13.
Justin
The ribbon of cars stretches endlessly before me, a sluggish train that winds its way from Denver to my father. Fifty miles shouldn’t take two hours, but the universe seems indifferent to urgency or the torment of my thoughts. I’m trapped in this automotive purgatory, inching forward while my mind races back through every terse conversation, every missed opportunity with my father. I’m not even sure how I feel about the fact that he’s dying.
When I finally pull into the hospital parking lot, it seems less like an arrival and more like a surrender. I kill the engine, though my hands still grip the wheel as if it might anchor me against the tidal wave of anxiety threatening to sweep me away. Thea’s text message glows on my phone. Room 307. I commit it to memory and shove the phone into my pocket, steeling myself for what awaits.
I stride into the hospital, the antiseptic smell engulfing me, and head straight for the elevators. As I draw nearer to Dad’s room, I realize there’s a crowd in the hallway, bodies huddled in quiet conversation. There’s an unmistakable air of reverence among them, and I know without asking that they are here for him.
Dad’s charm has always been an enigma to me. To his students, he’s a mentor, a guiding light, and their respect for him is palpable in their somber vigil. But I remember the man who came home each night, a silent shadow drained by his own brilliance, having reserved none of his energy for us, his family.
As I approach, there’s a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a collective tightening as eyes flick toward me, wondering who I am and why I have the right to push past them. I offer no greeting, just a nod as I slip into the room where my father lies.
“Justin,” he breathes. “You made it.”
Somehow, his simple acknowledgment seems like an accusation. I’ve come all this way, less than twenty-four hours after he called, but I wonder if it will ever be far enough.
Thea wraps me in a hug, and before I can formulate a response, the door swings open again. A tall woman enters, Dr. Keller embroidered on her white coat, her presence commanding enough to get the students sitting near the bed on their feet with a simple gesture. “Okay, everyone, visiting hours are over for now. Dr. Capriotti needs his rest,” she declares. “Only family in the room now.”
The students shuffle out, leaving just the four of us enclosed within the sterile walls of the hospital room. The doctor introduces herself briskly to me, then turns to my father. “Dr. Capriotti, as we’ve discussed, your cancer was caught early, and I’m optimistic about the surgery tomorrow. Recovery should be swift.”
Dad nods, his face firming with a resilience that borders on defiance. “I’ll be lecturing in no time,” he says with a confidence that irks me.
Swift recovery? He let me worry that this visit could be the last. Did he think our relationship was so strained I wouldn’t come if he told the truth? No. He adores the attention.
I stand before them—credit card maxed out, travel weary, and emotionally spent—prepared for a final farewell that now seems premature. The irony isn’t lost on me; how typical of Dad to turn the tables, making his recovery another hurdle for me to navigate.
Thea’s hand comes to rest on Dad’s arm. “You should try to get some rest,” she says.
Dad’s eyes flash with that familiar stubborn spark as he looks up at her, irritation in his features. “I don’t need babysitting, Thea,” he snaps. Then, without missing a beat, he turns his sharp gaze to me. “And you,” he growls, “you could show a little gratitude for once.”
I bite back my retort, the sting of his words clashing with the concern that pulled me across states. I’m here, aren’t I? What, exactly, am I supposed to be grateful for? But I swallow the words; arguing would only exhaust us both.
Seeming unfazed, Dr. Keller gives us the rundown on what to expect tomorrow. Thea and I nod and don’t ask many questions. Then when she suggests Dad rest, he nods and shuts his eyes.
Thea and I exit Dad’s room, and the hallway outside remains crowded with eager faces, young students who hang on the periphery of Dad’s influence like satellites. They murmur among themselves, casting glances toward his door, toward us.
“Dr. Capriotti needs his rest,” Thea announces, her voice carrying a note of authority. It’s a practiced tone, no doubt honed from years of managing classrooms and unruly undergrads.
As we wait for the elevator, Thea turns to me. “Lunch?” she asks, a tentative offer extended like an olive branch.
“Sure,” I reply, more out of need to escape the hospital’s oppressive atmosphere than actual hunger.
Then, something catches my eye. I nod toward Dad’s room, where the door has swung open again, revealing a swarm of students filtering back in. Thea follows my gaze, her surprise evident. “I thought they’d give him space,” she murmurs.
“Looks like Dad’s gravitational pull is stronger than we thought,” I say, but there’s no humor in my voice, just resignation. Dad always did have a way of bending situations—and people—to his will.
The elevator dings its arrival, and we step inside, leaving sickbed politics and quiet family battles behind.
A few minutes later, the bell above the door jingles as we enter Avogadro’s Number sandwich shop, a refuge from the hospital’s antiseptic chill. Here the air is rich with the scent of baked bread and cured meats.
“Still know your order by heart?” Thea asks, likely trying to keep the conversation light.
“Like it was tattooed on my brain,” I reply, stepping up to the counter. The man behind it greets us with a nod that seems to say the usual? though I haven’t been here in years. My order rolls off my tongue—a pastrami sandwich with Havarti, extra spicy mustard, and a tangle of pickled peppers. On impulse, I grab a bag of salt and vinegar chips. Thea opts for simplicity, a basic BLT, and adds a similar bag of chips to our tray.
