Conundrum (40 page)

“I found him unconscious on the kitchen floor. Shirley was out somewhere and the door had been left unlocked, so when no one answered, I just went in—something I wouldn’t normally do. But seeing him there, lying on the linoleum
.
 
.
 
.
I called for an ambulance and waited. Then
I
drove over to the hospital, where they got him on fluids and started a battery of tests. At first they thought it was anemia, but when the blood tests came back and they saw his white cell count, the doctors realized he had leukemia.
” Dave looked through the window at the garden and
took a deep
breath.

“After that, he was in and out of the hospital
.
 
.
 
.
until, near the end, he was admitted and he stayed there until
.
 
.
 
.
it was over. I often sat by his bedside and kept him company. Sometimes we talked
, but he eventually got so bad he just rambled. Dwelt on pieces of memor
ies that floated into his mind
, things I couldn’t understand
.”

“Did my mother ever visit him? Did she bring us kids?”

Dave looked back at me
,
and I could tell he wanted to give me some consolation, but his eyes were apologetic. “I only know of one time, near the end. I had just arrived as your mother was leaving. I waited by the stairwell because I didn’t want her to see me and feel she had to be friendly, make small talk.
She had you and your older brother in tow. I imagine she’d left the baby with a sitter. I’ll never forget your brother’s
distraught
face
—
”

“Raff.
He recently told me how he’d seen
D
ad
in the hospital before he died
.” I recalled Raff’s bitter words—the curse, he called it. How our father had told him he was now the man of the house. Maybe this was the same instance Dave was speaking about.
“The memory of that last conversation with our father had upset him a lot.”

“
Sure, I can imagine.
And your dad was very upset she had brought you kids. He didn’t want you to see him sick like that. He had told her to stay away, so as she was heading out, he
yelled at her,
told her never to come back. I can only guess what message that sent to your brother, hearing that. It must have broken his little heart.
”

Dave suddenly grew quiet, then a change came over his features, a hardening, as if resisting things aching to pour out. “Right before your dad died
—
maybe a week, maybe less
—
I arrived at the hospital and headed up the stairs to your dad’s room. He was now in a private room
,
more or less in hospice care at this hospital.
I was
down the hall
when I heard your dad
talking. He was terribly upset, nearly
hysterical
. I hurried to go in to him, then stopped in my tracks.
Ed Hutchinson
was in there, with him.
That completely surprised me. I thought,
W
hat’s he doing here?
I didn’t want to intrude, so stood
back
.
 
.
 
.
” He took a deep breath and composed himself, as emotion was starting to get the better of him. “I
couldn’t make out
their conversation. And then
Ed
stormed out,
and I scooted around the corner so he wouldn’t see me.
I went in to
your father
.
 
.
 
.
and heard something I’ve never forgotten to this day. Not a word of it. Like it was branded on my heart.

“Lisa, what I’m about to tell you I’ve told no one. Nobody in these, what, twenty-five years. I’ll try to explain it as best
as
I can, but there’s one thing you need to think about. Your dad was very sick. Often delusional. They had him on experimental treatments, chemo, radiation. It wasn’t like today. Leukemia was a mystery. Well, it still is now, in many ways. But back then, they were trying all kinds of treatments and dosages. Sometimes your father was so drugged he was nearly incoherent, ranting, mumbling about strange things I couldn’t make sense of. So, I had to piece together much
of what he told me.”

He paused, then met my eyes with a
nother
apologetic expression. “So you’ll just have to come to your own conclusions, okay?”

I reached for my water glass and took a long sip. Although the room was air conditioned, I felt sweaty in anticipation. As Dave spoke, I listened carefully. Then, I closed my eyes and let the scene
unfold
as his words
entered
my ears and painted a picture of what transpired twenty-five years ago.
I could only imagine
.
 
.
 
.

Chapter 25

Dave Lerner presses against the cool pale
-
yellow hospital corridor wall as Ed Hutchinson storms out of Nathan’s private room
, wondering what might have transpired between the two men
. He glances down the hallway a
n
d waits until his boss gets into the elevator and the doors close before he takes a hesitant step
toward Nathan
. The thick drapes are drawn
,
and only filtered light delineates the surroundings. Nathan is sitting up in bed, pillows propped, an IV dripping into his arm, machines whirring on both sides.
His face is flushed; surely he is worked up and angry, and filled with frantic energy as he tussles with the sheet covering him. In a fit of frustration, he pulls the sheet loose from its bindings on the sides of the bed and throws it
over his feet
, unaware of Dave standing just inside the door entry.

