< Apart From Love: Chapter 34 >

Am I Covered

And I rush to his side, hearing glass splitting from the mirror, then crunching underfoot, shards spreading across the floor and plinking as they hit the far corners and the walls. His head has sunk over his breast: at first glance, no blood. No pomade, either, which makes him look odd. His scalp is pale, nearly bald, with wisps of disheveled gray hair hanging from it. 

Then my father stirs, takes an agonized breath and staggers to his feet, trying to push himself away from the oval frame. Perhaps because he is in shock, his knees give way under him.

He stumbles again, so I catch him in my arms, noting how frail the old man has grown over recent months. He even seems to have shrunk a bit. I carry him to their bed as if he were a baby, and lower him into it. Still curled in my arms, he grips the scarf around my neck with his shriveled fingers, plays with its fringes, and suddenly pulls at it with such force that for a moment I am choked.

But somehow I manage to lay him down, which he lets me do without further quibble. With great care I remove his socks, because there are slivers of glass pinned to them. Next I pull off his trousers, because some of the fragments fell into the bottom cuffs .

From the corner of his eye my father looks up, first at Anita, who has risen from the corner and come forward to help me strip him, then at me. I can hear him mumbling something, so I bend over him, putting my ear to his lips. “Cover me up,” he whispers.

So I unfurl the blue sheet over him, and tuck it under the mattress, and layer a wool blanket on top of that, and arrange it carefully around him. Meanwhile Anita raises the setting of the thermostat, because without having to talk, we figure that—in spite of the spring weather—he must somehow be cold.

The old man looks into my eyes and shivers. He mutters, “Am I covered?”

“Yes,” I say. “You are.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, sharply now.

“Yes,” I say. “Do not worry. You are covered, completely covered.”

“No!” he cries, tearing the blanket off and thrusting it madly to the floor, uncovering his thin, bare legs. “No, I am not covered—not yet! You’ll have to wait longer, quite a while longer, until I am laid to rest!”

“Stop it, Lenny,” says Anita. “Your son’s come back, like, to be forgiven.”

The old man scrambles up to his shaky feet, and stands there, on top of the bed, hands twitching, eyes flaring with some strange glare, perhaps even craziness.

“Stop it,” she repeats, taking a step toward him, spreading her arms to catch him if he falls.

I wish to let him know that for the last four months I have been following him, and her too.

I have been delivering little things—such as a note or a bottle of champaign to their doorstep—entering the apartment from time to time when no one was around, reading the papers on his desk, taking a pen or leaving one of my own, even using his tape recorder to record my voice, wishing to be found out in any one of these ways. Wishing to come back home. By April, the desire has reached such a level, as to push me in the door just now, in spite of knowing they are inside—or maybe because of it.

Instead I just say, “Calm down, dad, will you? If you want me to leave, I will.”

If he has longed to see me, he gives no sign of it. The shock must have brought out the hurt, the resentment in him. His eyes narrow, darting between the two of us.

“You,” he turns them on me, “you want to bury me right now. I know you do. I can feel it in my bones!”

And she says, “Ben don’t want nothing bad to happen here, and for sure, he don’t want you dead.”

“And you!” he points his finger, this time at her. “It is all because of you,” he says bitterly, “and you know it, dear!”

Which makes her bite her lips, even cringe. She moves back into the corner, next to her wedding dress, which for some reason she dyed, wild orange and purple.

“Please, dad, stop shouting at her,” I say. “What did she do?”

He hops to the edge of the bed, screaming.

“What did she do? What did she do? How, how can you ask, even, What did she do?” He grabs the sheet, and ties it crudely around his underwear, and sways his hips mockingly, wobbling widely this way and that, like a drunk fashion model trying to stay, somehow, on the catwalk. “Did she lift her little black dress for you, like this? Did she arouse you, like that?”

At this point he has come dangerously close to falling off the bed, leaving me no choice but to grab him around his thighs, and bring him forcibly to his knees.

“Is this where she had her way with you?” he cries. “Here, in your mother’s presence—I mean, in her bed?”

“No,” I say. “Not here.”

Which makes Anita cringe again.

I catch sight of my watch. Thirteen minutes past one.

After a while Anita raises her wet eyes to him and says, “Me, I don’t expect to be forgiven. But look at your son, Lenny. He needs you. You need him. Let him off the hook. Do it now!”

My father lays there, on the bare part of the mattress, utterly spent, staring blankly at the cracked mirror.

