Authors: DL White
Still shooting daggers at Preston, I retrieve my phone from my bag and slide my thumb across the screen to answer it. “Mom? Is everything okay?”
"Hi sweetie." Her voice rings out loud and clear like she's next to me. "It’s not an emergency and I don't want you to worry, but I'm at the hospital with dad."
My heart is simultaneously in my throat and on the ground. "What happened?”
"He had a seizure. A bad one. We think one of his meds isn't quite working out. I had to call an ambulance to come get him. They want to keep him for observation." I hear her sigh into the receiver. "We're at Orlando General if you want to stop by. He's bored, so bring him some books or a magazine or something. He's driving me crazy."
My heart is racing and I'm lightheaded. I pace the area in front of my car. My mom sounds calm… but that’s her nature. She doesn’t like to make people—especially me—worry.
“The Neurology Ward?”
“Yep. You know the drill.”
“Okay. I’m… I’m on the way. I’m coming.”
“Angie, he’s fine. He’s asleep. Don’t… get all worked up.”
Too late. My hands are shaking so badly, I can’t press the red button to hang up the phone. The thin device is snatched from my hand. My head pops up and I remember that Preston has been standing there the entire time.
“Your dad?” I nod. He hands me my phone, pushes my door shut and hooks a hand in the crook of my elbow. “Come on. I’ll take you.”
“I… I can…” I want to say I can drive myself but I know I can’t. I can hardly walk the few feet to Preston’s car. He waits for me to lower myself inside, then shuts the door and jogs around to the driver’s side.
He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car with a press of a button. I stare at Preston Reid like he's an alien. Sometimes... sometimes I don't get him. One minute we’re biting at each other and the next minute he’s tucking me into his car so he can take me to the hospital to see my dad.
“Thanks. I… thank you.”
"Sure. Orlando General, right?"
“Yeah. I need to make a stop to grab some magazines. My mom said he needed some entertainment.”
“No problem.” The car pushes forward. In seconds, we are pulling out of the parking lot and headed- very quickly and smoothly-toward the hospital.
Dad’s illness is the biggest reason that I’ve stuck around instead of going somewhere, anywhere. The tremors that were infrequent began happening all the time. Sleep is the only time his brain rests... any other time, his nerves fire and misfire, his muscles working overtime in response.
He's a self-made man, having run his own Ford dealership for as long as I can remember. It's been hard for him to relinquish control of the day to day operations. He hasn't driven himself anywhere in over ten years. He can't pour his own coffee or make his own sandwich, let alone feed himself anything other than finger food. Mom quit her job to be home with him, watch him, and manage the house. Some days it seems like a waste for her to be with him all day; his tics and tremors are hardly noticeable, well controlled by medication. Some days he flails and shakes until he's nearly out of his mind.
They go back to the doctor for evaluation often. He gets a new cocktail of meds. They have to wait for the meds to kick in, and then things are better, until they’re not. Repeat every six to nine months. I'm scared that eventually they're going to run out of medication and this disease will take him. Dad being in the hospital isn’t anything new, but every time he goes in, I’m scared he won’t come back out.
We make a short stop at the grocery store, where Preston heads straight to the magazine aisle and starts loading up. I can’t concentrate on what my dad wants to read, so I linger, trying to call my mom back. The calls go straight to voicemail. I’m actually grateful that Preston is driving, so I can worry and frantically, manically call my mom over and over and over without driving into the side of a building.
"Why the hell isn't she picking up?!" I'm so frustrated, I want to cry. I redial and redial and redial. Voicemail, voicemail, voicemail.
"I think they block cell phone signals up there. Just… relax. He'll be okay."
Preston drops me at the entrance to Orlando General Hospital. I sprint from the car at breakneck pace, heading toward the elevators. I punch the ‘up' button over and over until the doors open and two people spill out. I jump in and press ‘8’. The doors almost close before they pop open again and Preston steps inside, toting the paper bag full of magazines.
