Final Paradox

Chapter 13

“Mr. Jenkins? Your father is out of his coma and asking to see you.”

“Wonderful! I’ll be there as soon as possible.” Harry hung up and tossed on his coat.

Thank God! Relief flooded through him.

Within half an hour, he was striding through the noontime crowds in the underground maze of corridors at Toronto General Hospital.

Now he’s awake, we’d better start talking, especially about the gun. That’s been the trouble all my life. I’ve never been able to have a real conversation with him. Always putting each other off and ending up in arguments. You don’t get a second chance every day. So now that it’s here, you are damn well going to make the most of it.

As he passed by the cafeteria, the aroma of lunch wafted out to him, reminding him he was hungry. A sea of faces met him as he looked at the line-up at the cash register. One elderly man’s face bore no trace of his thoughts, seemingly focused entirely on his inner world. The woman behind him was open and laughing as she talked with a friend. Another was ravaged with worry. Perhaps he had desperate concern about a wife, a child, himself. It was hard to imagine what others bore and to understand that everyone had as murky depths as he did. But then, you could only see the outside. Only by what people said or did could you ever know much about them.

Poor Dad! I can only imagine what it’s been like for him, buried inside himself, unable to talk. When Anna died, he just disappeared. It seemed like he hated Mother and me, and of course, himself. Good God! How I resented him for that. Probably still do. But now’s the time to straighten things out, starting with this damned gun.

Suddenly, Harry realized he had made a wrong turn. The elevators to the Eaton Wing were down the other corridor. He shouldered past a woman pushing a little boy in a stroller, who clutched a teddy bear. Whining, he lurched back and forth to break free of the straps. At last, Harry arrived at the glass elevators.

But what about the gun? Jesus, was he trying to kill himself? And why? You just don’t know what’s going on inside somebody, even your own father. Maybe, he’s gotten so depressed, there’s nowhere else left for him to go. But goddamn it, why does he have to be so hard to reach? Most of the time, it’s like talking to a brick wall.

Harry pushed past the laundry cart parked in the hallway near the nursing station.

One of us has to figure this out and make some rational decisions. And of course, it’ll be me. The gun business shows he can’t be trusted to make the right ones. How can you find a safe place for a man who wants to kill himself?

Harry marched into the room. His father’s head was turned on the pillow toward the door. Struck by the glimmering intensity in his eyes, Harry grasped his hand.

“Dad, thank goodness you’re back in the land of the living.” He was depressed by his own forced joviality. “You sure had me worried the last few days.” His father’s eyes bore into his. His arm reached up to draw him closer.

“Son!” His father’s voice was little more than a gurgle.

“Yes, Dad?” Ready for another demand for freedom to live on his own, he bent closer. His father pulled him down to his chest.

Stanley’s eyes were fierce. “I want to apologize, son.”

Harry jerked back. “You’ve nothing to apologize for Dad.”

His father shook his head violently. “Listen! You’ve been a good son.”

Harry grimaced and patted his hand. “You’ve been a good father.”