21. Markus
CHAPTER 21
MARKUS
Adam’s scent is everywhere. Even after two showers, he’s all over me. His taste lingers, too, resistant to toothpaste and mouthwash. He left me an hour ago—dropped me off at a car rental desk one town over, then drove away—yet he lingers in my head.
I groan audibly, and a nurse glances at me, looking concerned. Giving her a quick grin, I wait for her to walk past me, then duck my chin and resume staring at the floor in front of Dad’s room.
God, I really don’t want to go in there. I’d rather be in Adam’s truck right now, the heat blasting from the vents in the dash as he butchers every song he sings along with his playlist. I shake off those thoughts—and the little grin they give me—as I look through the rectangle of glass in Dad’s door, offering me a glimpse inside the room.
Aside from the passing nurse, no one has noticed me lurking out here yet. What am I waiting for, a written invitation? Step forward once, twice, and go inside. Simple. Except… Should I knock first? Probably. If I were to visit my parents’ home, I would knock on the door. I should knock here too. So I knock.
Mom looks over, and she must be expecting someone else because her smile sinks when she sees me. Quickly, she pastes it back on and comes to let me in. When she has the door open, she glances over my shoulder, as if checking to see if I’ve brought the man I alluded to last night.
When she determines I’m alone, she silently moves aside so I may enter. Every step I take into the room stirs the air around me, and I smell Adam again, like his spirit clings to my skin and movement stirs him awake. I wonder if my mother can smell his musky scent on me too. If she can, she doesn’t let on. She’s pretty much ignoring me, as usual.
“Mark.” My father’s scratchy voice, and his use of my old name, jolts me out of my thoughts and right back to reality. He’s exactly where I left him last night, completely unmoved, but he looks sicker, weaker, his color is a jaundice yellow today.
“Dad,” I say with a nod as I move toward him. “How are you feeling?”
Jesus, what a dumb question. He’s dying, you asshole.
My father opens his mouth like he intends to answer, but before he can, my mother speaks for him. She flutters around like a hummingbird, straightening his blankets and adjusting his pillow as she explains that he’s feeling restless and can’t sleep, how his feet and hands are swollen from water retention, and he’s suffering from abdominal pain.
After more than a minute of Mom’s constant chatter, my dad tries to speak, but the effort causes a coughing fit, which has him wincing in pain as he struggles for breath. The weakness I see in my father has a profound and devastating effect on me. As far back as I can remember, my father was larger than life. His disapproving specter loomed over every decision I made, either inspiring me to cave to his wishes or rebel in defiance. Either way, his shadow was always there. And now, seeing that big man reduced to such frailty throws my world off its axis.
Rushing to help him, I go to one side of his bed while Mom goes to the other. Each of us tries to tend to his needs, and it’s like a competition I didn’t realize I’d entered. But now that I’m here, I fight to win. I find a cup of water on my side table and reach for it, holding it for Dad so he can take a few shallow sips.
When his coughing fit subsides, he groans in pain and holds his abdomen. Clearly concerned, Mom starts up again with her fluttering, but this time she tries to order me around like an employee. “Mark, go ask one of the nurses if there is anything they can give him for this cough. It’s causing him such discomfort, and?—”
“Candice, why don’t you go find one of the nurses yourself.” Dad suddenly finds his voice, and the harshness of his tone freezes us both. “I need to talk to Mark…and I can’t when you keep yapping.”
Uh.
I glance between them, astonished to see any sort of rift there. In all my youth, they never argued. Sure, they argued with me , but never with each other. They were a united front in the fight against their unruly, ungrateful, unholy son.
My mother stares at him for a moment, seeming as stunned by his irritable outburst as I am, then she mutters, “Very well,” and leaves the room.
When she’s gone, and it’s just the two of us, I’m crushed by another of those avalanches of guilt, like their tiff is somehow my fault. But then, I’ve been accepting blame for their issues all my life. I’m done with that.
