Whisper Me This(20)

Dad’s eyes stay closed. For a fraction of an instant, I think he isn’t breathing, but then a low buzz, a snore, vibrates through his slack lips. The nurse puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes him, gently. “Mr. Addington. Walter.”

Dad’s eyes fly open. “Where’s Leah?” He scrambles to sit up, arms and legs jerky and uncoordinated.

“Take it easy, Walter,” the nurse says, pressing back on his shoulder.

Dad’s eyes dart around the room and light on me. “Maisey. God. I have to find Leah.”

“Easy,” I tell him. “We’ll find her in a minute.”

He fumbles with the rails, trying to find the catch, but his hands are shaking, and his fingers are stiff. He rattles the railings and starts shouting. “Lower these goddamn rails and let me go.”

Blood starts backing up the IV tube in his left arm. The contraption on his finger pops off. An alarm starts beeping.

Dr. Margoni puts her hand over his clenched fist and looks directly into his wild eyes. “Walter, it’s Dr. Margoni. Leah is being taken care of. I promise.”

“She’s dying. Oh God.” He gasps for breath. His right hand releases the railing and goes to his heart. His skin looks gray. “I can’t—she’s all I’ve got.”

“Dad. Breathe. We’re not going to let her die. Okay? I don’t know what she made you promise, but I’m not going to let her die.”

“I need to be with her,” he says. “Where is she? Leah? Leah!”

“Daddy. Please. Lie back down.”

The nurse pushes a button that sets off another alarm. I grab Dad’s left hand and try to pry it off the railing, wanting to hold it, wanting to salvage the IV, needing him to transition back from wild man to my calm and predictable father.

A woman in scrubs runs in, followed by a man and another woman.

“I’ll get the nitro,” one of them says.

“Give him two milligrams of Ativan,” Dr. Margoni directs. “And let’s get him in restraints.”

“On it!” One of the nurses bustles back out.

“Walter. Mr. Addington. You need to calm down.”

But Dad is beyond reason. He swings at Dr. Margoni, who just barely evades the blow. She wrestles Dad’s arm and starts wrapping it in a soft restraint that she ties to the bedrail.

“Mr. Addington,” Dr. Margoni says again. “Listen to me.” Dad turns his head in her direction, and the nurse uses the distraction to pry his free hand from the bedrails and start wrapping it in the restraints.

“You’ll hurt your heart. You need to calm down. Leah needs you to be calm, okay? She wants you to breathe and just wait here for her.”

A nurse returns with a syringe and a plastic cup harboring three tiny little pills. She injects medication into his IV. Within minutes he stops fighting the restraints, his eyes drooping.

“Open,” the nurse says, as if he’s a child. Dad opens his mouth, and she plants one tiny tablet under his tongue. “Nitroglycerin,” she explains to me. “For his heart.”

Dad sighs. His eyelids drift closed.

“Is he having a heart attack?” My hands are pressed over my own heart, feeling its pounding.

Dr. Margoni smiles at me. “I don’t think so. He gets chest pain when his heart is stressed, like now. Nitro opens up the vessels.”

I stare at the man tied to the bed, quiet now under the influence of the sedatives. If I hadn’t seen him take a swing at Dr. Margoni, I wouldn’t have believed him capable of it.

The doctor seems to read my thoughts. “It’s amazing what even a small illness can do to the mental processes in an elderly adult. I suspect he’ll be much better tomorrow.”

“God, I hope so.”

Watching him like this is worse in some ways from what is going on with my mother.

“You might take a look around to see if you can find an advance directive for either of your parents.”

“Do I need an attorney?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea. For right now, though,” she says, “you and your daughter need to get some rest.”

I’m about to object. I need to check on Mom. And there’s no way I can leave Dad like this, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But then I look at Elle, who has retreated into the visitor’s chair, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped around them. Tears pour silently down both cheeks.

Shit.

I am in over my head. This is an understatement. I am miles below the surface, in the deepest, darkest canyon of the ocean floor, and I’m not in some special little diver bell contraption, either.

The EKG nurse has the wires all hooked up, and a reassuring, steady beeping fills the room.

Dad has already passed out cold. Whatever was in that syringe, I want some. Only, of course, I have to go on being responsible and get Elle to bed and, horror of horrors, call on Greg for legal advice.





Chapter Seven

As it turns out, I don’t need to call Greg. Two minutes into the drive home from the hospital, he calls me.

“What’s going on?” he demands—barks, really, like a drill sergeant with a whole new batch of green recruits.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied.”