The Complete Collection. William Wharton

      We drive off toward the hospital. I want to see if Dad can show me the way. He had a gall-bladder operation there ten years ago and did a lot of driving back and forth.

      But he can’t direct me at all; he’s like a child. He’s stopped thinking of streets and directions; he’s only watching things go by the car window. I ask what’s the best route, and he shrugs.

      ‘I don’t know, Mother usually drives us.’

      This is such a role reversal. It’s always been a joke in our family how Mom never knows where she’s been. She actually got lost once four blocks from home because she’d taken a wrong turn. She went into a police station to ask her way. I have something of this myself; I get lost easily.

      But I’m beginning to feel Dad is operating at less than a quarter of his capacity. I sense how this happens, how easily it could happen to me. It’s frightening how a combination of resignation and lack of confidence can debilitate far beyond any physiological loss.

      I determine to press Dad into naming the streets. I want to force his mind out from the back corner of his hand-built house on a dead-end-street nestled quietly between the arms of giant freeways. I’m pointing out streets as we go along, encouraging him to respond.

      Then, in the middle of my spiel, I realize he has something else on his mind. He gives off vibrations like dead air before a storm.

      ‘You know, John, this is a good hospital; the union recommends it.’

      I nod my head and turn left on De Soto.

      ‘But there’s an awful lot of niggers there; not just niggers, Japs.’

      He pauses, looks over at me.

      ‘Even so, Johnny, it’s a good hospital.’

      I try not to respond. I don’t want to get into it, especially right now.

      When we go in the hospital, the receptionist is a good-looking black woman and remembers me from the day before.

      ‘Hello, Mr Tremont, your mother seems fine today.’

      I’m impressed she remembers not only me but the situation. To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t noticed she was black when I came by myself. I’d registered her prettiness, kindness, efficiency, but not her color. It’s only because of the car conversation it hits me; that’s the way it goes.

      Dad’s standing there smiling, but it’s peculiar, as if he’s looking at someone in a cage at the zoo. She is in a kind of cage, a glass cage; maybe that’s part of it, or maybe it’s all in my mind.

      We start toward the elevator wading through Muzak.

      ‘Do you know her, Johnny?’

      ‘I talked with her when I came to see Mom last time.’

      ‘She certainly was nice.’

      ‘Yup, she seems like a fine person.’

      He shakes his head and speaks to the floor.

      ‘The world’s changed, Johnny; you wouldn’t believe how the world’s changed.’

      We enter the elevator. Dad’s becoming more nervous; his face is blanched, his hands are shaking. I put my arm over his shoulder.

      ‘Come on, Dad, it’s OK. They’re taking the best possible care of Mother. She’s getting exactly what she needs, a good rest.’

      We walk down the carpeted blue corridors; wild fantasy decorative paintings are on the walls. We arrive at the intensive care unit. It’s another black woman. I ask if we can see Mother. She checks her clipboard. It’ll be all right but we’re not to stay long. We walk around the nurse’s station over to Mom’s cubicle. She’s awake and sees us come in.

      Dad kisses her, and she cries. Dad starts crying, too. I’m feeling embarrassed. Mom and Dad have never been much for public demonstration of affection or emotion. I can’t think of any time I’ve seen them really kiss except for a peck goodbye or hello. Joan and I talked once about this. We were also trying to remember when Mother ever held or kissed us as children. Neither of us could remember this happening.

      Mother had a terrible experience as a young girl. She was one of ten children living in a three-bedroom row house in South Philadelphia. She had two sisters whose names were Rose and Anne; they slept three in a bed, Mom, the youngest, in the middle. Anne and Rose, in the course of one year, died of tuberculosis, called, in those days, galloping consumption.

      Mother, all her life, has been convinced she has tuberculosis. The horror of the whole experience was that Rose, the second to die, died in Mom’s arms. Mother was trying to hold her out the window on a hot summer day so she could breathe. Rose hemorrhaged suddenly and died within minutes. Mother was fourteen at the time and had what was called a ‘nervous breakdown’. She never went back to school.

      All her life, Mom’s had a bizarre fear of germs. She’d never kiss us on the mouth, neither my sister nor me. If she ever did kiss anybody, she’d wipe the kiss off right away as if she were wiping off lipstick; she was wiping off germs.

      Mom puts her arms out and wants me to come kiss her. She kisses me on the lips and doesn’t wipe. Maybe now she’s dying, germs don’t count. Dad stands looking at her, tears coming down his face. Mother gives him a fast once-over.

      ‘He looks marvelous, Jacky; you’re such a wonderful son. What would we do without you?’

      She pulls herself up in the bed.

      ‘Are you all right, Jack; are you taking your blood-pressure pills?’

      ‘Oh, yeah, Bette, I’m fine. You know, Johnny can cook and clean house, all those things; he’s like a regular wife.’

      Mother gives me a quick look, a short almost-snort.

      ‘You two just try keeping things going. I’ll be out of here soon. Eat at McDonald’s and there’s food in the freezer compartment.’

      Now she begins a detailed description of different menus Dad likes and can digest. This involves no onions, no garlic, no seasoning except salt. It gets down to various kinds of hamburger with either noodles or those fake mashed potatoes made from powder.

      I nod along. I figure I’ll use up what she has in the freezer but I have no intention of eating that way. Mom might be the world’s worst cook. I don’t want to perpetuate the tradition. I like cooking and prefer variety in my food; if I have to, I’ll cook twice, once for Dad, once for myself, but I’m sure Dad’ll enjoy what I cook. The poor bastard’s been living on poverty-hospital-type food for over fifty years.

      Dad’s staring at Mother as if he’s surprised to see her in bed, staying there, not getting up and taking over. It must be worse for him than it is for me. When we’re about to leave, he kisses her again; he can’t keep himself from saying it.

      ‘When are you coming home, Bette? How long do you think it will be?’

      Mom turns and gives me one of her looks. Now, these looks are special. In one way, it’s as if she’s trying to hide an expression, usually negative, from another person, but she does it so obviously everybody must notice; a Sarah Bernhardt dramatic gesture aimed for the last row in the balcony. This time she looks at me, raises her eyebrows and turns her eyes to the ceiling. She’s saying, ‘See, he’s helpless, he has no idea.’

      In a sense, this is true, but he’s standing right there; he sees it. It’s either incredible cruelty or insensitivity. She does this kind of thing about my sister, about our children and about me; it’s something I’ve never been able to take.

      ‘You know, Mom, Dad really would like to have you home. It’s perfectly natural; we all would. We’d like to get you out of here soon as possible.’

      I’m trying to ride over those crazy signals.

      ‘But you just have to take your time and relax. Do what the doctor says. You’ll be fine but you’ve