Poles Apart (5 page)

“I hope we’ll be seeing you around these parts more often,” she said.

“For better or worse, that’s the plan, Yolanda,” I said.

“Trust me. It’ll be for the better.”

The grounds were quite lovely–well-manicured lawns, lots of trees and gardens, all interspersed with paved paths about ten feet wide. The paths were coded with little splashes of colour every fifty feet or so. A legend of sorts at the entrance to the grounds gave the length of each winding walkway. Blue was a quarter mile. Green was an eighth of a mile. Red was just a sixteenth of a mile. Yellow was only a hundred feet or so. Half a dozen patients, of varying ambulatory competence, were out on
the paths. Many of them were accompanied by family, friends, or orderlies. It was a warm and sunny afternoon. It was Florida, after all.

An older man sat almost motionless in a wheelchair parked just outside the doors at the start of the Blue path, the brim of a battered Corvette Stingray ball cap shielding his eyes. He wore a frayed Chevy Malibu T-shirt that should have been retired long ago. His inert left arm curled in his lap, his hand closed in a fist. His right arm was resting on right wheel of his chair. His legs hadn’t moved in the time I’d been standing next to him. With some effort, he leaned forward a bit and looked down the path.

I spied Dad from a distance, shuffling along the Yellow path wearing hospital-issue shorts, a loud, fluorescent green Ford Mustang T-shirt, and sturdy-looking New Balance running shoes. I just watched him for a while, his crew cut bobbing up and down as he kind of undulated along the path, a youngish orderly next to him. It was a far cry from walking. Calling it a limp would be lily-gilding in the extreme. He was pushing one of those walkers you see in seniors’ residences. It was odd to see my father using one. He’d push the light metal frame a foot or so along the path on its two front wheels. Then he’d step forward with his good leg, before dragging his left leg up to join it. And I do mean dragging it. His left knee didn’t really bend. And he had to lean to his right to reduce the friction of his left foot on the ground enough to move it. When he pushed the walker ahead again, I noticed that only his right hand was gripping it and doing most
of the work. His left hand, the one affected by the stroke, seemed to be resting limply on the top rail of the walker, making only a slight contribution. I could see we had our work cut out for us.

I noticed that the older man next to me in the wheelchair was craning his neck so he could look at me.

“Hello,” I said. “Are you trying to get someplace? Could I push you somewhere along the path?”

“What I’d like is for you to leave me alone and go and stand next to someone else for a while.”

His voice was a little high-pitched and breathy.

“Oh, I see. Gee I’m sorry,” I said. “Was I blocking your sun?”

“You’re too short to block the sun. You’re just standing too goddamn close to me.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was crowding you here. I’m on my way. Sorry about that. That’s my dad just over there. He had a stroke on the golf …”

“Hey, how about you stop talking and start walking.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Five-foot-nine and a half is not that short. In fact, it’s exactly the average height of the Canadian male. I know. I’ve checked – often. That means I’m the same height as most other men in Canada. I’m right in the fat part of the curve. Would I rather be six-one or six-two? Who wouldn’t? Yes, I know. I doth protest too much. But I’m fine with five-nine and a half. Just fine. Plus, I have good hair – and nice-looking hands. People tell me that all the time.

I moved down the path a little farther and sat down on a bench I hoped was far enough away from the cranky guy in the wheelchair. You never know, but I might be in a bad mood, too, if I were stuck in rehab hospital with my left side feeling like it belonged to somebody else.

I followed Dad’s progress until he reached a bench about fifty feet down the path from mine. It had taken him nearly ten minutes. He sat down on the bench to rest. I heard the orderly tell Dad to sit tight and that he’d be back in a few minutes. Dad nodded, leaned back, and closed his eyes to the sun. I got up and walked over.

“Dad,” I said as I approached. He looked up, blinking.

“Ev! You’re here!” Dad said as he started to get up.

“Don’t get up. Don’t get up.” I sat down beside him. “I’ll join you.”

“Come here,” Dad said, as he wrapped his good arm around me. “It’s great to see you. Thanks for coming.”

I hugged back. We hadn’t hugged for a very long time. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time.

“I was watching you,” I said. “You look like you’ll be running marathons in no time.”

“You must have been watching someone else. I’m huffing and puffing after ten minutes and we’ve only covered a few yards. It’s goddamn depressing, pardon my French.”

“Dad, you’ve had a stroke. It’s going to take some time. Maybe a lot of time to get your strength back and to teach your bum
leg how to behave. We’re starting from the very beginning here. I’m amazed you’re out here on your feet at all so soon after you chunked that bunker shot.”

“Shit. And my game was just starting to come around, too. I had the senior tour in my sights, and then this. It just ain’t fair.”

We sat in silence for minute or so. I reached for something else to say.

“Hey, Dad, who’s the ill-tempered guy in the wheelchair over there?” I nodded my head in the direction of the main doors.

“Oh, that’s Chevrolet,” Dad replied. “I don’t know his name but he’s a prime, grade-A asshole. He wears a different Chevy hat or shirt every day, just to bug my ass.”

“Just to bug you? Come on, Dad. Really?”

“I was wearing a Ford hat on the golf course and I still had it on when I arrived in this joint. When asshole Chevy-boy over there saw it, he flipped me the bird – just like that. I hadn’t even said shit to the guy.”

I stared at his gaudy green Mustang shirt.

“And now you don’t go anywhere without making sure you’re branded like a walking Ford dealership in case you bump into him. Right?”

“Yeah, well, when I get my feet under me again, I might do more than ‘bump into him.’ ”

“Should we push on, Dad?” I asked, standing up. “Let’s see if we can make it to the next bench.”