Dave clears his throat and Nathan looks up. Nathan opens his mouth to yell, but then, in the haze of the room and through the haze in his mind, he recognizes his friend and throws his head back on the pillows in anguish.

“I can’t take this sheet on me. It’s like a dead weight, makes my skin crawl
.
 
.
 
.
”

“Here,” Dave says, rushing over to help, “I’ll get it.” Dave removes the entangled sheet and tosses it over the nearby chair. Nathan is in a
light-
blue hospital gown that barely reaches his knees. Dave notices how pale Nathan’s skin is, and how thin his legs are. He looks away, wanting to give Nathan some dignity, but Nathan doesn’t seem to notice.

Nathan exhales. His face is
beaded with sweat, blotchy and pasty; the illness racking his body has worked its way into his eyes, making them look diseased. Dave has never been this close to someone so
near
to death
and feels torn between helplessness and agony. He can almost feel his own blood poisoned, and wonders what Nathan must be sensing—his body now awash with cancer, his own blood cells on
attack
, as if he himself were the enemy.
He knows Nathan is fighting a losing battle and wonders if his best friend has come to terms with his impending death or is still in denial. So many hours he’s sat by Nathan’s bedside, but never once ha
ve
they spoken directly about his disease.

Dave reaches for the cup of water and adjusts the straw. “Here, drink. You’re so worked up, you need to calm down.”

Nathan mutters something
,
but it’s garbled. Dave leans closer to hear better. Something about Ed and the nerve of him coming here.

“What was that all about—Hutchinson
visiting you
here? He’s upset you.” Dave knows all about the tense dynamics between Nathan and their boss. Would Ed stoop so low as to come to Nathan’s deathbed and chew him out for sleeping with his wife? Or had they argued about something else
?
Dave realizes he shouldn’t have asked; it will only get Nathan worked up again.

Nathan’s breath is shallow and his words come out in shreds. “He came, you know
.
 
.
 
.
to the apartment
.
 
.
 
.
some time ago. Looking for Shirley
.
 
.
 
.
barged in. Said he followed me
home,
from work
.
 
.
 
.
grabbed her arm and tried to pull her out the door
.
 
.
 
.
”

Nathan tries to chuckle, but the effort flushes his face and starts him sucking air. “
.
 
.
 
.
as if he could force her to go back to him.
Even swung at me
.
 
.
 
.
but I backed away. Never said anything to him
after
.
 
.
 
.
let it pass.” Nathan’s voice rises in pitch; he strains to sit upright. Dave reaches over to help him, but Nathan starts to thrash.

“Whoa, let me help you, buddy. You really should—”

Dave do
d
ges
N
athan’s arms and inches
away
. Nathan keeps
talking, the words coming faster and more tangled. “He can’t take it? What
.
 
.
 
.
it’s doing to me? How could he? I could kill him
.
 
.
 
.
kill him
.
 
.
 
.
”

“Why? What’s he done?”

Nathan breaks out into a sob and tears force their way out his eyes. “My fault
.
 
.
 
.
oh, so wrong
.
 
.
 
.
I thought
.
 
.
 
.
thought I could just
.
 
.
 
.
just close my eyes and make it all go away. I’m
.
 
.
 
.
so ashamed
.
 
.
 
.
”

Dave carefully rests an arm around Nathan’s shoulders while his friend cries, letting loose a flood of tears Dave has never seen. Maybe, Dave thinks, this is good, his crying. Letting it all out. Maybe Nathan hasn’t cried at all.
Maybe
it’s hitting him now
—the realization that he will soon die, leave his three children fatherless. Dave can’t even fathom that kind of heartache. But
.
 
.
 
.
shame? What is he ashamed of?
Leaving his family?

“Why?” Dave asks as Nathan’s tears slow down. “Why do you feel ashamed? This isn’t your fault—this disease, your illness—”

In a sudden flash, Nathan grabs Dave’s arm in a fierce grip. Even though Nathan’s hand is shaking, his fingernails dig into Dave’s skin. “It is! It is my fault! All my fault
.
 
.
 
.
I caused this
.
 
.
 
.
”

“Caused what?” Dave is thinking about the affair. How Nathan had run off with Shirley, and how that brought about Ed’s fury. But what did that have to do with his leukemia?

Nathan interrupts Dave’s thoughts with more ranting. “
Leaving Ruth
.
 
.
 
.
abandoning my children
.
 
.
 
.
thought by running I could hide, be safe
.
 
.
 
.
But,
I couldn’t
.
 
.
 
.
he
did this to me
.
 
.
 
.
God
.
 
.
 
.
”