A Man Named Dave (8 page)

The next day, after serving lunch, one of the cooks thrust a phone in my hand, refusing to look at me. Confused, I shook my head. My eyes darted between my friend standing a few feet away and the phone cradled in my fingers. For a moment I hesitated before pressing the receiver end against my ear. “Hello?” I uttered.

“David?” The voice seemed to crackle from a million miles away.

My heart skipped a beat. “Mom, is that you? What is it? What’s wrong? How did you get this number? Why are you calling?” I asked my foster mother as fast as the words could spill from my mouth.

“My God!” Alice exclaimed. “David, I’m so sorry. I beg of you, please forgive me. It took days, and I mean
days,
to reach you. Your squadron … in Florida … they weren’t sure where you were … I tried every number they gave me. Please know that I –”

“Wait! Slow down, I can barely hear you! The line … it’s too much static. Just tell me, what is it? What’s wrong?!”

“Harold’s fine. I’m fine … David, just believe me when I tell you how hard I tried. Honest to God, I tried …”

My stomach began to clench. The more my mind ran through every possible option, the more the answer became crystal clear. “Tell me,” I said as I clamped eyes shut and uttered a quick prayer, “just tell me. Tell me he’s not …”

On the other end of the line I could hear Alice lose control. “Come home, David. Come home,” she sobbed. “Your father’s in the hospital. They say he’s not going to … he only has a few days … Come home, David. Just come home.”

As the words sank in, the receiver dropped from my hand. I fell to my knees as a static shrill from the phone filled my head.

Nothing could have prepared me for seeing my father. I had zero tolerance for the assistant at the nurses’ station at Kaiser Hospital, in the heart of San Francisco, who stood in front of Alice Turnbough and me as if we were invisible, while refusing to say if Stephen Pelzer was indeed on that particular floor, let alone admitted to the premises. Because of my insomnia, zigzagging across the country in the middle of the night, and the anxiety of seeing Father, I was ready to explode.

Whatever scenarios I had formulated during the flight over, dealing with the actual situation was far more stressful than I had planned. Aboard the plane, every option seemed cut and dried, but now, I strained just to lean my upper body against the counter to keep from collapsing. I could feel my resistance to stay razor sharp, to retain a crystal-clear focus, drain away. The sterile pine smell nearly caused my nose to bleed and triggered memories of being trapped in the bathroom with Mother’s concoction of ammonia and Chlorox. The thought of not only coming face to face but actually dealing with Mother whenever she showed up would be hellish at best. My only wish was that somehow Mother would for once find it in her heart to bury her immense hatred and permit me a few moments alone with Father without unleashing her explosive fury.

But maybe, I imagined, I was the one going too far. It was in fact Mother who had called Alice to tell her of Father’s condition. Maybe, there was already a crack in Mother’s defensive armor. When I had spoken to her before joining the air force, she had seemed overly pleasant, even proud of my efforts. For a fleeting moment her soothing tone reminded me of the mommy I had once adored.
What if,
I thought,
Dad’s condition brought them back together?
As a small child, before events turned the family upside down, I knew my parents had been deeply in love with each other. I had always heard that a crisis could bring strained relationships back together. There had to be a reason why Mom and Dad never divorced after all those years of separation. So now there was hope. I knew it! The scare of Father being in the hospital could be the best thing to happen for the entire family.

The more I thought about this possible outcome, the more my anticipation of seeing Father grew. Like a lot of folks in similar situations, I, too, had initially overreacted. As my optimism grew, I pictured myself with Father, checking him out of the hospital in a few days, spending time with him one on one, then maybe … one day soon … I could return again on military leave, and all of us could sit down to a dinner. I told myself, feeling replenished with energy, that no matter what the consequences, nothing was going to be the same. The winds of change had begun to stir the moment Mother broke down and telephoned Mrs Turnbough. The entire charade would be over. Nodding my head in agreement to myself, but nodding more to the deranged woman at the nurses’ station, who continued to act as if she was engaged in more important matters, it no longer fazed me. I was in control of my emotions, and I knew that everything would work out for the better.

From out of nowhere, a male nurse wearing a name tag STEVE slid behind the station and took immediate control of the situation. Before I could badger him, Steve read my name, stitched on my green air force fatigues, and let out a heavy sigh.

