” Silver says.

Chuck looks concerned. “You’re in the hospital,” he says, slow and loud, like Silver is an elderly man.

“I know that,” Silver says. “I’m just wondering why you’re here.”

“You’re my brother,” Chuck says.

Silver shrugs. “We’re not really that close.”

Chuck looks instantly offended, and Silver wonders to himself why he just said that. But before he can think it through, Denise comes back into the room with Rich in tow. She looks good, Denise, in her simple black sweater and jeans. Even in his benumbed state, he feels a pang, a dull blade scraping him somewhere soft.

“So,” she says sternly. “Are you with us, Silver?”

Something is different. He can’t isolate it, but everything feels fresher, more immediate. The sound of Denise’s voice, the hospital smells, the hum emanating from the fluorescent lights in the fixture above his bed.

“I could use some water,” he says.

“You could use some surgery,” Denise says. “Tomorrow morning, at eight. I’ve canceled our dinner plans so that Rich can get a good night’s sleep.”

“I’ll be in top form,” Rich says with a smile.

“That was nice of you.” Denise is tan, and her skin seems to be glowing in the stark whiteness of the room. Her teeth look whiter than before, and he can’t tell if it’s the contrast to her tanned skin, or if she maybe had them whitened in anticipation of new wedding photos.

“So, you’ll have the surgery?” his mother says.

“No.”

Denise snorts and shakes her head, on behalf of the room. “You’re being an asshole, Silver.” To the untrained ear, she might sound pissed, but he can hear the concern in her voice, the residual love that still pisses her off and pathetically warms him.

Casey brings him a plastic cup of ice water. He drinks it down in two greedy gulps and then savors the feeling of a few smaller ice cubes melting against his tongue. He has never really appreciated the way things can melt in your mouth, effortlessly altering states with the heat of your tongue.

He looks at Denise. “Did you have your teeth whitened?”

“What?” she says, blushing through her tan.

Her teeth are white, her skin is tan, and her eyes are bluer than they are in his memories. She’s beautiful in a way that hurts.

He notices that everyone in the room is staring at him, their expressions a mix of chagrin and concern, as if they can hear what he was thinking, and that’s when he understands that he has said these things out loud.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Silver?’

“I have an aortic dissection.”

“No, I mean, why are you saying these things?”

Rich clears his throat. Then he steps over and shines a penlight into Silver’s eyes. “He may be having a TIA.”

“That’s a ministroke,” Silver explains to Casey, who is standing beside the bed, looking worried. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m fine.”

“You’re so not fine.” Casey.

“Talk some sense into him.” Elaine.

“You need this surgery, Silver.” Rich.

Silver looks at Denise, who has fallen strangely silent. “I miss having sex with you. The way you would kiss me after you came.”

“Holy shit!” Casey.

“Jesus Christ, Silver!” Denise.

“He can’t help it.” Rich.

“I always figured we’d end up back together.” Silver.

“Dad, stop!” Casey says, her eyes filling with tears.

He doesn’t know why he’s saying these terrible things. Or why it is they’re so terrible. Something is different. On some level, he knows he’ll regret the things he’s said; he may already be regretting them somewhere, but something has changed, he doesn’t know what it is, and he’s powerless against it.

“I’m sorry, Case. I’m sorry for everything. I was a shitty father—”

“Just stop talking!”

“Can’t you give him a shot?” Denise.

“His vitals are stable. There’s no reason to sedate him.” Rich.

“Are you hearing him?!” Denise.

Silver looks at Casey, and now he can feel his own hot tears, running down his face. “I wasn’t there for you, and you needed me to be. I wanted to be, but seeing you just hurt so much. I would look at you, and I would just want to be back there, and I couldn’t be back there, so it just got easier to stay away.”

“Silver, please . . .”

“And now you’re all grown up, and my little girl is gone.”

“I’m still here.”

“And now you’re pregnant.”

Casey closes her eyes, mortified. “Fuck, Dad.”

She called me Dad, he thinks.

“What?” Denise.

There is a moment of stunned, blessed silence, and then the room explodes.

* * *

For a while there is a good deal of crying and yelling, worthless questions and regrettable responses that lead to more yelling. Then, during an accidental lull, Ruben clears his throat in a way that immediately commands attention; you spend enough time up on the pulpit, you develop these tricks. Within moments, he has ushered everyone out of the room and into the hall. He closes the door and pulls the chair over to Silver’s bed, then fixes his son with a grave smile, rubbing his small black yarmulke back and forth across his head in a motion so familiar it instantly brings a lump to Silver’s dry throat. Then he nods a few times, to Silver, to God himself, maybe.

“So,” he says, offering up a strained smile. “At least there’s no drama.”

“It’s all my fault.”

