Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(36)

The room quieted, and a nurse whose voice I recognized as a woman named Lettie said, “We’re monitoring you closely, Mister Drazen. Is there anything you need?”

“No.”

“We’ll be in and out,” she said, patting my shoulder before leaving me alone with my father for the first time in ten years.

“Mom’s going to be here soon.”

“That was what I wanted to bring up.”

“Do it quick.”

He sat in Monica’s chair, and I didn’t have the energy to tell him to get the f**k up.

“I know what you and Carrie think of me. I know you think I’m a monster. Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I am. I’ve always known I was different, but I want you to consider this. I’ve never done anything in a rage of emotion. I’ve never been ruled by what I don’t understand. I’ve never deceived myself into thinking my actions were anything but self-serving. However, I do want things. I do need things.”

I reacted. It was half laugh, half groan, but I was so focused on staying together I thought nothing showed on my face. But everything must have been there. Disdain. Disbelief. Disgust.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

“In my life, I know I’ve done everything I could to keep this family together. Nothing is as important to me. And when I see it breaking, it...troubles me.”

Even Dad had a safe place, apparently. I knew I smiled at the thought, but I felt out of myself.

“And me here reminds you of how you f**ked it all up?” I asked.

“Not exactly.”

Lettie bustled in, checked my tubes. “You have visitors,” she said. “Do you want to see them?”

“Five minutes.”

She took her time, tapping into a computer, taking notes. When a man came in, doctor or nurse, I couldn’t tell, they spoke briefly in medicalese, the one language I didn’t know, and left soon after.

“You’re close to the end, you know,” Dad said.

“See you in hell.” I was being obstructive, because it was easy.

“You’re making this hard for me.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

I heard him shift in his seat, flashed movement from the corner of my eye. “I want your mother. She’s entrenched in her position. She can’t forget the past. I need what’s left of this family to work before...well, before.”

“Your philandering isn’t her fault.”

“I need you to talk to her. She won’t ignore your request.”

I wanted something from him, something big, but I had nothing to threaten him with, nothing to ensure he’d keep his promises. What was I supposed to do? Plead? I was already flat on my back.

“Stay away from my wife.”

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“Sell that house. Hello and good-bye. That’s it.” I couldn’t go into longer explanations of all the things I didn’t want him to do. Touch her. Tell her jokes. Communicate with her unsupervised. Entangle her business. Go to her second wedding. Breathe her air. Exist on her planet.

“Promise it,” I said, feeling the futility of my demand. What was I going to do? Hold my pinkie out for a good twist or make him swear on a stack of Bibles? What was the devil’s promise worth without a blood guarantee?

“You’ll speak to your mother?”

“Yes.”

“If you convince her, you have a deal.”

“If not?”

“Then, not. I’m sorry. My promise is contingent on the actions of a third party.”

“I despise you.”

“What if I told you I loved you?”

“You don’t have the capacity.”

I may have said that, or something else, but the space around me fell into a dream with disembodied voices and floating lights, with a touch of pain, just to keep me from sleep.

CHAPTER 37.

MONICA

I waited in the cafeteria, alone. I wrote a little, some verses about murder that could probably be used against me in a court of law, with the judge unmoved toward leniency by the fact that they were atrocious, puerile, on-the-nose.

Whatever was going on, it was taking too long. I went up to Jonathan’s floor and found Deirdre staring at a magazine that couldn’t have been of interest to her, and Sheila pacing like she wanted to carve a ditch in the floor. His mother stood, as usual, next to the chair closest to the hall leading to his room, which was by the elevator. So, she caught me first, and I thought of something I hadn’t before. She was my mother in-law. I wasn’t calling her Mom. No way.

“Hi, Eileen.”

She smiled a smile so fake I could have bought it at Nordstrom’s on the sale rack. “Monica. I hear congratulations are in order.” She indicated my left hand with its borrowed engagement ring and jury-rigged wedding band.

“Thanks. How is he?”

Her face darkened. “They’re constantly in there...” Her eyes got wet. The coldness of her expression when I entered had hidden the fact that she was breaking apart. She cleared her throat and straightened her neck. “A heart will come. I know it. I can feel it.”

“I can too.”

Her hand slipped into mine and I squeezed it. All our bullshit fell away for a second. This was her son. We loved the same person. She wouldn’t be easy to deal with, but we were bound by him, whether we liked it or not. Then she smiled a couture smile, and even kind of warmish, as if something happened between us that had meaning to her. I promised myself to never again forget that her goal was to protect him. That was worth something.