Dirty Secret (25 page)

“Look a little closer,” he says and smiles, and that's when I see the space in his gums, right in front, where a tooth should be.

I'd forgotten: His front tooth had died and he was going to have it replaced with an implant. The process involved pulling the dead tooth, waiting until the area healed, and then having the implantation surgery. My dad had the heart attack after the dead tooth had been pulled but before the implant procedure happened, hence his toothlessness. And because it's dangerous for a heart patient—Jesus, my dad is a
heart patient
—to be put under anesthesia, he may never be able to get the new tooth implanted.

“See,” he says, opens his mouth, and puts in a retainer he'd had in his front shirt pocket. The retainer holds one fake front tooth. He smiles again.

“With that in, you no longer look like your name should be Cletus,” I say.

“In that case,” my dad says and pulls it out. “I'd better not use it, because I do like the name Cletus . . .”

Good. My dad still has his sense of humor.

Sandy comes back from her office where she was making a phone call.

“Will you two be okay for a few hours?” she asks.

“We'll be fine. Pop, do you want me to make you something to eat?”

“I'm trying to get him to eat yogurt, Jessie, maybe he'll listen to you,” Sandy says, blows us kisses, and heads out the back door.

“So, how about some yogurt?” I ask.

“Um . . . no. I can't eat anything without getting queasy. It's a side effect from all the drugs they have me on. Did you see them?” He gestures with his head to the counter, where half a dozen prescription bottles are lined up in the space that used to hold vitamins. He yawns. “Actually, honey, do you think you could help me to the couch so I could lie down?”

“Of course.” I walk over to him. “Let's see . . .”

I place my hands under his arms and start pulling upward. “Ouch!” my dad yells. “My chest is still really sore.”

“Sorry. How about this way?” I put my shoulder against him and allow him to lean on me. Then I take a step forward, and another, and somehow we make it to the couch. He sits down, then leans back, holding his hand over his chest the whole time, as if he's afraid the stitches from his wound will come loose and his heart will fall out.

I don't blame him, considering the surgery he's just had: his ribs pried apart, his heart placed in a machine that kept it warm and beating while the doctors replaced his blocked arteries with veins from his leg. It's no wonder he feels fragile.

When he's settled on the couch, I pick up a
Natural Health
from the stack of magazines on the side table and take it over to one of the chairs. By the time I've read the table of contents, my dad is asleep.

That's when I hear a scraping sound at the front door. Maybe one of their cats is trying to get in. But that seems unlikely; there's a cat door at the back so they can come and go. I get up, go to the door, and look out the little window next to it.

It's my mother.

She's trying to shove a paper bag into their mailbox and it's not fitting. I watch as she kneels down on the stoop and methodically takes everything out of the paper bag—a giant bottle of Maalox, a loaf of bread wrapped in Saran wrap, and some kind of electronic device—and sets it down next to her. Then she puts everything back into the bag and again tries to force it into the metal mailbox.

I open the front door.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, hi, honey! Don't look at me, I'm too fat!” Her weight has always fluctuated—as does mine—and now her body looks like a blood-swollen tick on two toothpick legs.

“Shh, my dad's sleeping.”

“Oh, okay, sorry,” she whispers. “I was wondering if you were here yet, but I didn't want to disturb anyone so I thought I'd just drop this off and then wait for you to call me when you had a chance, I'm sure you're really busy with your dad right now . . .” she's talking so fast that she has to take gulps of air between her words to keep going. “He-ah, take this!” She thrusts the paper bag into my hands.

“Mom, I told you on the phone that he's not going to take Maalox.” Sandy's against it because it can create a cycle of nausea. Since my dad got back from the hospital yesterday he's been trying natural remedies like ginger and charcoal.

“Just keep it in case he changes his mind.”

“Okay,” I say. It's not worth arguing with her about it. I can always just toss it. “What's the electronic thing in here?”

“It's a blood pressure checker. He needs to check it at least three times a day, but more like five times is better. Oh, and Jessie, I found something that works to get rid of the itching from the scabies,” my mom says. I cringe at the word.