“You share some measure of responsibility, yes. But I’d hardly say it’s all your fault.”

“Everything I’ve ever had, everything I touch . . .” Silver can’t finish the thought. Something about talking to his father is making him emotional.

“They have shrinks upstairs, you know.”

“Shit, Dad.”

“I’m just saying. You’re struggling with a major decision to make here, it might help to talk it out with someone.”

“I’m not struggling. I’ve already made the decision.”

“OK then. I’m struggling with your decision.”

“Then maybe you should talk to someone.”

He smiles. Then he looks at his son, really looks at him, the way people almost never look at each other, with naked love and concern, the way a real father looks at his child. Silver sees the burst capillaries tracking across his father’s eyes, the folds of tired skin hanging off his jaw, and he can sense the deep weariness in him. Fifty years in the God business. He has seen some shit. And now this.

“Do you want to die?” Ruben asks, not challenging, just wanting to know.

“No. Not really.”

“So what then?”

He doesn’t want to answer, but he hears the words come anyway. “I’m just not sure I want to live.”

Ruben closes his eyes as he absorbs this, then pats his son’s leg as he stands. “Fair enough,” he says. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He moves slowly toward the door, then turns back around. “If my vote counts, I just want to be on record as saying you should have the surgery.”

Silver watches him leave, feeling a fresh wave of shame and guilt wash over him. He is a good man and a good father, and I am neither, Silver thinks, wondering, not for the first time, what sort of quiet death his father dies every time he looks at him.

* * *

For the record, he only ever attempted suicide once. And it wasn’t really an attempt, as far as these things go, more of a flirtation really, a brief dalliance with the concept. This was not long after Denise had kicked him out, and a year or so after Pat had quit the Bent Daisies and gone on to fame and fortune without them. He had no family, no home, no money, and in desperation had just crossed a line he swore he would never cross, and played a bar mitzvah with the Scott Key Orchestra. During the band’s scheduled breaks, he drank heavily from the open bar, and then somewhere between the Electric Slide and the reprehensible butchering of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” it became clear to him that he had fucked up his life beyond repair.

He considered jumping from a bridge or slitting his wrists, but neither method seemed foolproof, and both carried the risk of painful failure, and he’d had just about enough of that, thank you very much. And even if he owned a gun, he wouldn’t have trusted himself with it.

So, that night, after the gig, he sat on the floor of his still unfurnished apartment, put the Bent Daisies on his iPod, and began washing down over-the-counter sleeping pills with a half-finished bottle of Hennessy. At some point, he heard himself singing along loudly to “Rest in Pieces,” and that’s the last thing he remembered until he woke up thirty hours later, his face glued to the wood floor with congealed puke that had hardened like cement. When he finally managed to sit up, he discovered two things: he had shit his pants while he slept, and he had lost the urge to kill himself. It took him a half hour to crawl to the bathroom and get into a shower. Suicide is difficult, but it’s nothing compared to the morning after.

* * *

You lie in a hospital bed for long enough, you start to feel unqualified to walk. Not being qualified for much else, he’s not about to let that one go. The linoleum floor is jarringly cold against the soles of his feet, but the air-conditioning feels like a cool breeze on his thighs and ass, exposed where the ends of his flimsy hospital gown don’t quite meet. He stands still for a moment, taking stock. Everything feels creaky, but no more than it does when he climbs out of his own bed every morning.

His blood catches him off guard by spurting out of his wrist in a graceful arc when he pulls out the IV needle, painting a small red slash across his hospital gown before he can clamp his other hand onto the hole. Who knew there was so much life in him? He pulls a piece of gauze from a drawer and presses it against his wrist. After a moment, it sticks there.

He pokes his head out of the room and peers down the corridor. They are all gathered in a waiting area at the end of the hall, sitting and standing around two long couches and an easy chair. His perfect brother Chuck’s perfect wife, Ruby, has arrived, and is now waiting on Elaine as if there’s an inheritance at stake. It’s an ungenerous thought. Ruby has never been anything but kind to him, and it’s not her fault that kindness is just a different category of poison to him.

“The gang’s all here, huh?”

“Hey, Jack.”

He has come up quietly behind Silver, waiting to be noticed, a favorite maneuver of his. “What a clusterfuck.”

They look down the hall at Silver’s ex-wife and her fiancé, his pregnant daughter, his perfect brother and sister-in-law, and his aging parents. They are all here because of him, but they all seem to be getting along just fine without him. History has shown that people generally do.

“Oliver’s parking the car,” Jack says.

“Tell him to keep it running.”

Jack raises his eyebrows and looks Silver over in his hospital gown.

“Are we cutting out?”

“We are.”

“Is that wise?”

“No.”

Jack shakes his head, then smiles and pulls out his cell phone. “Cool.”