Thirty-Four
When I think of my father, I think of him as the strongest man I know. Even last week, when I saw him in Switzerland, I was
initially shocked at how thin and frail he looked, but within minutes I saw him simply as my father. I left thinking of him
as strong, as healthy; as well.
It doesn’t compute that this pale, fragile body in a sea of tubes, surrounded by electrical machines, is Marty Cooke. He looks
like an old man lying on his deathbed.
I take his hand, his familiar hand that seems to have shrunk since last week. His veins are raised, a pale blue, his knuckles
bony and large. Tears squeeze out of my eyes.
The air in the hospital is still, the only sounds an occasional beep from one of the other beds, a low murmur coming from
the nurses’ desk. I stroke his cheek and talk to him softly, telling him I’m home, that I will look after him, that he will
be as good as new soon, that whatever is going on, he can fight it. He is the strongest man I know.
“Is he unconscious?” I ask when a nurse comes over to ask if she can get me anything.
“He’s been drifting in and out,” she says. “He came out yesterday afternoon and asked for water. He may be back with us soon.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
She pauses before giving me a gentle pat on the arm. “The doctor will be in soon. He’ll be able to tell you.”
I lean my forehead on the cool sheets and close my eyes. I am so tired. The emotional upheaval of the last twenty-four hours
is immense. My discovery in India, my flying home, being fired, finding out my father has been rushed into the ICU. I feel
dizzy with everything, and all I want to do is sleep.
“Missy?”
Scarlett walks in, followed by a gray-haired man in a shirt and tie, a white doctor’s jacket over the top. He peers at me
through small wire glasses, and waits as Scarlett envelops me in an uncharacteristic hug.
“What’s going on? What happened? I saw him just a few days ago.”
Scarlett looks exhausted. I have seen her makeup-free on rare occasions, but never like this. Her skin looks pale and thin,
shadows under her bloodshot eyes. If ever I doubted her love for my father, I can see I was wrong. She clearly hasn’t slept
properly for days, and her clothes are rumpled and creased, with a small coffee stain on the T-shirt. When she hugs me, I
can tell she needs a shower.
“This is Doctor Levine. I’ll let him explain. Richard, this is Missy, Marty’s daughter.”
His hand is cool and dry, his handshake firm, his eyes gentle.
“Your father has developed an infection which has led to severe sepsis. In a healthy person, our immune system protects us
from illnesses and infections, but it’s also possible for it to go into overdrive in response to an infection. Instead of
the immune system fighting the infection, the chemicals released into the bloodstream cause inflammation instead, which can
lead to sepsis.”
“I don’t understand. Where did the infection come from?”
“We don’t know for certain, but it’s not uncommon in cancer patients because of their weakened immune systems. We think your
father caught pneumonia while he was in Switzerland. By the time he arrived home, he was very sick.”
Pneumonia? I think back to our time together. He had said he had chills, had a cold coming on, but I had dismissed it as him
having lost so much weight. Even when he was shivering on the bench, I didn’t think anything of it. The next day he seemed
the same, but he said he was better, that the therapies had got rid of it.
Fuck. Why didn’t I say something more? Why didn’t I demand he see the doctors there?
“He said he thought he had a cold coming on last week. Was that the beginning of pneumonia?”
“This isn’t something you could have known.” Dr. Levine is quick to reassure me. “These things take hold very quickly.”
“But he’s going to recover?”
“We’re doing everything we can. He hasn’t gone into septic shock, which is the good news. He’s on very strong intravenous
antibiotics, and now we wait.”
“For how long? When do you expect to start seeing an improvement?”
“It’s impossible to predict. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. We have set aside a room for your mother, and we can make the room
next door available for you if you want to stay.”
Usually, I correct people who make the mistake of referring to Scarlett as my mother. This time, I say nothing. Of course
I’m staying. Where else would I go?
“Why don’t you go home and have a shower. Get some clean clothes. Maybe even have a nap. I’m here now. You need a break, Scarlett.”
“I don’t know.” She looks doubtful. “I have been here for days, but I feel terrible leaving.”
“It’s okay. I’ll call you if anything changes. You need to take care of yourself first to be strong enough for him. Go. It’s
fine.” Scarlett dithers for a few seconds, before gathering her things and giving me another hug.
