The Complete Collection. William Wharton

claims this proves he’s getting more senile every day and soon he’ll be crazy as his son. Dad says he feels like Dagwood, or a prisoner, in the striped pajamas. He sings a few lines from one of his all-time favorites.

      ‘Oh, if I had the wings of an angel,

      O’er these prison walls I would fly;

      Into the arms of my loved one and

      There I would so safely hide.’

      His voice is tremulous but strong and in tune. I don’t think I’ve heard him sing since he used to sing us to sleep when we were kids.

      That night they want to sleep together. I move from the garden room into the side bedroom and Mom goes to sleep with Dad in the back bedroom. He smiles and says it’s the nicest birthday present of all. This is verging on the risqué from him; Joan laughs and he blushes.

      In the middle of the night I hear the buzzer beside my bed. I pick up the receiver but there’s Dad at my bedroom door; his face is white in the dim light.

      ‘Mother thinks she’s having another heart attack, Johnny. She looks awful.’

      I jump up and run back to their bedroom. She’s pale and sweating but conscious. She says she’s having terrible pain and tightness in the chest. She’s crying. I give her some digoxin but it doesn’t help. Now I have to do all the things I’ve been preparing Dad for. I leave him with her and tell him to yell if she goes unconscious.

      First, I call an ambulance, then phone the hospital to alert them we’re coming in.

      I go back to the bedroom. She’s still conscious but in great pain, crying. I think she’s crying mostly from disappointment and discouragement; she’d actually almost psyched herself out of that heart attack. She’s also scared.

      The ambulance arrives in less than ten minutes. They roll in a stretcher and oxygen; they put her on oxygen immediately. The paramedic takes her blood pressure, shakes his head and says we’d better hurry. We wheel her out to the ambulance; I say I’ll go with them and ask Dad if he wants to come along. He says, no, he’ll stay home and pray.

      We take off in the ambulance, with the orange light twisting and sirens blaring, through the red light on Palms. At the hospital, we go straight through emergency and they move her up to intensive care. I’m left in the emergency waiting room.

      Half an hour later, a young doctor comes down and asks for me. He tells me she’s having another attack and they’re doing everything possible. He says there’s nothing I can do and I should go home. They’ll call me if there’s any major change. He means if she dies.

      I need to take a piss something awful, and go into the rest room. I glance in the mirror and I’m almost pale as Mom. I’d no idea how much shock I’m in. I’m also feeling guilty about the birthday party and them sleeping together. She fooled me. She probably fooled herself, too. It’s so hard to know where to draw the line.

      I take a cab home. Dad’s standing at the door waiting. He’s still in his pajamas but he’s had the sense to put on a sweater and his new cap. I pay off the taxi and go in.

      ‘How is she, Johnny? How’s she doing?’

      He’s close to tears; he has his rosary in his hand.

      ‘She’s OK, Dad; don’t worry. She’ll be OK. They put her back in the intensive care unit. The doctors are doing everything that needs to be done. They have all the backup machinery.’

      I lead Dad to his bedroom and help him into bed. While I was gone, he remade the bed completely in his meticulous way. I put out the light and close the door. I think of phoning Joan but decide against it. It’s out of our hands. There’s nothing we can do and Joan needs her rest. I’m feeling wrung out. I go back to bed and somehow do get to sleep.

      The next morning I phone the hospital; there’s no change. I go over things with Dad. He seems OK; he hasn’t gone into any withdrawal symptoms like the first time. He’s with it, wanting to help.

      ‘This has to be a lesson for us both, Dad. We can’t listen to her. She doesn’t want to believe she’s sick so she isn’t to be trusted. We need to protect her from herself.’

      Dad nods.

      ‘Yep, it’s hard keeping ahead of her, John. You never know what she’s really thinking.’

      I call Joan and tell her what’s happened. She’s shocked and feels as guilty as I do. She agrees to meet me at the hospital. Dad says he’ll stay home, clean up the kitchen and work in his greenhouse. It’s best not laying too much on him.

      Mother’s heavily sedated and all the monitors are on. She’s tied into IV and catheter; the whole works spinning to keep her alive. The nurses remember us. They say Dr Coe has examined Mother and wants us in his office.

      We go down. He tells us there’s definitely been another attack but it doesn’t seem’s severe as the first one. He asks if there’d been any sudden shock or stress situation. I tell about the birthday party and Dad sleeping with her. He shakes his head.

      ‘We need to be more careful with her, Mr Tremont. You’ve got to see she doesn’t overdo herself; she can’t take many more of these traumas, her heart’s not up to it.’

      On the way home, Joan and I stop for a pizza. We’re both depressed. We try to think out what we can do. Dad can’t keep her down any more than we can. I want to remove all the cleaning equipment from the house so she can’t get to it. I’ll lock the dirty wash in the garden bedroom. It’s like hiding razor blades from a potential suicide. Joan shakes her head.

      ‘Look, John, we’ve got to let her live her own life. She has a right to that, at least.’

      I can’t be so sure. It’s hard for me to let go.

      Joan says she’ll come twice a week and try keeping things impossibly clean. I volunteer to buy her a toothbrush so she can clean out cracks in the hardwood floors.

      We talk about my ticket; I’m almost run over the forty-five days. Joan says she and Mario will split the cost of the return ticket if I can only stay on. She knows I want to get home but what else is there to do?

      Next day I take Dad to see Mom. She’s conscious but still heavily sedated. She’s weepy. Dad’s crying, too, and in shock seeing her so low. He hadn’t seen her at the worst part the first time. Mother speaks in a thin, broken voice.

      ‘If a little thing like a birthday party is going to give me a heart attack, what’s the use of living? Just to stay alive I’m not going to be an invalid all my life.’

      I hesitate, then play my last trump.

      ‘Mother, that’s despair; the more you talk and think like that, the less confidence you’re showing in God. It doesn’t help your chance for recovery and you’re endangering your immortal soul. Also, it’s cruel to Dad.’

      I hate using this line, but it’s looking desperate to me. If Mother decides not to live, nothing in this world could keep her alive.

      Dad looks at me as if the local paperhanger had suddenly turned into an axe murderer.

      ‘Mother, when you talk this way, it’s sinful; false pride, an insult to God and his mysterious ways.’

      What the hell, it probably won’t do any good but it’s worth the try. Mom’s torn between spite and salvation, but gradually settles down. She doesn’t have many choices.

      Dad and I go back to our old routines. Dad begins perking up. We both enjoy the camaraderie we had before. With Mother home it was a rat race: scurrying around trying to please her; continually feeling inadequate.

      First, we build a handrail for the staircase from the side door to the patio. It’s healing to work with good tools and oak in the sunshine.

      Later, after we store the lounge chairs and turn the sprinkler off in the back garden, we stand staring at the lowering sun.

      ‘Johnny,