One Last Thing Before I Go

then he is being wheeled down the hallway on his bed, with his mother and father on either side of him, just as they walked him down the aisle at his wedding. Elaine smiles down at him, and he can see the tired strain in her eyes. Ruben is inconspicuously saying a prayer under his breath, and Silver knows without hearing him that it’s Psalm 121, which has always been his father’s go-to prayer.
    I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
    Silver feels the roll of the wheels beneath him, the light bumps every time they hit a seam in the linoleum flooring.
    My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.
    They have reached the end of the corridor. His parents can go no farther. Elaine leans over to kiss him, fighting back the tears. “Be good,” she says.
    He smiles. “Always.”
    His father finishes his psalm and kisses Silver’s cheek, and he can feel the tears threatening. “I’m sorry,” Silver says. “For everything.”
    “You’re going to be OK.”
    “Is He here?” Silver says.
    His father looks at him. “Who?”
    “God.”
    Ruben smiles. “He’s around here somewhere.”
    The nurses push Silver through the swinging doors, and even though he can’t look behind him, he can nevertheless see his parents, coming together in his wake, watching him go.
    * * *
    Inside, just before they put the mask on him, Silver looks around the sterile, metallic room. For some people, this is the last room they will ever see. They ought to make it look a little nicer, he thinks. Give it some warmth.
    Then the mask is on him, and Rich is hovering over him.
    “You good, Silver?”
    Silver nods, no longer able to speak.
    Rich pats his chest. “OK then. I’ll see you in a bit.”
    The anesthesiologist is suddenly there, fiddling with a knob beside Silver’s head. “Just breathe deeply,” he says, and then the room begins to shimmer and fade before disappearing into a deeply textured blackness.
    * * *
    And then he is standing beside the small house he lived in with Casey and Denise. He looks down at his feet, barefoot on the lawn, which has been recently watered and feels cool and damp against his toes. A pair of birds fly past him and, much higher up, an airplane, too far to be heard, leaving a white vapor trail as it crosses the sky.
    He hears laughing and turns to see Casey, six years old, running around the house from the backyard.
    “There you are!” she says, her voice bubbling with excitement. “I found you.”
    “Yes, you did,” he says, smiling at her.
    “It’s your turn,” she says. “Come with me.”
    “Where?”
    She gives him a mildly impatient look, like he might be teasing her. “To the swings.”
    She is wearing a red T-shirt, white shorts, her legs skinny and scraped, her feet in a pair of white flip-flops. She always loved flip-flops, loved the accompanying noise they made as she walked. He remembers that now. He remembers everything.
    He is not really here. He knows that. And yet, somehow he is. He can see the water droplets on the grass tips, can see the browning on the white siding of his house, can hear kids riding by on their bikes, calling out to one another. Somewhere in the distance, he hears the musical chime of the ice-cream truck making its rounds.
    “Daddy?”
    She calls him Daddy. Of course she does. That’s who he is.
    “What, baby?”
    “Come on!”
    She is walking backward now alongside the house, leading him past the rose bushes to their small backyard, which glows orange in the evening sun. He wonders if he’s died and she’s there to lead him to the next place, or if she’s simply there to lead him back. Either way, he knows nothing will ever stop him from following her again.
    He catches up to her and takes her hand in his, reveling in the way her fingers unconsciously wrap themselves around his hand. She looks up at him and smiles. He smiles back.
    “Let’s go,” he says.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
    My heartfelt gratitude to:
    Mom and Dad, for always being there, but especially now. Ben Sevier, for your patience and guidance—you definitely earned your paycheck on this one. Simon Lipskar, for your expertise, acumen, and steadfast support. Kassie Evashevski, Tobin Babst, David Park, and Fred Toczek, for keeping all those plates spinning. The infinitely generous and talented Laura Dave and Josh Singer, for their indispensible friendship and counsel. Dr. Abraham Schreiber, for all the medical consults, and Greg Yaitanes, for