“My father, Stephen Pelzer, he’s here? I mean, he’s okay and he’s
in this hospital
on
this floor.
Right?” I blurted out. I stared down the arrogant woman, who turned away after tossing her hair in disgust.

Steve began to reply but raised a hand to his mouth as if to first collect his thoughts. “Man, we’ve been waiting on you. Yeah, kid, your father’s here, and … yeah, he’s on this floor. But chill for a sec. There’s a few things you need to know.”

I rolled my eyes as if to say,
Yeah, yeah, come on, out with it.
“So …” I nagged, “what’s the deal? What happened? He fell down, broke an arm? What is it? When does he check out?”

As Steve rapped his fingers on the countertop, wondering how to deal with me, my ears picked up the faint sound of a hacking cough. Without thinking, I spun to the right and marched into the room next to the nurses’ station. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Before me, shaking like a leaf in a flimsy hospital gown, was the skeleton-like figure of my father. His arms were twitching uncontrollably as he struggled to slide his bare feet in front of him. He seemed to be using whatever strength he could muster to make it to the bathroom. By the vacant look in his eyes I could tell he had no idea of who I was, or even that someone else was in the room with him. Coming around behind him, I slung his arm around my shoulder and helped him into the bathroom. His wafer-thin body trembled against mine as he fought to stand straight while relieving himself. My mind was spinning, and I kept questioning like an idiot, “Are you all right? Are you okay?” over and over again.

Only after helping Father to his bed did I realize how bad his appearance was. His eyes were blank. They rolled to whatever caught his attention for that split second before drifting off somewhere else. As he lay flat on his back, the only time his arms were still was when he would drag his bony hand over to the other and hold it. Looking into Father’s face, I smiled, hoping to catch his darting eyes. The skin around his cheeks was crimson red and stretched thin. I noticed a large white patch taped to the right side of his neck and shoulder but paid no attention to it. Instead I reached out to cup Father’s hands. “Dad,” I gently whispered, “it’s David.”

No reaction.

“Dad,” I said in a firmer tone, “can you hear me?”

Father’s only response was a raspy exhale.

I could hear Alice sniffling from the entrance of the room. Out of frustration, I lay my body next to Father, while keeping my face just above his. “Dad? Hey, Dad! Can you … do you hear me? It’s me, David.
Say something,
anything. Dad?”

Studying Father’s eyes, I looked for the slightest response. I thought if he couldn’t speak, at least he could communicate with his eyes. Minutes crawled by with no answer. I wanted to grab the sides of his face and squeeze out some type of reply that Father indeed knew I was with him.

From the right side of my shoulder I could feel a firm but gentle squeeze. I smiled, knowing Father had snapped out of his trance. “I’m here, Dad. I’m right here,” I said with a wave of relief. Patting the hand, I nearly jumped off the bed when I discovered it belonged not to Father but to the nurse Steve.

“We need to talk,” he said without the slightest trace of embarrassment.

“But my dad… ?” I asked, thinking I could not leave his side.

“I’ll stay,” Mrs Turnbough said, as she now stood over my father.

When we were both outside of the room, Steve carefully closed the heavy oak door. “What’s wrong with him?” I demanded. Feeling my anxiety take hold, I pressed for hard answers. “What type of medication do you have him on? How come he doesn’t recognize me? Is it the drugs? How long will it be until he gets better and gains some weight? When do you expect him to be released?”

“Hey, man,” Steve said, raising his hand, “give it a rest. Didn’t your mother tell you… ? You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what? If I knew, I wouldn’t be bugging you!” I sarcastically shot back. “Just tell me, what in the heck is going on? Please!” I now begged, “I gotta know.”

Leading me down the corridor, Steve searched for a more private setting. At the end of the hallway, he stopped to offer me a chair. I refused, feeling the need to stand. “It was about four months ago when your father was admitted –”

“Four months!” I yelled. “Admitted? Admitted for what? Why didn’t anybody call me? Why now?”