Dad nodded, gripped the walker with his good hand, and heaved himself to his feet. I walked close beside him, as the orderly had.

“So what do you think of my pad?” my father asked as he shuffled along.

“Dad, I’m afraid no one on the planet still uses the term ‘pad’ to describe their place of residence. You could try ‘crib’ if you want to make people uncomfortable, but I think ‘condo’ is the safe bet,” I replied. “And I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s nice. It’s fine for one person. And you can sit out on the balcony and heckle golfers. I like it.”

“Sorry about the mess. It’s usually in better shape. But I wasn’t expecting to be cooped up here or I’d have done it up nice for you.”

“Dad, it’s fine. It looks like my first apartment in Toronto. I tidied up a bit and rented a tractor trailer to return your beer empties.”

Dad had the grace to laugh.

“So are you feeling any pain?” I asked.

“Not much. My hips are aching a bit, but I don’t have much feeling back in my left side yet. And it might not all come back. We don’t really know what’s going to come back.”

He was starting to breathe heavily again.

“Are you on any medication?” I asked.

“Yeah, they got me on something to keep my blood thin. It helps stop the clots that cause strokes. But it means I got to be careful and not cut myself shaving or I’ll bleed out fast.”

“Really! That’s not true, is it? You cut yourself shaving a lot.”

“Well, it’s sort of true. They want me to switch to an electric razor to reduce the risk of bleeding to death.”

Dad was breathing hard now, making normal conversation more difficult. So we just ambled along in silence. Well, I ambled. Dad shuffled and dragged, shuffled and dragged. We were almost at our next objective. A quite attractive, older woman with a cane was sitting at the far end of the bench, writing on a pad of notepaper. She looked up as we approached and smiled. She somehow looked familiar to me, but I had no idea why.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” my father said as he lowered himself onto the bench, a little closer to her than was necessary. “Can we join you? I need to take a load off before we start back.”

“Of course. You’re welcome to,” she replied, turning back to her writing. Dad kept his eyes on her.

“You sure write a lot of letters,” Dad said. “Every day I’m out here dragging my sorry butt and gimpy leg up and down this road to nowhere, and you’re out here writing.”

Again, she looked up and smiled.

“I’m handicapping the patients so I know who to bet on at the hospital track meet next month,” she replied with a perfectly straight face. “You’re coming along, but I need to see more progress from you before I consider risking any of my money.”

She went back to her writing. Dad was flummoxed, but only for a moment.

“Well, the problem is, you’re not seeing my best event,” Dad countered. “The fifty-foot sprint was never my game. The pole vault is my specialty. We start training for that tomorrow, and I’m looking for a good spotter to help me plant my pole, if you know what I mean.”

Yes, that’s really what he said, while leaning over toward her. Unbelievable.

“Jesus, Dad, please,” I hissed and swatted his arm. He looked back at me, puzzled. “I’m so sorry,” I said to the woman. “He’s recovering from a stroke and he’s not himse—”

“What?” he interrupted. “I’m just having a nice chat with this young, attractive woman. Nothing wrong with that. And you’ll have to whack my right arm if you want me to feel it.”

She just smiled at me and shook her head a little.

“It’s okay, young man. I deserved that. I foolishly set him up. And I should have known the inherent weakness of the male species would lead him to such a ribald, albeit clever and amusing, response. I do understand,” she said, before turning to my father. “You, sir, are a live one.”

“You got that right, ma’am. And it’s only my left leg and part of my left arm that are temporarily giving me trouble. Everything else, and I mean
everything
else, works just fine.”

I think I physically cringed.

“Okay, Dad. That’s it! I can’t believe this.” I stood up. “Let’s leave this miraculously patient and forgiving woman in peace. We have to get back now so I can have you sedated. Come on, up we go.”

I positioned the walker for the return fifty-foot sprint and hoisted Dad to his feet.

“I hope to see you again, ma’am,” Dad said solemnly.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” she replied, turning back to her writing.

“What the hell was that, Dad?” I hissed, after we were safely out of earshot.

“What? She’s a looker. I was just making conversation. Nothing wrong with that! And did you see the pair of …”

“Stop, Dad!” I interrupted. “Dad, she is not the sum of her parts. She’s a real person.”

“Oh geez, here we go again,” my father sighed. “Are you still banging that drum? I thought for sure you’d have outgrown that after all these years.”

“Dad, it’s not something you outgrow,” I replied. “Anyway, don’t you think she’s a little old for you?”

“Yeah, well, who the hell cares? Around here, my options are limited. So I’ve learned to adjust my standards.”

“Give me strength,” I said, looking to the sky.

As we approached the door, I tried to steer Dad away from the man in the wheelchair, who was still anchored in the same spot, watching our progress. But Dad kept pulling me toward him.

“Ford dickhead,” the old man said when we got close.

“Chevy ass-wipe,” Dad replied.

“Hey, you know what Ford stands for, don’t you?” Chevrolet asked. “Found On Road Dead.”

“Yeah, except for those four Ford victories at Le Mans, against how many wins for Chevy?” Dad taunted over his shoulder. “Let me try to remember. Oh yeah, none, not a single one.”

By this time we’d already passed Chevrolet but he managed to give us the finger as we moved through the doors.

Yolanda was waiting for us just inside.

“Mr. Kane, if you two car-nuts ever start a-brawlin’, I can’t guarantee any one of the staff will leap in to pull you apart.”

“Don’t you worry, Miss Yolanda. That’s just the way I like it,” he replied with a wink.