A Man Named Dave

asked.
    “Come on, Steve, think about it. Who do you think called my brother Ron and Mrs Turnbough?” I returned.
    Steve paused, then switched the focus off of Mother’s total lack of compassion. “Well, right now, since you’re the only relative available, you need to be thinking about your father’s arrangements.”
    I still refused to admit I could be losing Father. “So … what can I do?” I asked. I somehow wanted to uncover something, anything that the staff had forgotten or overlooked which might be a cure to Father’s disease. Everything was hitting me at once. “So! Why doesn’t he look at me? Does he know, I mean, is he capable of knowing I’m even here?”
    Steve sighed as if growing tired of my endless stream of questions. “For the most part, it’s fifty-fifty at best. He seems more coherent in the morning but, for the most part, no more than a few minutes at a time. He’s at the stage when he drifts off quite a bit. Part of the reason is due to his meds. Again, this is all normal for his condition.”
    The more the nurse talked, the more I began to feel a crushing weight bearing down on my shoulders. My mouth hung open as I stared upward at Steve.
    “I know it’s a lot to deal with,” he stated, shaking his head, “but first things first. Spend time with your father. That’s priority one. I can walk you through the paperwork and all the other things you need to do when the time comes. For now, just spend time with your dad.”
    “But … I, ah, I don’t know what to say,” I replied. “I mean, he doesn’t even know that I’m with him.”
    “Well, David, he’s been in seclusion for nearly the entire time since he checked in. Your father doesn’t show it, but he’s scared. He knows he’s not going to make it. Anything you can do would mean the world to him. He’s all alone in there.” Steve gently scolded, “You have to do this! Just … just reminisce about all those good times you spent together. Keep him ‘up’. He’ll know.”
    Yeah, all those good times, I said mockingly to myself.
    I thanked Steve for the umpteenth time, while he assured me that he would stay in close contact. But even as I reluctantly returned to Father’s room, I somehow believed that my dad would miraculously pull through.
    As I cautiously reentered the Lysol-scented room, Mrs Turnbough turned and flashed me a bright smile. “Your father and I are having a nice chat. I’m just telling him what a fine young man you’ve become,” she said as she patted Father’s hand.
    “Oh, my God! He can talk?” I nearly screeched.
    “Oh, you don’t need to blabber away to hold a conversation, right, Mr Pelzer?” Alice returned in a smooth tone, as she continued to smile at Father. “I’m gonna leave you two dashing gents alone for now.” She laid down Father’s hand and eased out of the room.
    Not knowing what to say or do, I felt paralyzed. For the first time in nearly two years, I finally had the chance to be with my father. As I stared at him, I suddenly realized I knew nothing about him. As long as I could remember, my visits with Father had probably amounted to less than ten, maybe twenty hours together, so now I wondered, had I been caught up over the last few years craving to love Dad, hoping he may love me in return? As a child, I so badly wanted to be with him, but watching Father’s body writhe as he struggled to breathe, I so desperately wanted to flee. Without warning tears began to swell in my eyes. “I, ah … I tried to write. I mean, I wrote … but I wasn’t sure of your address.” I shook my head, knowing I sounded like a complete idiot, but I stammered on. “I got your letter when I was stationed at the base in Colorado. I didn’t – I mean, I couldn’t find your address. I’m sorry. I truly am. I didn’t know. I would have come sooner. I just didn’t know.”
    I turned away to compose myself. The last thing I wanted was to lose it in front of my father. My focus had to be his needs rather than my sorrow. After a few minutes of silence, I remembered Steve’s advice about keeping Father uplifted. Out of nowhere, a memory of Father and me, when I was a preschooler, sprang from my mind. I sat on Father’s bed while tucking the sheet under his frail back. “You may not remember,” I began, “but when I was four, maybe five, all of us went to the Russian River … Early one evening, after dinner, you stepped out for a walk, and I tagged along behind you …” The more I spoke, the more that fragment of time crystallized. “I snuck out and