Our Father (26 page)

So it was that really, it was myself, Alex thought, sitting utterly still, fully dressed in the armchair in the bedroom she’d been assigned. One of the guest rooms, furnished formally. She’d pulled the chair up to the window, an antique chair with a stiff back and wooden arms. She sat facing out, querying the stars, so brilliant here at night, far from the city, in the middle of woods.

She glanced at the room around her. Not the room I slept in when I lived here. That must be in the wing that’s closed up. I remember it as a suite—nursery, playroom, laundry room, toilets, bathroom, nanny’s room.

Funny the way the house is arranged—the parents’ suite, Father’s room, the wife’s room, and their sitting room on one side of the house, the children’s suite way across on the other side, all these other rooms in between. You’d think parents would want to be near their babies, not clear across on the other side of the house. Take minutes to get to them if they cried. You wouldn’t even hear them.

I suppose that was the point, not to hear it. Nanny’s job to take care of crying babies. I wouldn’t like that. I’d want to pick up my baby, comfort it myself. Otherwise why have children? The only people in life you can ever love unconditionally. The way they love you. At least while they’re little. But I think it lasts, maybe buried under a lot of other stuff. Important to have that, don’t you think? Sometime in your life? Unconditional love. Like the foundation of a house.

Do I love Father that way?

Maybe you only love the ones who really take care of you. Father was certainly never a caretaker like David.

I should ask them for the key, go look at that wing, maybe remember something.

This isn’t the room they gave David and me that time. … Not that I remember it very well, just had a glimpse, my eyes full of tears when I flew up to repack our things. Someone had unpacked them, a maid, I guess. Didn’t challenge him, didn’t protest, just tore out of here without even saying good-bye. He probably thought I was a fool. Don’t accomplish anything by running away, don’t change anything, ease anything. He didn’t care. What does he care about? Not me, that’s sure. Does he love Mary? What would have happened if I’d fought back, attacked him for talking that way, blasted him the way Elizabeth would for deserting me. …

I ran because I was trying to make him feel sorry for what he’d said without actually confronting him. Coward’s trick.

David was sorry for me, saw the tears, but they weren’t tears of hurt, they were tears of rage. But the truth, I see it now, I was really enraged because of what
I’d
done, blamed him, he made me do it, but I did it didn’t I threw Stevie away like garbage. Heard him howl, that sudden thrust shocked him, frightened him, but I didn’t care. He was garbage, Father said he was garbage.

How could I have done that?

How could I?

11

T
HEY STOOD UNDER THE
portico waiting for Aldo to bring the car around. Mary’s gaze concentrated on the pine trees that protected the house from the road, as in an easy, almost musical voice, she suggested, “Do you think we should go in to see him separately?”

Alex and Elizabeth checked each other’s eyes; Alex glanced at Ronnie, who stared straight ahead with a tough unfeeling face.

“No,” Elizabeth decided tentatively. Alex slid her arm through Ronnie’s and pressed it to her side. Ronnie slid her arm away

In the ICU, Edna Thompson was praising Stephen for moving his left leg. Tubes were still attached to his nose and chest, and he did not respond to her, staring straight ahead with an expression of rage on his face. When his daughters moved into his field of vision, he moved his face away.

Does he see a difference in the way we are standing here, our shoulders slightly touching? United.

The nurse greeted the sisters warmly, especially Elizabeth, then left the room.

Amazing. She used to dislike Elizabeth, you could see it on her face. Disliked her arrogance. What had changed, Mary wondered.

Elizabeth stepped forward, said hello, kissed Stephen’s forehead, asked how he was feeling today. Mary also kissed him, and asked if there was anything they could do for him. He glared straight ahead. The other two stood where they were.

“Good morning, Father,” Alex said.

“Sir,” Ronnie nodded.

Mary chatted to him, asking if the food was all right, if he was comfortable, if he’d like something to read. When he turned his head and looked at them, their voices dwindled away. He lifted his left hand and made a whisking movement toward the door.

“You want us to leave?” Elizabeth asked coldly. “We will.”

Dr. Stamp met them as they left and took them to a smoking lounge. Elizabeth immediately lighted up.