We stand awkwardly in the elevator, staring up at the numbers as they slowly go up... 4...5...6...7. At the eighth floor a bell rings and the doors slide open.
The Neurology Ward is relatively new, just a few years old. It looks more like a hotel lobby than a hospital. The floors gleam with a high shine, making it easier for patients to shuffle their feet down the hall. A long steel stability bar runs along both sides of the long hallway, something to hold onto if needed. The walls are a muted peach with bright art prints hung every few feet.
We pass the waiting room, full of orange, red and brown leather couches that sit empty in front of the nurses' station. I'm relieved to see a nurse that I know from my previous visits and walk toward her. Her head is down and she has an ear bud in one ear. Her head rhythmically bounces and she's mouthing words as her fingers fly across a keyboard.
I tap the counter to get her attention. Her head flies up and the look of irritation is quickly replaced by a smile. "Hey, baby!" she exclaims, pulling the bud from her ear and rushing around the counter to our side. She hugs me, wrapping me up in her ample bosom, then pulls back but leaves one arm around me. She rubs and pats my back as we talk.
"I haven't seen you in a while, which I guess is good."
I nod, grateful for that at least. "I love seeing you but I don't like that he's here. I heard the ambulance picked him up?"
Irene nods, her head bobbing deeply. "I'll let your mama fill you in. I think he's okay right now, but you know him. He's grumpy and giving us a hard time, like usual. He's in 834, around that corner." She points to the left and I head in that direction, Preston in tow.
Underneath a placard that reads 834, a tag that says CAMPBELL, ERIC is taped to the wall.
I knock quietly, then turn the knob and inch the door open. The lights are low in the room and the TV is on. Dad is in a hospital bed, but Mom is reclining in a black leather La-Z-Boy. An area rug covers most of the linoleum floor and a flat screen TV is mounted on the wall, angled so both of them can see it. Two nightstands flank the bed and the lamps look like designer pieces, not bland hospital issue. The wardrobe is closed, as is a door that I assume is the bathroom.
Dad is sleeping, only obvious because his limbs are at rest. Mom jerks awake when I touch her arm. I press my finger to my lips and whisper, "Let's talk outside."
We step outside the room and I gently close the door. She's shocked to see Preston waiting in the hallway and gives him a hug. "It's so nice of you to come with Angie."
"I wanted to make sure she got here. And we brought some things for Mr. Campbell. Angie said he was bored."
She rolls her eyes while yawning. "Oh, he's so cranky," she says. "He's tired of TV already."
"Mom, why didn't you call me earlier?"
"I didn't want you to worry. It's not an emergency; we're just here for observation."
"But I-"
"Would have dropped everything and come over here to sit and do nothing. There was no need. Your father wouldn't hear of it."
"Okay, so what happened? Why did he come here in an ambulance?"
"Well, the seizure, it kept going and going and I couldn't get him to the car. They had a hard time getting him on the gurney."
She wraps her arms around herself and shakes her head slowly, back and forth. Her eyes are downcast, her lush lashes almost sweeping her cheek. The stress of Dad's illness ages her. Crow's feet have settled in. Long lines always outline her mouth. Her skin used to be smooth. Flawless. She looks haggard and I hate that I can’t take this away from her.
"Anyway, Dr. Laurence said to call 911, so I did. They came to get him and here we are."
"So... where are we? Did they change his meds?"
She nods and we talk medication for a few minutes, words that probably sound alien to Preston but are second nature to us. What he's taking now, what he was taking, what it was supposed to do for him.
"He's sleeping, which is a hell of a lot more than he's been doing lately. I practically can't even be in the same bed anymore. The other night..." She starts to laugh, despite herself. "The bed was... you know, tapping against the wall. He said, “
it’s too
bad Angie isn't here to think we're having sex and be embarrassed
."
She breaks out in loud giggles that aren’t masked by her hand over her mouth. Preston’s lips roll inward – he’s trying not to laugh, and not succeeding.
"You could have kept that to yourself, mom. Really."
