On Rotation(98)

“He made me think he was a whiz at arcade games,” Ricky had mused. “But turns out he just slipped the kid working the counter forty bucks to hand it over.” He’d laughed humorlessly, lifting his arm to cover his eyes. “And of course, it was Abuelo’s money, so, technically, not even a gift from him.”

Still, Ricky had ridden that scooter until it fell apart.

I wondered whether Ricky was remembering that day in Chuck E. Cheese now, thinking of the last time Gabriel had felt like his father.

“Okay,” I said. My hands itched to reach for him, and so I clenched them at my sides, gritting my teeth, and stood, moving to give him space. “I’ll give you a few minutes, then. I’ll be back—”

Ricky’s arms snaked around my waist.

I stared down at the crown of his head in shock, my shins knocking against the base of the couch as he tugged me closer in between his legs. From this vantage point, I could see that his shoulders were trembling. He pressed his face into my stomach, leaving it warm and wet. It took me a moment to realize that he was crying.

Fuck. The tears that I’d been holding back for days rolled down my cheeks, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him close as his tears turned into body-racking sobs. I’m sorry, I wanted to say. I’m sorry this is happening to you. I’m sorry your dad is dying. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here to help from the start.

But sorry wasn’t enough, so I didn’t say anything at all, just balanced precariously on the balls of my feet and rubbed circles into his back as he broke into pieces in my arms.

Eventually, his breathing evened, and his hold on me loosened. I stroked his hair idly, knowing that he would be shy.

“Are you ready?” I asked softly. I knew it was premature, but I’d seen Gabriel’s blood pressures. There was really no more time to waste.

Ricky cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze. His eyes were still glazed with tears, and I wanted nothing more than to kiss them away. But instead, I settled for giving him a comforting smile and a small pack of hospital-issue tissues. He accepted them silently, wiping off his face.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice still hoarse. He coughed, then tried again. “Let’s go.”

*

As planned, we went into the room before the ICU team. We called the interpreter first, informing him of our plan. Wordlessly, Ricky grasped my hand as we walked toward his father’s hospital room, giving Bethany and Dr. Milner a nod as we passed. Together, Ricky seemed to be saying. We’re doing this together.

Abuela was waiting for us when we arrived. Her rosary, normally tucked in a pouch in her pocket, was wrapped around her wrist. She jostled her husband awake, then scooted to the edge of the couch. Her gaze flickered to our conjoined hands, then back to our haunted faces.

“You have something to tell us,” she said, giving us a nod. “And we are ready to hear it.”

Ricky and I exchanged a glance, and I took a deep breath.

“All right,” I said.

And then we began.

*

I slid the door to Gabriel’s room shut, waiting to hear the soft thump of the air pressure shifting before dropping my head backward against the glass. Under my closed eyelids, I could still see Abuela and Mr. Gutiérrez’s gray, resolute faces, still picture the pale-knuckled grip Abuela had on her husband’s shirt.

“How long do we have?” she’d asked, her voice firm even through her tears. Minutes? Hours? Days?

Months ago, when I’d watched Shruti lead the resuscitation effort for the young gunshot victim, I’d marveled at her objectiveness in the face of tragedy. But I hadn’t seen what happened next. I’d missed Shruti sitting the boy’s mother down after the code was inevitably called, holding her shattering body in her arms as she told her that it was over. All this time, I’d assumed that being a doctor meant performing miracles. Fixing bodies. Saving lives. I had hardly considered the flip side of that coin: that it also meant looking a patient’s family in the eye and telling them to say their last goodbyes. That it meant staring down the permanence of death over and over again, until it stopped feeling like something to be prevented at all costs and instead became something to be occasionally embraced.

I wandered back to the family meeting room. Part of me was tempted to glance at the monitor in the nursing station that displayed Gabriel’s vital signs remotely, but it seemed improper to count down a man’s death, and so I dropped my head against the back of the couch and tried to understand why I felt like I was losing someone too. A more innocent, naive version of myself, maybe? The one that hadn’t been forced to tell the man she loved and the woman she had come to admire that their father and son was circling the drain?

Several minutes later, the door to the family room creaked open. I jumped to my feet, ready to vacate in case Dr. Milner needed the room for a different family, but it was Ricky, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the door open for his grandparents. I gave him a questioning look, and, understanding, he answered with a grim nod. So it was over, then. What had I told Abuela, when she asked how much more time she had with her son? I don’t know, but I don’t think he’ll last the day. He had hardly lasted the hour.

Mr. Gutiérrez glanced at me, then back at his grandson, saying something quietly in Spanish.

“He’s saying, ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for our family,’” Ricky translated. His eyes were no longer bloodshot, but I could see the exhaustion in the droop of his shoulders. “And, um, that if you would like, you should come to the funeral.”