May We Be Forgiven

tomato soup and hospitals, and so I simply leave it.
    A young woman comes into the room. “Papa?”
    “You have the wrong room.”
    “No,” she says, “I’ve been waiting. I was here and you were gone. I’m here for Bed A, but there’s no one in Bed A.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Did he go home?”
    I notice she is wearing a red scarf. “Where did you get that scarf?”
    “It was a gift from my mother—why?”
    Why do I have to be the one?
    “He died,” I say.
    “When?”
    “Last night.”
    “Can you tell me about him?” she says. “We never actually met.”
    “There was something your father wanted me to tell you.” I take out the sheets of paper and attempt to decode my marks, filling in blank spots with fragments I remember but couldn’t write down fast enough.
    “My mother died two years ago. In her papers were letters from him. I wrote and he never answered, until very recently.”
    “He was lovely,” I say. “One hell of an interesting guy. Complex and very human, with all that entails. I’m sure he felt bad about whatever happened, and no doubt it was more complex than we’ll ever know.”
    A priest comes into the room. “I got a call that someone had a confession to make.”
    “He died,” I say. “Do you have a rabbi?”
    He pulls a yarmulke out of his pocket and puts it on his head.
    I find it confusing, the yarmulke and the collar.
    In the midst of all this, the doctor comes in. “How are we doing, Mr. …” He pauses to check the name on my chart. “… Silver.”
    “Have we met before?” I ask.
    “No,” he says.
    The young woman stands, excusing herself. “It’ll be a few minutes,” I explain, “the doctors never stay long.”
    “I’ll get a coffee and come back,” she says, leaving.
    “There’s just one of us now,” I tell the doctor, “the other guy died.”
    “Sometimes it can’t be helped,” the doctor says. “But you’re okay. You’ll be going home soon. Are there any questions?”
    “Can I fuck?”
    There’s a loud pause.
    “I worry that taking my brother’s Viagra is what caused this ‘incident.’”
    “How so?”
    “I was taking a good amount of the stuff and, well, I worry I blew a fuse, so to speak.”
    “I don’t think so, but it’s an interesting idea. I’ll make a note of it.”
    “And so can I fuck? Can I take Viagra? Or Levitra, or whatever the hell comes next?”
    “I’d give it a rest,” the doctor says.
    “How long of a rest?”
    “Let’s say, if you are able to get an erection on your own, with no assistance, fine, but if you get a headache or feel ill, stop. If you can’t get an erection, which you may not be able to after an event such as this—not permanently, but for the short term—I’d lay off the hard stuff—no pun intended. It’s about how much risk you’re willing to tolerate. I’ve known men who after an event like this were terrified, they couldn’t even think of trying to have sex. Others try again right here in the hospital—they say it’s a ‘safe’ environment, but you didn’t hear that from me. That’s off the record, of course.”
    “Of course,” I say. “And of course the question is hypothetical. The truth is, I’m terrified, I’m suddenly terrified of everything. I can’t imagine taking the pills again, I can’t imagine ever wanting to have sex.”
    “That’s more like it,” the doctor says. “Men need to stop feeling pressure to perform. Let yourself off the hook.”
    “What I really want to know,” I say, trying again, “is was this it or was this just a warning? Is there more to come? Should I prepare myself for the worst?”
    “We make no promises,” the doctor says, shaking his head. “Your arteries look good, there’s no hidden clot waiting to break off and play marble run through your veins. You’re in good shape for the shape you’re in. I expect you’ll make a full recovery, you’ll be back to work next week. Gotta go,” he says, checking his watch.

    T he girl comes back, coffee in hand.
    “You’re tired,” she says, looking at me kindly.
    “Yes.”
    “It’s been a difficult time,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.
    “Yes,” I say. How is it that she found her father on the day after he died—where was she yesterday?

    I think of Nathaniel and Ashley, wondering where I left off, if they’re curious why they haven’t heard from me, if they’re all right. I’d call them right now, before I forget, but