We settle in a corner booth, away from the lunchtime bustle, where the sunlight filters through a checkerboard of smudges on the window. There’s a moment of silence as we unwrap our sandwiches, the paper crinkling loudly in the quiet between us.
“How are you holding up?” I ask, breaking the stillness.
The smile Thea offers is practiced. “I’ve been better,” she confesses, picking at the edge of her sandwich. “I filed for divorce just before… Well, before the diagnosis.”
Understanding floods through me, mingling with a twinge of guilt for not being there when she might have needed support. “I’m sorry, Thea.” My words are genuine, but they seem inadequate against the backdrop of everything else crumbling down.
She waves off my apology, a flick of her wrist that sends a piece of lettuce skittering across the table. “It’s life, right? We roll with it.” She takes a bite of her BLT, a punctuation mark to her statement.
We fall into a rhythm of eating and small talk, the crunch of our chips filling the spaces where deeper conversations might loom. Eventually, Thea looks up from her plate, her expression softening. “You know, your dad—despite everything—he’s incredibly proud of you.”
I pause mid-chew, the sharp tang of mustard suddenly overwhelming. “He never says so.”
“But he does, Justin. In his lectures, among his colleagues, your success is his favorite topic.” Her eyes hold mine, earnest and revealing.
Surprise crashes through me without warning. Dad talks about me? Boasts about what I’ve done? It’s a thread of connection in a tapestry that often seems frayed beyond repair.
“Thanks for telling me,” I manage, the words thick around a lump in my throat.
I focus on the remaining half of my sandwich, and eventually, I shuffle back to the hospital, the hum of Thea’s car fading behind me. The sterile smell again greets me as I push back through the sliding doors.
Outside Dad’s room, I’m a statue among the bustle, phone pressed to my ear. My team’s voices crackle with static and urgency from San Francisco. We’re going around again about the EV battery that’s become my daily puzzle. “No, we can’t just recalibrate the thermal management system,” I tell them, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s more complex than that.”
“Justin, we’ve tried everything,” Austin insists, his voice tight with frustration.
“Keep at it,” I say, though doubt is a heavy stone in my stomach. “I’ll review the schematics tonight. We’ll figure this out.” I end the call, exhaling a long breath.
Slipping into Dad’s room, I find him holding court from his bed, a thin blanket draped over him like royal robes. Students cluster around, hanging on every word. I slide into a corner, seemingly unnoticed, my gaze flickering between my father’s animated gestures and the relentless inbox on my phone screen.
Hours trickle by, and Dad’s audience thins as visiting hours wane, their reluctant goodbyes echoing softly. Finally, a nurse ushers the last of them out with a polite finality that brooks no argument.
“Looks like it’s closing time for the fan club,” I muse, approaching the bedside.
“Ah, but the star has arrived,” Dad quips. Yet there’s a tinge of reproach in his smile. “Glad you could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, though guilt gnaws at me. “But I have to head back tomorrow. I’ll stay for your surgery, but I need to get back to my work. It’s not going smoothly.”
“Always something with you,” he says, a hint of disappointment coloring his words. “But you’re a troubleshooter. You’ll get it sorted.”
“Hope so,” I murmur, looking away. There’s comfort in his confidence, even if it seems misplaced right now. “Anyway, get some rest, Dad. Big day tomorrow.”
“Will do,” he replies, settling back against his pillows. His eyes, though tired, hold mine for a moment longer before he closes them.
“See you in the morning,” I add, though it’s more to the silence than to him. I leave the room, the click of the door behind me sealing the end of a day that stretched too long and cut too deep.
Back at his house a little while later, I lie in my childhood bed, the springs creaking under my weight as if in complaint at my return. The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling have long lost their luminescence, but I can still make them out in the moonlight sneaking through the blinds. It’s ironic how a room so full of boyhood dreams now seems like a mausoleum for happiness that was never truly there.
Why did I stay? The question dances around the edges of my thoughts, elusive yet persistent. Mom had offered to take me with her, but there was Dad, hollowed out by her departure, a shell of the vibrant teacher everyone adored. I’d thought, foolishly, that I could fill that void, be the solution to his solitude. But some things are beyond repair, and my presence was just another reminder of what he’d lost.
The digital clock on the nightstand flicks to midnight, and I still can’t shake the restlessness churning within me. I reach for my phone and dial Crystal’s number; she answers on the second ring, her voice sleepy yet concerned.
“Hey, it’s me,” I murmur, sitting up and running a hand through my hair. “Sorry, did I wake you?”
“No, it’s okay. How’s your dad?” Crystal’s always good like that, putting others’ needs before her own.
I sigh heavily. That’s a hard question for me to answer. “He’s…the same. Full of bravado for his audience, but there’s an edge to it, you know? Like he’s performing even when it’s just us.”
Crystal doesn’t rush to fill the silence that follows. She seems to know I’m not finished.