I hear a noise inside the room and we look at each other. "Sounds like he's awake," she says. "Go on in and say hello."
I push the door open again and my dad is sitting up in bed. His head and hands have already begun shaking–light tremors, but tremors nonetheless.
"Look who it is," says dad. His voice slurs the smallest bit. His tongue often seems too thick for his mouth. "Hey, baby girl."
"Hi Daddy." I lean over and kiss his forehead and brush my hand over his salt and pepper hair. "Irene says you're being bad in here."
"I'm not being bad. I want a burger. All they have is chicken. They can't go get me a nice burger?"
"Daddy, they're concerned about your health."
"Ehhh. Problem is my brain, not my heart." Movement behind me catches his eye and he dips his head around me to see Preston standing just inside the door. "Oh. Hey, son. Did you come with Angie?"
"He drove me. We brought you some things to read." Preston steps forward with the bag and I begin to unload its contents onto the rolling tray parked next to the bed. "There are some news magazines, People, Sports Illustrated…Shape?"
I give Preston a questioning stare, at which he shrugs. I turn back to my dad. "Well if you like looking at women working out, there's that."
He takes the magazine and opens it to an ad for sports bras. "Oh, I might like that."
"And there are some books here. Plenty to keep you occupied." I drop the bag next to the bed and have a seat in the empty spot next to him. "How long are they keeping you?"
"Couple days." Dad suddenly looks very tired. His eyes are rimmed red and have dark circles under them. He blinks slowly, his eyes drifting toward the TV. Then suddenly he pops them wide open and he grins. "Hey, you think I should let them electrocute me?"
Mom clicks her tongue and hides her face behind a palm.
"What's he talking about? Like shock therapy?"
"It's deep brain stimulation. It's not shock therapy, but similar. It's supposed to help the severe cases of tremors."
"Oh." I turn back to Dad. "Do you want to do that? Will that help you?"
"They brought it up. But we won't go to that unless these new meds don't work."
"And how long are they evaluating them?"
"We'll give it a few months. Like always." He pats my hand, the one closest to me and says, with a twinkle in his eye, "Good to see Preston. You two uh..."
I shake my head and try to smile.
Keep the politics between us.
"No, dad. Preston is just being nice." I turn to him then. "But you can probably go. I'll stay here with my parents."
"No, no, no," starts Dad.
"Oh honey… no," says Mom.
"I don't want to strand you here," says Preston.
"You know what you can do, Preston, is take my girls home." Mom and I protest. Dad raises both hands to demand quiet. "I'm going to take some more pills and go back to sleep. You don't need to be here to listen to me snore. Come back tomorrow. Be ready to play some poker. And bring me a burger."
Mom and I are quiet. Preston is in the corner looking helpless. We're all staring at each other.
"Get out!" He yells.
I hop off of the bed and drop a kiss on his cheek. "You don't have to yell, old man."
"People don't listen when I don't yell. Get out of here. And don't forget my burger, tomorrow."
"I got it. Your burger."
"And some playing cards. You know the ones I mean."
"Yes dad." He keeps them in a special drawer in a cabinet in the dining room. When his salesmen and other friends used to come over for poker night, he'd throw a green felt cloth over the table and get out the cards, set out some drinks and appetizers and tune the TV to the classic soul station. It's been a long time since Dad hosted poker night.
Mom gathers her things, yawning the entire time. I know there's no way she can sleep in that chair. She must be dead tired and so thankful to be going home. Preston opens the door and we file out of the room.
"Goodnight, Mr. Campbell," he says to my dad.
"Goodnight, son," My dad slurs, already back on his way to sleep.
We walk back to the elevator, past the nurses' station. Irene waves as we step into the elevator and the doors close. The ride down to the first floor is quiet. Mom is on one end, Preston is on the other. She has the oddest smile on her face.
I nudge her with my elbow and shake my head. Because I know what she's thinking, and we are not back together. She does her best to contain an all-knowing chuckle.