Here So Far Away(60)

“You’re holding the squash wrong, Dad,” I said. His fingers were splayed across the butternut squash, perilously close to the knife blade. Francis had taught me how to do it properly. “You’re supposed to put your fingertips in, knuckles out.”

“I don’t need your advice, thank you.”

Matthew gripped the back of a chair, as though steeling himself. He was going in. “Dad? We noticed you’re taking a lot of Benadryl.”

“I have a rash.”

“Can I see it?”

“You want to see my . . .” Dad frowned. “No,” he said. “No, you may not see my rash.”

“We’re wondering if you might want to talk to the doctor or something.”

“You focus on keeping your grades up, not on me.”

“But, Dad—”

“Mind your own damn business!” Dad shouted.

Matthew’s lip was trembling. He was trembling all over.

“You don’t want to admit you’ve got ghost pain or whatever they call it, fine,” I said. “Don’t take it out on Matty.”

Dad turned to glare at me. “Let me clarify a few things for you. We are not discussing my private medical condition. We are not inspecting my rash. We are not rifling through my garbage. We are not going out tonight. We are having a sit-down family supper, and we are staying right here!”

He slammed the knife for emphasis, his eyes meeting the cutting board just as the blade made contact. Then he looked back at me, and his expression changed from one of fury to a mild On second thought . . .

Matthew screamed. Not a horror movie screech, like an alarm going off—“Aaagh! Aaagh! Aaagh! Aaagh!”—before he crumpled to the floor, while Dad and I stared at the river of blood streaming onto the board and down the counter from the space between the top of his index finger and the rest of my father’s left hand.





Twenty-Nine


I don’t know why I took my shirt off, given that there was a pile of freshly laundered dish towels on the counter. Once I’d set myself in motion, it all happened so quickly: pulling my long-sleeved T-shirt over my head as I crossed the room so that I was wearing only an obscenely small tank top that I’d shrunk in the wash, accordioning the body of the shirt and pressing it onto Dad’s hand, tying the sleeves tight around it. Then I looped his other arm over my shoulders and we staggered over to a chair at the kitchen table. His breathing was rapid and shallow as I lowered him into the seat. What if he was about to go into shock, and what the hell was I supposed to do if he did?

“George—”

“I know exactly what to do, Dad. We covered this in health class.”

We had not covered this in health class.

“Just let me get my keys and I’ll get you out to the car.”

Matthew shouted, “Ice!”

He had woken up, dragged himself through the blood on the floor, and was now sitting with his back against the cupboards, holding the fingertip up like it was the Olympic torch. “Put it down, Matty!” I said.

“We need to—put this—on ice!” He was fighting so hard to stay conscious. “And wrap it—”

“That’s correct,” Dad said, closing his eyes. “Wrap it in something so you don’t damage the skin. . . .”

“Neither one of you is allowed to pass out,” I said.

I grabbed a paper towel from the stand on the counter, nearly going arse-over-teakettle sliding in the blood. I held the towel open and Matty dropped in the fingertip, cut just below the nail bed, then I rolled it up like a corn dog and went hunting for a container to put it in.

I’ll say this for my mother: She didn’t skip a beat when she came home to find me half-naked and lugging Dad into the snowy night with a bloody shirt on his hand. Perhaps because she’d seen more than her share of injuries working at the meatpacking plant before she got married. “I’ll take him in my car,” she said after I’d bleated an explanation at her. “Call the hospital—the city hospital—and tell them we’re on our way.”

Maybe it was the smallness of the Honda, the fact that he had Matthew’s old Batman thermos on his lap, the fingertip packed on ice inside, or my own shock, but watching Dad staring down at the thermos as Mum backed out of the driveway, I could have sworn he’d shrunk.

Mum rolled down her window. “For goodness’ sakes, George,” she said. “Put on a sweater.”

My mother always stocked the garage with years’ worth of supplies, as though she were preparing for a bunker-worthy event, and I must have used half of the paper towels sopping up blood and washing the cupboards and floors with Lysol. My gut told me that if I waited, if I hesitated at all, I wouldn’t be able to face it.

What to do about Francis? It might seem suspicious to Rupert if I called the farm as Francis was getting ready to go, and I couldn’t take off without knowing what was happening with my dad. What if something went wrong? What if he’d lost too much blood?

Suddenly freezing, I went upstairs and changed into clean jeans and a sweater before checking on Matthew, who was curled up in Dad’s recliner.

“How did you do that?” he said.

“Do what?”

“Stay so calm. Maybe you should be a paramedic.”