She pleads, “He’s your son, for God’s sake—not one of them characters you write about, not one of them voices there, inside your tape recorder! You’re so alone, spending all your time with them things, blocking out everything else. You’ve retreated too far already, to places in your head that ain’t even concrete, places where you can’t touch no one, and like, you can’t be touched in return!”

“You are so wrong,” he says, with a tone of arrogance. “The characters I write, they can touch you—even if I cannot.”

Anita bites her lips. Thirty three minutes past one.

He turns away from her, “They can touch you—even when I am gone.”

She tries again. “You’ve done enough Rewind, Rewind, Rewind. So now, Stop! Give a minute to what’s real, to your son. Let him in, Lenny!”

I doubt that he has heard her.

After a while, he lifts his hand and unties the knot of the sheet, letting it unwrap and slip off, down to the floor. I pick it up, and with caution I move closer, and cover him.

Then I sit there, by his side, not knowing what to say, not knowing what can be said at this point. I shake my head, wishing I could shake out the words, I am Sorry, dad. Forgive me.

Which is when I notice, all of a sudden, what he sees there, in my mother’s standalone mirror. The thing is leaning haphazardly on one leg, tilted out of position, broken. And there—between the cracks shooting out from the center, where it has shattered—there, if you focus, hands can be spotted. Pale woman’s hands. They come rising, rising slowly towards him, as if to take hold of him and pull him in.

My father shuts his eyes. On his lips I can see the word, “Natasha.”

I wipe my eyes and glance at the mirror again.

By now the hands have clenched tightly into white-knuckled fists. Above them, a cloud of red hair comes into view, and under it, a face. The features are contorted, because she is cringing with intense pain. This time, Anita nearly folds over herself.

Forty seven minutes past one. Which is when I know, all of a sudden, that I have arrived just in time.

She is in labor.

During our cab drive to hospital, I cast a glance over my shoulder to see Anita in the back seat, arms crossed over the mound of her belly, clutching each other till the flesh turns white. Her face is flushed, her breath labored, and her lips—when I can see them—are bearing the bite marks of her teeth.

I tell her that she will be in the best of hands, because from what I heard back in medical school, a durable artificial hip was developed five years ago at UCLA, and the first total shoulder replacement was performed there, also around the same time. She says nothing to that, perhaps because at the moment she is taking time to cringe, and to filter an occasional, “Aw” between her teeth.

Meanwhile my father takes this opportunity to snap out of his daze, and he leans forward to tell me that it is not a hip or a shoulder we are talking about, but the birth of his son.

When the cab arrives at the hospital, my three aunts are already there, waiting for us by the curb. I have no idea how they have managed to get here so fast, or from where they have already fetched a fancy hospital wheelchair, into which Anita, breathing hard, is now being transferred.

Aunt Hadassa grips both handles, readying herself for taking charge of pushing the thing. In her haste to be here on time she must have neglected, somehow, to paint in her eyebrows. Also, she must have forgotten to nudge her puffy, white hair into place, so now it is piled up on top of her, lopsided. Dangling from her padded shoulder is her purse, in which you can spot, among other things, her knitting needles and a large ball of yarn. She is prepared for the wait.

“My, my,” says aunt Fruma, and aunt Frida follows that with, “What took you so long?”

And aunt Hadassa taps her foot with a mixture of impatience and glee, and says, “Nu? It’s time already!”

And with that, the three of them wheeze by me, wheeling Anita with great gusto into the open doors of the hospital.

I turn to my father, thinking he may need help to get out of the cab, but he leans back into the seat, shuts the car door and rolls up the window.

“I am not coming in,” he says, his voice weak, but insistent.

“Are you not feeing well?” I say. “You really need to see a doctor yourself, you know. You may have a concussion, the way you slipped and fell into that glass. Here,” I try to reopen his door, “let me help you—”

“No,” he says, in his stubborn tone. “No need for that.”

“You cannot just ignore such an injury,” I say. “It makes no sense, dad. Let me take a look at your head.”

His jaw is firmly set. “No,” he says.

Then, perhaps noting the frustrated expression on my face, he relents, but just a little.

“If you really want to help me,” he says, “get back in.”

There is no arguing with my father when he gets that way, so I get back into the cab, and before I finish closing the door on my side, he has given his directions to the driver.

“Now,” he says, “to Sunrise Assisted Living.”