Instead, I loosen my shoulders, like that will unburden me somehow, and make my way to the chair beside Dad’s bed. When I’m settled, I turn my attention to my father, ready to listen to whatever it is he feels he needs to say to me.
“I should apologize to her,” Dad says. His voice sounds scratchy, and his words come stilted, spoken after each puff of oxygen delivered through his nasal cannula.
“I guess,” is all I can manage to say.
“I owe you an apology too.” He surprises me with that revelation, and I startle when he tries to grasp my hand.
It takes me a moment to realize this is him reaching out, literally and figuratively. I can’t remember the last time my father touched me. Even when he thought I was the son he wanted, he rarely hugged me. Once he learned my truth, he never hugged me again.
But now, he reaches for me, and I accept his hand in mine. He’s fucking dying, after all. If I don’t give him this one small kindness, I know I’ll regret it. His grip is frail, like he’s made of glass, absolutely breakable. So I try not to squeeze too hard, stroking my thumb over his crepe-paper skin, which looks almost purple from the veins that spider around his bony knuckles and down his fingers.
“Mark, er, Markus, I’m sorry…”
To hear his voice again after such a long pause is jolting, but the words he says are what really surprise me. He called me Markus. Finally , he called me by my chosen name. And… He’s sorry? For what? Which part? I need more, need to understand exactly what he’s sorry for, but he’s already winded from saying so little. So I stay silent, watching his bloodshot eyes as he stares back at me, catching his breath to speak again.
“I should have…tried harder…to know you.” He runs out of air as he speaks, and the words sound like ghosts of themselves. He takes a few moments to breathe in more of the oxygen, then continues. “Your mother…wanted to fix you… And I let her.”
Yes, I remember. I’ll never forget. Between praying for me and wailing with shame, she’d tell me, “Paster Samuelson can fix this. He can get you back on the path of righteousness.”
“But,” Dad gives my hand a weak squeeze and breathlessly finishes, “you were never broken.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. With his voice so weak, I wonder if I’m actually imagining this, hearing what I want to hear in his whispered words. Could it be a side effect of the concussion I suffered a few days ago? Or, maybe it’s his illness that is causing this miscommunication. Is aphasia a symptom of pancreatic cancer? Is he trying to tell me something else, but the wrong words keep coming out of his mouth?
One glance up at my father’s face tells me everything I need to know: he means what he’s saying. His eyes shine with tears, and one falls down his cheek. The sight of it—this once proud man who never cried, shedding tears because of me—hits me with a tidal wave of emotion. It’s more than I can handle, more than I can even comprehend.
With his voice weak and watery, he adds, “Markus, I failed you, in so many ways, and I’m sorry.”
My vision blurs with tears, and I wipe them away with my free hand. With the other hand, I squeeze his, not too hard, just enough to let him know I’m still holding on. But tears clog my throat, and I can’t speak. It feels pathetic. My father is dying, yet he managed to speak his mind. Now, when it comes to me, I’m mute.
That’s when my mother returns. She has a nurse in tow, but Mom is the one doing all the talking. She’s like the stage manager to Dad’s death, telling people where to stand and what to do. She expects me to stand up from the chair I occupy, but I’m not willing to let go of Dad’s hand for anything. This is the only connection I’ve had with him in years.
The nurse senses the standoff and hustles out the door, quickly returning with a second chair. Mom huffs, a sound that is equal parts appreciation for the chair and frustration with me. While the nurse is here, she explains to Dad that they can give him a cough suppressant and another boost of the pain medication, but it will make him drowsy. Dad looks to me, as if wanting me to decide. I nod. He’s clearly in pain. As nice as this conversation has been, I do not want him to hurt.
The nurse injects the medications into Dad’s IV drip and tells us she’ll check in with us in an hour or so. I ignore her and everything else happening around us, just focusing on Dad’s bloodshot gaze as his eyelids grow heavy with drowsiness, and finally I manage to say the words I think he needs to hear.
“I forgive you, Dad, and I’m okay.”