May We Be Forgiven

can’t remember exactly where they are: what are the names of their schools?
    I’m guessing I should feel fortunate I haven’t forgotten them entirely.

    I n the middle of the afternoon, with no warning, I am released.
    “Okay, Mr. Silver, you are free to go,” the nurse says. I feel less like I’m being released than kicked out. “I had a stroke and you’re already sending me home?”
    “You lived, you get to go home, be happy. We have people sicker than you stacked up in the Emergency Room, waiting for a place to go. There’s a taxi waiting downstairs.”
    I don’t know how or why, but my pockets are loaded with cash—my roommate’s cash. I didn’t do this, but someone did—quite intentionally. I only discover it when I reach for my wallet and find wads of twenties. “It’s your lucky day, pal,” I tell the taxi driver, giving him two twenties for a twelve-dollar job.
    “I’m not going to ask,” he says.

    T he dog minder is gone, but has left a note: “Hope you’re feeling better. I’ll come by around 5 to walk Tessie. P. S. I’m also happy to keep working as needed—the card with my fees is below.” I glance at the card, which is decorated with paw prints. Fifteen dollars a walk, fifty dollars a night for sleepover—seems reasonable.
    I fall asleep on the sofa. The dog and cat curl around me. No one is paged overhead, no code red or blue, there’s no antiseptic smell, no hint of steamed broccoli, simply the silence of the house, the clink of the mail dropping through the slot, the comfort that Tessie is on duty. I am still sleeping when the pet friend comes at 5 p.m. He covers me with a blanket, walks the dog, and then tells me he’ll be back in the morning.
    “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say.
    “You don’t have to.”
    I nod; my eyelids feel heavy.
    “Until tomorrow,” he says.
    As it gets dark, a kind of cold fear sweeps through me. I turn on every light and the television and find myself wondering, how do I figure out what’s for dinner? I go into the kitchen, I open and close the refrigerator and then I go back to the sofa.
    Among my discharge papers is a sheet about Meals On Wheels. I call the number; they’re closed for the day, so I leave a message.
    Recalling a commercial for Domino’s Pizza thirty-minute delivery guarantee, I call, order pizza and a couple of Cokes.
    While I’m waiting for the pizza to arrive, someone calls back from Meals On Wheels.
    “Look,” she says, “your message sounded pathetic: you just got home from the hospital; you’re living at your brother’s house while he’s ‘away,’ whatever that means. But we’re not a turn-on/turn-off service like cable television, there’s a process, one must qualify for the program.”
    As she’s talking, something about the tone of her voice has me regretting the call. I tear the Meals On Wheels flyer into a thousand pieces. She goes on: “My point is,” she pauses, “the reason I called you back is that if you’ve got no food in the house I can drop a little something by.”
    “I’m fine, thank you,” I say, wanting to end our conversation.
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m positive.”
    “You know, there are other options for people with resources. A lot of the new diet plans offer home delivery: The Zone, Home Bistro, Smart Food, Carb Conscious. If you’re all right for tonight, how about I have someone call you tomorrow and they can talk you through an application?” The doorbell rings—the pizza!
    I hang up on the woman as she’s still talking and use my walker to go to the door. Tessie and I do a strange dance, related to the tennis balls on the bottom and our mutual insistence to be first to the door.
    The pizza is like salty cardboard with melted rubber on top. I eat the whole thing.

    M y first night home, George’s psychiatrist calls. “Sorry to have been out of touch,” he says.
    “Me too.” I take a breath and am about to tell him about the hospital, about the man who died, about everything, and then stop myself. A personal caution light goes on.
    “I had a small event,” I say.
    “I hope it was pleasant,” he says.
    “It wasn’t a wedding,” I say, and say no more.
    “I was hoping to talk about your family.”
    “I was in the hospital.” Despite my desire not to say it, it slips out like a leak, like a thing sneaking away; it comes out on an inhale, a swallowing of the words.
    “Pardon?” he says, not having heard.
    I say nothing.
    He continues: “As