“We don't know for sure that's what they are,” I say.

“Oh, yes we do . . .” she singsongs as she pulls back the cuff on her jersey. “See these burrows, these are a classic sign,” and I know she's right because of everything I've read online. Her wrist and forearm are riddled with tiny bites, along with the telltale burrows, which are tracks the bugs leave in their wake. None of us has had burrows, until now. Seeing them is both depressing and somehow—in a very, very twisted way—affirming. At least it proves what these things are.

“I'm taking bleach baths,” my mom says. “It totally helps the itching.”

“Please tell me you didn't just say you're taking baths in bleach.”

“I am,” she says, nodding. “It's totally helping.”

When did my mother start saying “totally”?

“Do you know how dangerous that is? Baths in bleach?”

She starts laughing. “Oh, I just pour a few capfuls into my hot baths. And I'm still doing the tea tree baths, too, so I just take two baths a day.”

“And are you still doing the lindane?”

“Yup,” she says, nodding proudly. She leans forward conspiratorially. “Sometimes I add a capful of that to the bath, too.”

I am beyond horrified. “Mom, are you trying to kill yourself? I told you lindane can cause seizures. What if you had a seizure? How would you call for help?”

“Don't worry about it! It was prescribed by Dr. Paulsen, so it has to be okay,” my mom says. “I'll figure out how to get rid of these bastards if it's the last thing I do. I'm going to be the guinea pig for all of us.”

“Listen, I know you feel guilty about these bugs, but please stop what you're doing—you could be doing permanent damage to yourself! And you just had cancer.”

“Jessie,” my dad calls from inside. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Dad, I'm just talking to my mom. I'll be right there.”

“Hi, Helen,” my dad calls out weakly.

“Oh, hi, Rick,” my mom says.

I'm not about to invite her in. She'll stress him out too much, especially because she's in one of her hyper moods. She was finally able to go back on her antidepressants and they must be kicking in.

“Mom, please promise me you'll stop all this nonsense.”

“Don't worry about me,” she says. “Now just give your dad that Maalox. He should take it every hour. And remember to take his blood pressure. And the bread—oh, Jessie, I made that bread myself. I told you I've been making bread lately, right?” She doesn't give me a chance to answer. “You have to make sure Rick and Sandy try it and then you tell me what they think, okay? I don't want to bother them. So you'll tell me.”

I take a closer look at the bread. “They won't eat this, Mom. It's made with white flour.”

“But you said they wouldn't eat
oat
flour, so I specifically didn't use it.”

“No, I said
white
flour. They won't eat
white
flour.”

Her face falls. “Oh. I guess I'll have to eat it, then.” She takes the bread back from me.

I feel bad for her. She's trying to be helpful. I take the loaf of bread from her hands and put it into the bag with the other
things she's brought. “I'll eat it. I'll make toast with it in the mornings.”

“Okay, honey, that's great!”

“I need to get back to my dad,” I say. “But I'll call you later, okay?”

“Do you think I should come in and show Sandy how to use the blood pressure machine?”

“She's not home, but it looks pretty straightforward.” It's a simple electronic device that has a cuff attached. I can't imagine getting confused by it.

“Okay. Bye, then,” she says and turns and wobbles toward her car.

My God, what am I going to do about my mom? I ask myself as I head back to my dad, who needs me to help him up from the couch and into the bathroom.

I'M AWAKE, NOT
sure why, and trying in vain to make out the time on the clock in my dad and Sandy's guest room. At the edge of the curtain I can see the orange beginnings of sunlight.

Someone calls my name.

But no, that can't be. It's way too early.

Only there it is again: “Jessie!”

I leap out of bed and run down the hallway. “Sandy?” I call out.

“We're in the kitchen!”

I sprint down the stairs. Sandy's standing behind my dad, who's seated at the kitchen table; she's holding him upright with her hands under his arms. His eyes are closed and his mouth hangs open.

“Dad!” I yell. He doesn't respond.