He tried to address each of them in turn, but his eyes kept returning to Elizabeth. “We’ve been doing tests on your father regularly since his stroke. They show he has Broca’s aphasia and hemiparesis, which means that he can’t talk and he’s paralyzed on his right side. We can’t predict how much improvement there might be, and you have to be prepared for the possibility that there might not be any. But we have to move him out of the ICU.”

“When?”

“As soon as—probably tomorrow.”

“As soon as what?”

“We have to be satisfied that he can breathe on his own without a respirator and doesn’t require suctioning. If his blood pressure and heart rate are stable, if he doesn’t require intensive monitoring. In any case, you need to start thinking about future care.”

“Such as?”

“The best bet would be a rehabilitation hospital if they’ll accept him. We’ll have the social service department contact a rehabilitation hospital—we’ve found Middlesex Rehab very competent. They’ll send a nurse to evaluate him. But if she decides that he’s totally disabled, she’ll reject him. And he needs chronic custodial care.” He turned a more sympathetic gaze at Mary. “I’m sorry the outlook isn’t better.”

“Is it hopeless?” Mary peered up at him as at a divinity.

“Nooo. He could start to regain some use of his right side, perhaps even speak again. But there’s severe damage to a critical part of the left brain. Some of it is probably irrevocable.”

He stood up. He was eager to get away from them, Elizabeth thought. Didn’t like delivering bad news. She stood too, put her hand out to shake his. They all stood, shook hands, uttered politenesses. He’s not the one to talk to. Doesn’t know the nitty-gritty.

After he’d left, Elizabeth said, “I’d like to … do you mind waiting? I’d like to speak to the nurse.”

“We’ll all go,” Mary said authoritatively.

They found Edna Thompson in the ICU control room. Elizabeth addressed the nurse in a low voice, respectfully.

My God: what’s happened to her? where’s her usual arrogant manner? Mary wondered.

“Nurse Thompson, we—my sisters and I—have been wondering. Our father seems—somewhat angry. He seems aware we are present but he doesn’t respond to us. We’re a bit upset about this.”

The nurse put her hand on Elizabeth’s arm, and looked in her eyes (first time she’s done that, Mary thought). “Oh, Ms. Upton, I understand you’re upset. But try to imagine what you’d feel like if you woke up and found yourself paralyzed, unable to speak, unable to move on your own. Especially a big important man like that. The poor soul is just bewildered and frustrated. It’ll take a few days for him to comprehend and then to accept what’s happened to him. And that can be hard on the family—they sometimes mistake that frustration for anger—but believe me, your dad’s not angry, he’s just confused and frustrated. He’ll be better in a few days, you’ll see.”

But he was not. Moved on Monday to a private room on an upper floor, surrounded by flowers and magazines his daughters provided (others having by now forgotten him), he continued to glare into space.

“Raging at his fate, such a powerful eloquent man, unable to speak, you can understand it.” Dr. Stamp shook his head sadly. “‘Do not go gently into that good night,’” he intoned, showing off. “‘Rage, rage at the dying of the light!’”

The nurse from the rehab hospital had indeed rejected him, Dr. Stamp said apologetically. There was an excellent nursing home near Boston, on the North Shore. Expensive, but he presumed that was not a problem. Good because it was not too far from Logan—they could fly in and visit him, fly out again the same day. Would they like to drive up and see it?

“Could we take him home?” Alex asked timidly, darting looks at Elizabeth.

He stopped dead. “And do what?”

“Take care of him ourselves.”

“You sure you want to do that?”

“No. What do
you
think?” Elizabeth said.

Amazing. She sounds human, thought Mary.

He shook his head from side to side. “Well.” He grimaced. No idea what they were getting themselves into, these girls. Love, affection, duty, admirable of course, but … “Well. It would be hard, I have to warn you. You’d have to have a visiting nurse once a day to check his blood pressure, listen to his heart and lungs, make sure he had no congestion in his chest, check his calves to make sure he isn’t developing phlebitis. He’d have to be fed—of course he can help feed himself with his left hand. He’d have to void in a bedpan, which would have to be emptied; he’d have to be bathed every day, sponge bath of course. He might get, probably will get bedsores, which need applications of ointment. You’d have to work to keep his bottom dry. He’d need a hospital bed with electric controls and—other stuff—the nurses would know. A foam rubber mattress, a soft sheet of some sort.”

“Chamois. And a bed tray,” Alex said helpfully.

