All Over Creation (61 page)

But of course it wasn't. Yummy was fine—she was just drunk—and now Cass realized that what she'd felt was disappointment. There was no point denying it. She bent over and covered her face with her hands, horrified. She was a sick, loathsome person who had once tried to steal a child and was gladdened by the thought of her best friend's death. The only time she'd ever felt this much revulsion was when the cancer was diagnosed and she wanted to crawl out of her body, but this was almost worse, because you couldn't just cut away the bad parts.

After a while she sat up and looked over her shoulder, then crawled up the bed and sat cross-legged next to her friend. “Yum?” she said, but there was still no answer. In sleep Yummy looked ridiculously young. Her eyes were swollen from tears, and the rims of her nostrils were red. Seeing her passed out like this, Cass felt a sudden icy sense of what it must have been like for her in San Francisco. Taking drugs until you passed out. Probably shacking up in seedy motels like this with God knows what kind of man, because how else do you get by with no money? It was awful to think about. Cass reached out and stroked her friend's forehead.

Yummy made a little moaning sound and shifted onto her side. Cass set the alarm on her watch, then turned off the light and stretched out on her back, but when Yummy moaned again, like she was having a bad dream, Cass rolled over.

“Shhh,” she said, putting her arm around Yummy's waist and holding her, lightly at first, and then snugly, the way she held Will, to anchor her and keep her safe.

When her watch alarm sounded in the early morning, she ran a shower and got Yummy to her feet and into the bathroom. She called the hospital and went out for coffee. When she returned, Yummy was seated on the side of the bed, dressed and cradling her head. She jumped at the noise of the door slamming. She squinted into the light.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Here, drink this.”

She took a sip of the coffee and winced. “How did you find me?”

“I saw the Pontiac in the parking lot on the way home with the kids.”

She looked up quickly. “Where are they?”

“They're fine. Lilith is looking after them.”

“Oh.” She relaxed, took another sip of the coffee. “Did you stay here all night with me?”

“Yes.”

“I was passed right out, huh?”

Cass didn't answer.

Yummy sighed. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

She yawned and kneaded her temples. “God, I feel like shit!”

“I'll bet,” Cass said. “Come on. I'll take you to the hospital.”

Yummy laughed. “I'm not that sick—” Then she stopped.

“Your father,” Cass said.

“Right.” Yummy closed her eyes and let her head drop.

“I just phoned the hospital. He's unconscious. They said you should come.”

 

 

She was silent in the car, bracing her head against the headrest. Cold air from the window hit her face. Her lips were pressed tightly shut, and she frowned, trying not to throw up. Cass offered to pull over, but she shook her head.

“Just drive.”

At the hospital Yummy led the way up to the ward, but at the entrance to his room she paused and slumped.

“I can't.”

The strains of harp music wafted from the hall.

“Fucking harps,” she said. “Come on.”

He lay there on his back, propped on all sides by pillows. His breathing was spasmodic. Each gasp convulsed his chest, followed by a terrible silence that threatened to last forever, but then the next breath would rattle up from somewhere deep in his lungs. Yummy groped for Cass's hand.

“Oh, shit. This is it, isn't it?”

Cass squeezed as the doctor came in.

“Good,” he said. “You're here.”

He shuffled through a batch of papers attached to his clipboard, then handed one to Yummy.

“What is it?” she asked, staring at the paper.

“It's the DNR order. It states that he doesn't want any heroic measures taken to keep him alive.”

“Heroic measures,” she repeated. “He signed this?”

He pointed to the bottom. “Last night. After everyone had left. He had the night nurse witness.”

Yummy passed it quickly to Cass. It was clear how hard it must have been for Lloyd to hold the pen and sign his name. The letters were faint and wobbly, and the signature tilted to one side like it was going to slide off the edge of the form.

“He designated you as his proxy,” the doctor told Yummy. “Which means he wants you to execute his wishes and make decisions for him should he become incapable of doing so.”

“Me!”

“Well, it's usual to designate a son or daughter.”

The doctor waited for her to take in this information, and then he continued. “You're going to have to make a decision now about a feeding tube.”

Yummy looked down at her father. “Is he conscious?”

“Hard to say.”

“Is the tube painful?”

“Well, it's not pleasant. It's inserted down the throat, you know. Into the stomach . . .”

“Oh, God,” she choked, holding up her hand and swallowing hard. “I'm not feeling well. I'm going to be sick.”

“Sit,” said Cass, leading her to the armchair. “Put your head down.” She cupped the back of Yummy's head and pushed it in between her legs. “Breathe.”

“I'll let you think about the tube, then,” the doctor said, backing out of the room.

“Wait,” Yummy called. “Without a tube what happens?”

“No tube means no food or liquids, and when you withhold hydration and nutrition . . .”

“He starves to death?” She raised her head and looked at him.

“It's not exactly like that.”

“What else is it? Forget it. I'm not starving my father to death.”

The doctor hesitated. “It's really more about his wishes, you know.”

“I know that. Do the tube.”

“Why don't you take some time before you decide? Let me know.”

“No.” She dropped her head between her legs. “Do the tube.”