“We took his blood pressure and it was too high—” Sandy says.

“Have you called 911?”

“No, I gave him some nitroglycerin, like they told us to at the hospital, and his blood pressure was still too high, so I gave him another one—”

Right then my dad collapses forward, his head clunking onto the table. Sandy and I pull him back and he's not bleeding, thank God, but he's still unconscious.

“I'm calling 911,” I say and snatch the phone off the counter. After a hundred years a 911 operator answers. “Hello? I need an ambulance right now!” I demand.

“Ma'am, you need to calm down. What is your emergency?”

“My emergency is that my dad is dying right in front of my eyes and I need an ambulance RIGHT NOW!”

“Okay, ma'am, you really do need to calm down. What is your emergency?”

“Are you serious? You're telling me to calm down right now?”

“Yes, I am. What is your emergency?”

“Let me talk to your supervisor!”

“Jessie, calm down,” Sandy says and I do. I try, anyway.

“Okay, look, sorry,” I say and explain as calmly as possible that my dad had a quadruple bypass a week ago, has been out of the hospital for only a few days, and now he's passed out and we don't know why. “So if you could please send an ambulance we'd really appreciate it.”

“We'll get an ambulance to you right away,” she says and confirms the address.

I set down the phone and the edges of the room start blurring. I know what's happening because it's happened before.

And then, sure enough, everything's black and I'm down.

When I open my eyes Sandy's above me, saying, “Jessie, Jessie, come on,” and I feel bad for being such a drama queen and get to my feet.

My dad is still hunched over the table, but now his forehead is resting on his folded hands—did Sandy put them that way or did he regain consciousness and do it himself?

Before I can ask, Sandy says, “I'm calling Mark,” and picks up the phone to call her cousin who's a cardiac nurse and lives in the neighborhood. I go over to my dad and I have no idea what to do to make him not die, I have never felt this helpless or useless in my entire life, so I drape myself over him, hugging him, thinking please please please don't die don't die don't die. His skin is clammy, even through his nightshirt. I stay like that maybe one or two minutes, until Sandy gets off the phone. Where is that goddamn ambulance?

“Honey, Mark says it was the nitroglycerin, we shouldn't have given him two. Rick's going to be okay, it just has to wear off.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes. Mark knows what he's talking about. Now, how are you doing?”

“I'm fine. Sorry about fainting.” The last thing Sandy needs is to have to worry about me, too.

She puts her hands on my dad's back. “Rick, we're right here. Can you hear us?”

“Pop?” I say.

He's still out cold.

“Jessie, he's going to be okay,” Sandy says and I believe her because she's never lied to me before. I know she's watching him, so I tell Sandy I'll be right back and I go into the bathroom. I leave the door open so I can hear when the ambulance comes—what is taking them so long?—and turn on the water and splash
some on my face. My heart is racing, my jaw is locked with tension, but I feel the teensiest bit reassured because of what Sandy's cousin said. Except then I step out of the bathroom and my dad's face from that angle looks completely gray and lifeless—Sandy lied to me, he's not going to be okay, he's already gone. I rush toward him as the edges of the room go blurry.

And I'm on the floor.

Again.

I'm just coming to when the paramedics arrive. The room seems so foggy that at first I mistake them for firemen, thinking we're in a burning house. I hear one of them say, “Who are we here for?” Meaning me or my dad and I roll onto my side, then get to all fours, and then somehow I'm standing. While the ambulance guys put an oxygen mask over my dad's face and lift him onto a stretcher Sandy explains what happened with the nitroglycerin and says we're pretty sure that's what it was.

“Was he sitting up when you gave him the nitro?” one of the ambulance guys says and Sandy nods yes; the guy says, “Well, that's a problem, too. The person should be lying down because what it does is make your blood pressure drop and if that happens too fast—”

My dad starts shaking his head a little from side to side, then his eyes open and he reaches for the mask. His color's already starting to return as he gets the mask off, and the first thing he says is to the paramedics: “I have to tell you that I think I have scabies, so if you touch me, use rubber gloves.”