bacon and then the surgeons give us pig aortas. It's one giant recycling system. If your heart can't be salvaged, then they just throw it away and stitch in a whole new one.”
I certainly hope Bernard is right, but I fear that he's just trying to make me feel better.
THREE
W E QUICKLY DELIVER GIL AND THE GIRLS BACK TO THE STOCK tons, and then Bernard drives me to the hospital. The big glass doors automatically slide open as if someone is expecting us. When I ask the woman at the desk about my father, she says he was taken to cardiac care, but if I'll take a seat the doctor will come out and speak to me. I ask to go back, insisting that my mother is all alone. The receptionist explains that the cardiac care unit is different and that I'll have to wait.
Bernard and I slump down into the armless blue molded plastic chairs so that our shoulders meet and we're leaning against each other. Having basically moved in with him when I was sixteen, and then worked two summers as a yard person, we've become so close that we can read each other's thoughts most of the time. At least Bernard always seems to get mine exactly right. But since neither of us dare speak what's on both our minds, we say nothing at all.
There's nobody else in the brightly lit room and all the magazines have been arranged into neat stacks on the attached Formica end tables. The beige linoleum floor is spotless but for the gray puddles under our shoes. It's oddly quiet for a hospital. There aren't any gunshot victims or passengers who were justpried out of car wrecks with gaping wounds hurtling past us on stretchers, nor are sweaty blue-smocked doctors diving at patients with paddles while yelling “clear,” the way one regularly sees on television shows. Cosgrove County is filled with people descended from solid midwestern farming stock who go around declaring they're “fine” until the moment when they are no longer
fine
, but in fact seriously
dead.
If you inquire about someone's chronic pain, they're likely to tell you that it helps pass the time.
“You don't have to wait here with me,” I tell Bernard.
“Don't be ridiculous,” he says.
A tired-looking doctor emerges from the swinging doors wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard. It's like a scene out of a movie. We both rise to our feet as he approaches. The doctor's mouth is expressionless, but his dark brown eyes appear anxious and his furrowed brow telegraphs tragedy.
“Are you Mr. Palmer's brother?” he asks Bernard.
“No, just a friend of the family.” Bernard nods toward me. “Hallie is his oldest daughter.”
The doctor glances down at his clipboard and then back up to Bernard in his blue button-down shirt and neat gray slacks, as if given the choice between the two of us, Bernard is the official representative. Obviously my Lucky Charms T-shirt with the torn jeans does not exactly exude an air of responsibility. But I thought I was only going to a frat party.
“There are ten children?” The doctor asks this as if maybe there's a typo in his notes.
Bernard nods his head up and down. “Eric, the oldest, is twenty, and the twin boys just turned two months old,” he explains in his new capacity as Palmer family spokesperson.
The doctor sighs as if this is going to be worse than he thought. He squints into the fluorescent light and then shifts hisgaze back to me. “I'm very sorry but I have some bad news. Your father succumbed to a massive coronary. And your mother is in a state of shock. We're going to have to keep her here, at least for a day or two.”
It's way too much to comprehend. Life without dad is unfathomable. My mind comes to a crashing halt, suddenly there is no oxygen, and I feel something tear deep inside of me.
“Is there a relative who can help you in the meantime?” asks the doctor.
“Mom has a sister.” I somehow manage to get this out even though my mouth is now the Sahara Desert and my stomach continues to experience an elevator-drop
I certainly hope Bernard is right, but I fear that he's just trying to make me feel better.
THREE
W E QUICKLY DELIVER GIL AND THE GIRLS BACK TO THE STOCK tons, and then Bernard drives me to the hospital. The big glass doors automatically slide open as if someone is expecting us. When I ask the woman at the desk about my father, she says he was taken to cardiac care, but if I'll take a seat the doctor will come out and speak to me. I ask to go back, insisting that my mother is all alone. The receptionist explains that the cardiac care unit is different and that I'll have to wait.
Bernard and I slump down into the armless blue molded plastic chairs so that our shoulders meet and we're leaning against each other. Having basically moved in with him when I was sixteen, and then worked two summers as a yard person, we've become so close that we can read each other's thoughts most of the time. At least Bernard always seems to get mine exactly right. But since neither of us dare speak what's on both our minds, we say nothing at all.
There's nobody else in the brightly lit room and all the magazines have been arranged into neat stacks on the attached Formica end tables. The beige linoleum floor is spotless but for the gray puddles under our shoes. It's oddly quiet for a hospital. There aren't any gunshot victims or passengers who were justpried out of car wrecks with gaping wounds hurtling past us on stretchers, nor are sweaty blue-smocked doctors diving at patients with paddles while yelling “clear,” the way one regularly sees on television shows. Cosgrove County is filled with people descended from solid midwestern farming stock who go around declaring they're “fine” until the moment when they are no longer
fine
, but in fact seriously
dead.
If you inquire about someone's chronic pain, they're likely to tell you that it helps pass the time.
“You don't have to wait here with me,” I tell Bernard.
“Don't be ridiculous,” he says.
A tired-looking doctor emerges from the swinging doors wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard. It's like a scene out of a movie. We both rise to our feet as he approaches. The doctor's mouth is expressionless, but his dark brown eyes appear anxious and his furrowed brow telegraphs tragedy.
“Are you Mr. Palmer's brother?” he asks Bernard.
“No, just a friend of the family.” Bernard nods toward me. “Hallie is his oldest daughter.”
The doctor glances down at his clipboard and then back up to Bernard in his blue button-down shirt and neat gray slacks, as if given the choice between the two of us, Bernard is the official representative. Obviously my Lucky Charms T-shirt with the torn jeans does not exactly exude an air of responsibility. But I thought I was only going to a frat party.
“There are ten children?” The doctor asks this as if maybe there's a typo in his notes.
Bernard nods his head up and down. “Eric, the oldest, is twenty, and the twin boys just turned two months old,” he explains in his new capacity as Palmer family spokesperson.
The doctor sighs as if this is going to be worse than he thought. He squints into the fluorescent light and then shifts hisgaze back to me. “I'm very sorry but I have some bad news. Your father succumbed to a massive coronary. And your mother is in a state of shock. We're going to have to keep her here, at least for a day or two.”
It's way too much to comprehend. Life without dad is unfathomable. My mind comes to a crashing halt, suddenly there is no oxygen, and I feel something tear deep inside of me.
“Is there a relative who can help you in the meantime?” asks the doctor.
“Mom has a sister.” I somehow manage to get this out even though my mouth is now the Sahara Desert and my stomach continues to experience an elevator-drop
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