“I’ve been thinking about it all—my childhood, growing up with him. I stayed because he was hurt, and I thought I could fix things, make him happy again. But I couldn’t, and I won’t ever be able to.” My voice is steady, but the truth of the words is like a punch to the gut.
“Justin, you were just a kid,” she says softly. “You can’t blame yourself for trying to help your dad.”
“Maybe. But I’ve realized I never want to be like him. Not the way he let his pain consume him or how he pushed everyone else away when they needed him. And especially not the way he makes everything about him, even in his weakest moments.”
“Then you won’t be,” she replies. “You’re aware, and that’s more than half the battle. You care, Justin. That’s what sets you apart.”
“Thanks, Crystal,” I whisper. “I needed to hear that.”
“Anytime. Now, get some sleep, okay? You’ve got a lot to handle when you get back.”
“Will do. Goodnight,” I say, ending the call and returning the phone to the nightstand. The room seems less suffocating now, the shadows not as menacing. Maybe that’s what facing the truth of my father’s imperfections does, or maybe it’s the result of assurance from someone who believes in me.
I ease back onto the pillow, closing my eyes, and once again, I resolve… I won’t be like my father.
I push through the hospital doors, the morning light casting long, angular shadows across the hallway. The scent of antiseptic hangs heavy, a stark contrast to the crisp Colorado air outside. As I round the corner to enter my father’s room, I’m again greeted by a small congregation of eager young faces. His teaching assistant and several grad students are clustered around his bed, hanging on his every word.
“Thank you all for coming,” I say, my voice steady but devoid of the warmth expected in such reunions. Their murmurs of acknowledgment feel distant. “He appreciates it more than you know.”
Dr. Keller arrives, this time in her scrubs and with her hair tucked away in a net. “Okay, everyone who is not family needs to leave.”
The students slowly disappear, with promises that they’ll be there waiting for his return.
Thea and I wish Dad well, and then he’s rolled away, leaving us alone for a few moments. The surgery should go relatively quickly, so we wait down in the cafeteria, choosing a table far away from the students clustered to one side. We drink burned coffee and make small talk.
When the time is up, we return upstairs, and the nurses take us to a private area. Dad’s surgery has been successful, they tell us, and he’ll be out of recovery shortly and wheeled back to his room.
Thea tells me about the new condo she’s found, close to Horsetooth Reservoir. “I hope we can keep in touch and be friends after this is all over,” she says. “I’m so proud of your success.”
“I’d like that,” I tell her, and I mean it.
They roll Dad in, and he seems alert, already chatting. I smile and stand to approach him, but he waves his students in. I catch my father’s eye, searching for some sign of connection, but it’s as if we’re looking at each other across an insurmountable chasm. No words pass between us; what is there left to say? There’s no real reason for me to be here, so with a curt nod, I turn and leave the room, the absence of any emotion from my father as telling as a shout in the silence.
The drive back to my mother’s house is uneventful, the car now just another vessel carrying me from one point of unresolved history to another. I pull into the driveway, and she’s already at the door, her smile wide and welcoming.
“How is he doing?” she asks before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Stable,” I reply, handing her the keys. “His surgery went well, and he’s doing great. He was back to holding court when I left.”
Mom nods, likely understanding the subtext of that statement. She’s going to drive me to the airport, and after I’ve gone inside to gather the rest of my things, we stop for lunch on the way not far from her house. We slide into a booth at a little Mexican restaurant we used to frequent, the smell of spices and sizzling meats flooding my senses.
“Try the carnitas,” Mom suggests. “They’ve added a new salsa verde that’s incredible.”
“Sounds great.” I nod, allowing myself a moment of indulgence in the comfort food of my past.
Throughout the meal, Mom fusses over me, refilling my water glass before it’s half empty, asking about work and my life in San Francisco, anything to reaffirm the connection she’s always tried to maintain. It’s a stark contrast to the emotional void of my father’s hospital room.
As we finish our food, she reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “Graham and I are planning a trip out to see you soon,” she says, her tone hopeful but tentative, as if bracing for rejection.
“Good,” I manage, the word catching slightly in my throat. “That would be nice.”
After that, the ride out to the airport goes way too fast. I miss her so much, wish I had more of her in my life.
We linger at the curb, the goodbye stretching as she clings to our hug, my arms patting her back in a rhythm. Then, with a final wave, I watch her drive away, and I head to security and on to my flight.
I shuffle down the narrow aisle of the plane, trying not to bump into every person as I make my way to the back. I reach the last row and slump into the middle seat, with the persistent odor of the nearby bathroom again invading my space.
As the plane taxis to the runway, my phone buzzes with unread emails and missed calls, a digital tether to my life in San Francisco. I ignore them, choosing instead to watch the world outside shrink away. The engines roar, and we lift off, the city below becoming a patchwork of memories I’m not sure I want to keep.
For the duration of the flight, I remain in my cramped quarters, the middle seat like a metaphor for my life—stuck between where I’ve come from and where I’m going. But then I think about Crystal. She’s something good that’s part of my future, and I can’t wait to see her.