“Thank you,” she whispers. I know she needs to reset, wash her hair, grab clean clothes.
I don’t move from Marty’s side for the rest of the day. As the day turns into night, the nursing shift changes, murmurs and
shuffles coming from their desk. New nurses come in, and one comes over and offers me tea, a pillow. I ask for coffee. I am
determined to stay awake, but the coffee isn’t strong enough, and the jet lag and emotional exhaustion finally get to me,
and, with my father’s hand still in mine, I drift into a restless, uncomfortable sleep.
I jerk my eyes open, awakening suddenly, my neck hurting. For a moment I am completely disoriented. Where am I? What are those
unfamiliar noises? And then I realize where I am, and I look at my father, and his eyes are open and looking at me.
“Hey, Peanut,” he whispers as I kiss his cheek, noticing how stubbly it is. I bite my lip to stop myself from crying, but
it’s no use. I have never felt more powerless.
“I love you, Marty.” My voice cracks as I say it. “I love you, Dad.” It comes out. Dad. My dad. And my father, who has never
shown vulnerability in his life, then starts to cry.
“Ssssh. Ssssh.” I attempt to reassure him, but he is crying, his breath coming in jagged sobs.
“I wish I’d been a better father,” he sobs. “I wish I had been there for you. There’s so much I would have done differently.”
“You are an amazing father. You’re absolutely the best father I ever had.
” This elicits a smile from him, a flash of the old Marty, healthy Marty.
“I wouldn’t swap you for anyone in the world.
” He calms down then, smiling at me, with such love in his eyes, I have to blink my own tears away so I can drink it in.
Seconds later, he has slipped back into sleep. I stand up and stretch. It is three o’clock in the morning. I won’t leave his
side until Scarlett is back, and I won’t call her back until morning. She needs a night off, needs to sleep.
I stay in the chair until eight, when Scarlett appears in the doorway, looking much more like herself. Her hair is washed,
pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s in a cashmere sweater and leggings, furry Gucci mules that she treats as slippers to
keep her feet warm.
I run home to shower, change my clothes, try to feel human again. I had been so looking forward to this, to walking into my
own door, running up the stairs, seeing the neighbors, seeing Cressie, but now I feel numb, as if I have fallen into someone
else’s nightmare with no idea how to wake up.
I haul my suitcase up the stairs, longing to crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred years, but I can’t. Not yet. Not until
my father is out of the woods.
The apartment is quiet and dark. I can make out a body on the sofa and don’t want to turn on the light. Noah is still here,
sprawled on his stomach, his mouth open, fast asleep like a little boy.
His beautiful back.
I don’t want to wake him. I don’t want anyone to see me looking like this, and I can’t talk to anyone for fear I will break
down in uncontainable sobs. The one person who has guided me, advised me, been there whenever things have been hard, is now
semiconscious in a hospital bed, a shadow of his former self. And he may not make it.
I swallow the lump in my throat at the thought and go to my room. I wasn’t planning on sleeping, I was planning on showering and changing my clothes, but I lie down for a power nap, just ten minutes, and before I know it, I am in a deep, jet-lagged, overexhausted sleep.
I wake up three hours later, in a panic. I have a three-minute shower, scrubbing and rinsing as quickly as I can, pulling
on old soft jeans and a T-shirt, slipping on sneakers and throwing some things into a bag. I have no idea when I’ll be home
again.
I run to the door, pausing in the living room. The sofa is now a sofa again. The duvet has been neatly folded and hidden away,
and the living room is back to being spotless. Lucy and Noah are both out, and I punch out a quick text to both.
I’m home! My dad is sick in hospital so am running straight there but will see you later. Love you. Xxx I am saying love you to Lucy, I think. Not to Noah. But it’s irrelevant. I need to get back to the hospital.
The ICU is quiet. I hear my own footsteps echoing as I walk down the corridor toward my father. Scarlett is at the end, talking
to Dr. Levine.
I call out to her, and she turns, but it’s only as I get closer that I see her face is red and puffy, that her eyes are wet
with tears. I look from her to the doctor, back to Scarlett, and I know. I drop my bag and hear someone cry out “noooooooo,”
and I do not realize that someone is me.