The doctor frowned and made a notation on the chart. “If she changes her mind, tell the nurse,” he said to Cass, and slipped out the door.

Cass got a plastic basin from the bathroom and slid it under Yummy's head. She kneaded the back of her neck and listened to the sounds of breathing, Lloyd gurgling and Yummy gulping for air. After a while Yummy lifted her head and sat up in the chair, then pushed herself to her feet and went to stand by her father's side.

“Lloyd?” she said, peering into his face. “Dad?”

There was no response, just the rhythmic wheeze and rattle. Cass came over to stand beside her. When Yummy spoke, her voice was hushed. “It's hard work, dying. I never realized.”

Cass nodded.

“Did you go through this with your parents?”

“More or less. I think it's always different.”

“Do you think I'm doing the right thing?”

“It's really about what he'd want,” Cass said. “That's what's important.”

“You know how he feels about life! What am I supposed to do?”

“I know he hated all the fussing and hospital procedure,” Cass said. “You remember last time how much he wanted to come home? You gave him that. He got to be home for the best part of a year because of you. He got to meet his grandkids. He got to be a prophet of the revolution. But this time is different.”

Yummy thought for a while. “He told me he didn't want to be a vegetable.”

Cass nodded. “Well, I don't blame him.” She gave Yummy a little shove. “You have no idea. . . .”

“Right,” Yummy said. “But you do.”

“I can imagine.”

“So no tube, then?”

Cass shrugged. “If you can live with it.”

Yummy returned to the chair. “You can go now. I mean, I'm not going to throw up or anything. I'll just sit here. Maybe he'll wake up, and I can ask him what he wants.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I'm fine.”

“I'll go get Momoko.” Cass picked up her bag and turned on her cell phone. “Call if you need me.” She headed toward the door.

“Cass?” Yummy called. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Yummy sat there bent over her knees, her face in her hands. “I know you think I'm losing it.”

“Just don't drink so much,” Cass said. “You'll feel better.”

Imagine the worst hangover you've ever had. The kind you loathe yourself for incurring, where even the slightest movement or sound or wafting scent or change in the quality of light makes your world keel onto its side. The kind where you've smoked so many cigarettes that your lungs ache and your head feels like it's been skewered with a red-hot metal rod between your eyes, and the slightest movement, or sound, or wafting scent . . .

That was my hangover on the day my dad died, but I was there by his side nonetheless when he made his last appearance.

After Cass left, I watched him labor, too sick to move.

“Lloyd?” I said. “Do you want a feeding tube?”

I watched him for a sign, expecting little, but slowly losing even what hope I had. I dragged the chair closer to his bedside.

“I'm here if you change your mind.” My stomach was starting to churn again. I leaned my head back in the chair and closed my eyes. That was when he rallied.

“Oh—” he whispered. “Oh, my . . . !”

I barely heard him at first. Then I sat up, reeling and dizzy. His eyes were shut, but when I leaned over, bracing myself against the bed, they opened. Milky and startled, they were brimming with tears.

“Dad?”

The blue eyes focused briefly on me before swimming away again, chasing something.

“I . . . I had . . .”

“What is it, Dad?”

He coughed, bringing air up from his waterlogged lungs. “I had . . . the most wonderful dream!”

I held a tissue to his mouth so he could spit. “What did you dream?” His lips worked, pushing out a gummy white mucus. I used the little sponge on a stick the way I'd seen Lilith do, dipping it in water and swabbing his tongue. He sucked gratefully. When I withdrew the sponge, he closed his eyes.

“I was there.” He sighed. His eyelids twitched as he watched dream images play across them, spinning and shifting.

“Where, Dad?”

He paused, searching for the answer. He was as frail as a newborn.

“At the beginning . . .”

“The beginning of what?”

He fell silent. Maybe he was sleeping again. I watched him for a while, and then I closed my eyes, too, because his face was too exposed, too fragile to bear. I drifted, still whiskey drunk, so that when he spoke again, his voice was far away and it felt as if I were dreaming, too.

“Everything,” he whispered. “Of life . . .” His words were like faint puffs of a breeze stirring. “So beautiful! Everyone I love . . . was there. Momoko. My father, mother. All my seeds. My potatoes . . .”

By now I was sitting up, gripping the edge of his sheet, and my heart was pounding. I knew the danger in the question I was about to ask. My throat closed. I felt like I was going to retch if I spoke, or if I didn't. He closed his eyes. He was slipping away fast.

“Daddy!” My voice was too loud, and I could feel my face flushing, but I needed to know. “Wait! Am I there? Am I in your dream?”

I held my breath. Miraculously, his eyes opened once more, peering out at me, watery blue and blinded. He opened his mouth and closed it, and I was afraid he would die before he could answer.

“Why, Yumi,” he said at last, as though it were so apparent to him, the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course you are.” His words were no louder than air.

I crumpled then, bending and gripping his cold wrist. “I love you, Daddy,” I sobbed into his palm. “You're with me, too.”

“My . . . !” He sighed, drifting. I felt his thick, swollen fingers move a little against my eyelids, which was all the comfort he was capable of offering me now. His voice was whisper thin and barely ambient. “My, my, my . . .”

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