“Please,” he interjected, “give me a chance. Your father … he wanted to keep things discreet. A lot of patients are like that. Anyway, it was only after we ran all the tests that our diagnosis was confirmed. David, your father has cancer. I’m afraid it’s terminal. He’s in the advanced stages. I’m sorry.” Steve reached out for my hands. “There is nothing we can do.”

“Hang on!” I said, stepping away from his gesture. “What do you mean,
terminal?
I don’t get it …”

“David,” Steve said in a deliberate, slow voice, gripping me by the shoulders, “your father …
he’s not going to make it.”

“
You mean … you’re saying he’s going to die?
My dad
is going to die? No way!” I shook my head in complete denial. “Can’t you give him a shot of something … or I thought there’s some kind of chemo treatment. If it’s money you need … just don’t let him die. Not now. Please!” I begged, as if he alone decided the fate of my father.

“David, listen, chill for a sec. I don’t know, no one knows exactly how long your father has, but,” he emphasized in a strong tone, “the thing I do know for certain is this:
your father is not going to make it.
And there is nothing,
nothing,
that you, I, or anyone else can do about it. Come on, you’re not a kid. You understand these things. It’s a fact of life. Your father’s lived a full life, and now it’s his time.” Steve paused to collect his thoughts. Looking at him, I realized the immense strain he was under and how hard he was trying to help me. For a brief moment I wondered how many times a week he spent with others like me. I felt foolish and ashamed. “David,” he said, taking my hand, “I am sorry. I truly am.”

My thoughts refused to come together. Whatever reserves of energy I had left suddenly disappeared. Finally, at the one time I needed to be in control, to be strong, I found myself completely, pitifully helpless. I had so many questions, but it took everything I had to form a single sentence. I simply stood in front of Steve like a zombie. I wanted to release everything and cry. A heartbeat later, I suppressed the urge. “Four months?” I asked incoherently. “You’re telling me my dad’s been here that long? How long has he been … like he is now? Why can’t he talk? Is he doped up? I mean, he acts like he doesn’t even recognize me. … I don’t, I just don’t understand,” I stammered. “I just wanna know. That’s all.”

“Well,” Steve began, sliding a chair for me next to his, “as I was saying, your father checked in a few months ago. Since then his condition has rapidly deteriorated. The growth was primarily centered on the side of his neck, but has since spread to his throat. He is on medication, and under the circumstances I’m sure you can understand why. That is the reason he lacks discernment. If we take him off the ‘meds’, his understanding might improve, but the pain would be unbearable.”

“So … he’ll never be able to say anything again? Ever… ?” I asked as my voice trailed off.

“That is correct. Not any longer,” Steve replied, nodding his head.

I sat on the edge of the wooden chair, rubbing my hands together, wondering what I could do to comfort Father. For once in my life, I was actually glad when I thought of Mother. With all her diabolical, scheming tactics,
she
would know how to deal with Father’s situation.

Breaking the silence, Steve spoke up. “Ya know, when your dad first checked in, I don’t think he fully understood the seriousness of his condition. A great deal of patients are like that. They won’t allow themselves to be examined until it’s almost always too late. Call it embarrassment, ignorance, ego, whatever. But please know that we did all that we could for your father. It’s important for you to know that.”

“Yeah, I understand. Thanks, but,” I probed, “was he able to speak when he first came in?”

Steve barely nodded his head.

“So, why didn’t he call anyone?” I inquired.

“He did,” Steve frowned. “He must have, right after he was admitted, ’cause his other son, your brother Ronald, came over to visit. They spent a few days together. I guess he’s in the military, too.”

Ronald?
I gasped. Ronald, the oldest of my four siblings, who I hadn’t seen since my rescue in 1973, had finally escaped Mother’s wrath a few years ago by joining the army as soon as he turned eighteen years old. I hadn’t thought of Ron in years. “He was able to talk? I mean, talk to Ronald?”

“Well, as much as he could. Your father was in a great deal of pain. It was soon after your brother’s visit that he lost his ability to speak,” Steve gently explained.

“How long ago … I mean, when Ronald came to visit?”

“Uhm, I have to say about two, almost three months ago,” Steve answered.

“What about the others? Mother and my brothers, Father’s firemen buddies? Were they able to talk with him? I mean, my father was coherent? He knew who came to see him?”