Dad. William Wharton

Dad. Call Joan first, give her the message.’

      He struggles up and goes over to the phone. He dials without lifting the receiver.

      ‘Lift the receiver, Dad.’

      He lifts it and holds it against his ear listening but now he isn’t dialing.

      ‘Dial, Dad.’

      He has the receiver wrong way around, the wire coming out of his ear.

      ‘Turn it around, Dad.’

      He turns the phone around on the table.

      ‘No, the receiver, Dad. Turn it so the wire comes out the mouth part.’

      He pulls it away from his head, stares at it, then slowly turns it around. He smiles. Now he concentrates on the card tacked to the wall.

      ‘Remember, Dad. Call Joan, not the ambulance or the fire department or the hospital. Call Joan.’

      ‘Yeah, I got it, John, Joan.’

      He begins dialing. He dials each number with great precision, keeping his finger in the hole to and fro. From the floor I can hear the phone ringing. Thank God, it’s Joan’s voice. I strain to listen. Dad’s holding the receiver two inches from his head.

      ‘Hello, Dad?’

      ‘Oh! Hi, Joan, how are you, nice to hear from you.’

      I loud-whisper from the floor.

      ‘Give her the message.’

      ‘Here, Joan, Johnny wants to talk with you.’

      He starts trying to pass the receiver down to me on the floor but the cord isn’t long enough.

      ‘No, Dad. Give her the message, remember, the message.’

      ‘Oh, yes. I remember. Joan? Johnny’s lying on the floor here, in front of me, and he says he’s Mother and he’s had a heart attack.’

      I’m not sure at this point if he’s kidding. I get up and take the phone.

      ‘Hello, Joan; guess who.’

      I can’t get a sensible word out of her. I’d been so involved with making my invincible plan work I hadn’t been seeing how funny it all is. I start laughing, too, and Dad’s sitting in the chair smiling. He’s glad to hear us laughing.

      We practice this sociodrama till Dad has it down pat. I phone the ambulance company and ask if they’ll handle a dummy call. They’re cooperative and go along with it. Dad spends half an hour afterward opening the door, expecting an ambulance.

      The next day he takes his usual hour making the bed. I peer in. He’s carefully smoothing out every wrinkle, crawling around on his knees, checking to see if the covers are hanging evenly on all sides. I try to show how he can just pull the covers up, tuck them under the pillows, pull the spread tight and smooth it all out. It’s one of those chenille bespreads with little white bumps in a swirling diamond pattern.

      Dad’s worrying there are hidden folds in the sheet underneath. I’m building a Frankenstein monster. He’s only got two sheets, the electric blanket and the bedspread but it’s enough to occupy him for an hour.

       I move along slowly with the heavy burlap sack hooked to my belt. Every foot length I push a hole in the moist earth with my staff, drop in a seed potato and stomp it down. It’s like sliding eggs under a brooding hen.

      I give up. It keeps him happy and gives him something to do. I have more time for myself. I begin doing my yoga while he’s fooling with the bed. I’m already fitting into Mom’s routine.

      Two years ago she saw me doing yoga and went into a whole drama about it being a heathen Hindu religion and I could be ex-communicated. She wanted me to confess to a priest. After that, visiting them, I carried on as a closet yogi.

      But Dad’s dressing himself. With the help of his cards he’s finding his own clothes, getting washed and generally taking care. He comes out for some ham and eggs. I give him his bearclaw, too. I turn on the music. He does the breakfast dishes and kitchen, using his card, while I do the sweeping and general picking up. With only the two of us there’s practically nothing to do. I scrub out the bathroom sink and tub with Ajax, then scour the toilet bowl.

      I show Dad how to put his dirty underwear, shirts and socks in the bathroom hamper and where to hang his slacks. He even learns how to look in that bottom drawer for his sweaters.

      The next trip to the hospital, he directs me all the way. He’s beginning to enjoy his newfound capacity to participate. He even asks questions about what it’s like living in Paris and how Jacky’s doing in school.

      Mother’s groggy. I don’t know whether they’ve medicated her or if this is the normal aftermath of a heart attack. I have an appointment with her doctor, Dr Coe.

      I leave Dad with Mom, and go downstairs to Coe’s office. He’s a young fellow, considerate and reasonable. He gives me a rundown on what’s happened to Mother; shows me cardiograms and points out significant details. Apparently an arteriosclerotic condition has caused an occlusion and insufficient blood is reaching her heart. It’s a question of how much damage was done and how well the heart can compensate. If it gets desperate, they might try a bypass, but at her age it isn’t recommended. He feels bed rest with a medical approach is best.

      He reiterates how it’s all a dangerous and treacherous business.

      I’m impressed with Coe but depressed about Mom’s condition. I go back to her room and she’s more awake. I tell her how I’ve talked to her doctor, seen all the cardiograms. She’s distinctly had a heart attack, there’s no way around it. I tell her she’ll be fine if she only follows the doctor’s advice. She just must relax, take it easy; she’s worked too hard all her life anyway.

      Her eyes moisten; she’s working up her ‘fight back at all costs’ look.

      ‘But how can I relax, Jacky? How can I possibly take care of your father? You know how he is.’

      ‘Don’t worry. We’re working things out. Dad’ll be able to take over when you come home. He made his own bed this morning and washed the dishes. I’m teaching him to cook. He’s watering the garden and keeping the lawn up. It’ll all work out fine.’

      Now she’s crying, crying mad.

      ‘Don’t tell me. You’ll go back to your beatnik life and Joan’s too busy with her own family. King Kong, the big-shot wop, will never let her come over more than once a week. He won’t even let her phone me, even though I pay so she can phone free. I know, don’t kid me!’

      I wait it out. Dad leans forward. He’s suffering seeing Mother cry; she doesn’t cry all that much.

      ‘Honest, Bette, you’ll see. I’m really trying; I’ll get on top of this. Don’t you worry; we’ll make out OK.’

      Pause for three seconds.

      ‘How long do you think it’ll be before you come home, Bette?’

      It’s not so much the question as the plaintive note in his voice. Mother shoots me one of the looks through tears.

      ‘Don’t worry, Dad! It’ll be a while yet. The doctor will tell us when she’s ready. It costs over two hundred dollars a day keeping Mom in this intensive care unit and they don’t hold people here any longer than they need to. When her heart’s settled down and is working better, they’ll move her to another part of the hospital, then home. We’ll set up our own private little hospital for her right there in the side bedroom.’

      Mother’s crying again.

      ‘I’d rather be dead than live like this. You mean all my life I’m going to be a cripple, a burden to everybody? It’s not fair. It’s not fair this should happen to me of all people. I’ve always taken care of myself, exercised, eaten a balanced diet with vitamins; everything, and all for nothing. It’s