“Right.” He looked at them meaningfully. “It would mean the most basic care, like taking care of a baby. Round-the-clock. Possibly for years.”

“Thank you, Doctor, we’ll think about what you’ve said,” Elizabeth said crisply.

“He could have another stroke. It might be frightening for you,” he warned.

“What are the chances of that?” Mary asked timidly. “Another stroke.”

He shrugged, sighed, shook his head. “I can’t predict. But most people don’t live long in his condition.”

The sisters nodded and went home.

As soon as lunch was over, the table cleared, Elizabeth spoke.

“So what do we do?”

“He’d hate being in a nursing home,” Alex said.

“He’d like
us
wiping his bottom?” Elizabeth asked.

“He’d loathe it,” Mary moaned.

“Don’t expect me to do it,” Ronnie warned.

“Why? Didn’t he take care of you when you were a baby?” Mary said querulously. “Change your nappies and feed you your pabulum? What an ungrateful child!” Ronnie swung around to face her and she laughed, laying her hand over Ronnie’s. Ungloved. “We could hire a woman to do it,” she said. “A stranger. A practical nurse, if they still exist.”

“He’d prefer that. Of all the options. Being in his own house but being tended by a servant. He’d hate us doing it but he’d also hate a nursing home.”

“Do we care what he hates?”

“We care what
we
hate.”

“If he goes to a nursing home he’ll fade and die. We can write him off, we’ll never get a word out of him.”

They stared at the table, mouths set, silent.

“And we want a word out of him. I do, anyway.”

“You may not get it anyway.”

“But are we prepared to spend months, maybe years here, taking care of him?” Elizabeth asked. “I’m not.”

“Nor I. We have our own lives to get on with,” Mary agreed. How can I borrow money from a man who can’t speak?

“I have unfinished business with him,” Alex insisted. “We can send him to a nursing home when we’re through with him. Say we found it too much. Dr. Stamp will certainly understand.”

“You’re really ruthless,” Mary said, surprised.

They looked at Alex, at each other.

“Wouldn’t you like a few answers from him too?” she asked sharply.

Mary and Elizabeth exchanged a deep look. They glanced at Ronnie, who dropped her eyes.

“It’s decided then?”

“I’m in favor. For a while.” Elizabeth laid her hand down in the center of the table. Mary put hers over it, Alex added hers. Ronnie hesitated, then added hers. “Is this a pact?” she asked.

They nodded.

She grinned. “Do we mingle blood?”

Elizabeth and Mary didn’t know where it might be, but Ronnie looked in the key cabinet and sure enough, there was a key labeled “Nursery Wing.” Alex went upstairs and tried it. The key turned but the door stuck. She banged and pushed, but it didn’t open until she pressed down on the doorknob with all her weight. Then it swung open; she peered in. No wonder it stuck, hadn’t been opened in years, maybe decades from the look of it. Dust webbed the windows, the legs of tables, the angles of walls and ceiling. Cobweb dimmed the light from the windows but the room was still light enough, a large children’s playroom, cluttered with sturdy old-fashioned wooden furniture, armchairs covered with bright-colored chintzes, child-sized chairs and tables for drawing and games, shelves along the walls holding dolls, books, stacks of games. Alex moved farther into the room and examined the shelves more closely. Mostly girls’ toys, but a few toy trucks and cars, a chemistry set. Must have been Elizabeth’s. Or mine? Freezing in here, the radiators turned off, chill dank air that hasn’t been disturbed maybe since I was nine years old, the last child to play here. For surely Ronnie was never allowed to. Why not after all. It was too bad.

“It would blur distinctions, which always leads to disaster.”

Was that his voice? Do I remember it?

She walked toward the hallway to the right, toward what she remembered as the nanny’s room, yes there was the toilet and the bathroom. She stopped, a memory clicking into place: Mommy. Her mother, here. She slept here when I was sick. And when I was having all those nightmares. Terrible nightmares, she still remembered them, horrible monsters pursuing her, pressing her into corners. …

She pushed open the nanny’s room door—bare and shabby but also bright. The upstairs rooms were lighter than the front rooms downstairs. The ones you were in at night. Seemed topsy-turvy.

The narrow iron bed was covered with a cheap cotton spread; the mirror over the chest of drawers had some old faded photographs stuck in it—Mary, it looked like, about three or four. Left behind by the last nanny?