After six days in the hospital, Dad is discharged and sent to rehab in an ambulance. That night, I drive over to see him, but the center says they have no George Aherne.
"Would you check again? He came by ambulance this afternoon."
Unable to find him, the receptionist calls the charge nurse. "I'm sorry. There's no one here by that name."
When Leslie told me where Dad went, I was distracted. I thought I knew the nursing home she mentioned and didn't write down the name or address. I have no idea what facility I'm in. Thanking the receptionist, I return home. On the way, I stop at another rehab center whose name sounds familiar, convinced this is the one. No. Never heard of Aherne.
"Where were you?" Leslie asks when I call later in the evening.
"I forgot the name of the place—"
Before I say anything else, Rachel takes the phone. "I thought I was the only one he never listens to, but I like knowing I'm not the only one."
***
I drive over to see Dad the next evening. Leslie is still there. He's curled up on his bed in a fetal position dressed in his clothes looking like a visitor who became ill and had to lie down. He faces the wall lying on the spread, childlike and vulnerable, his bare ankles above the flimsy slippers. Supplied by the center, the slippers are little more than cardboard and reinforces my uneasiness since entering the facility. The place is operating on a shoestring.
I'm shocked to see him like this. Leslie is rubbing his back, leaning forward in a chair pulled up beside the bed. She acknowledges me with a discouraged look.
A nurse brushes by to take his temperature. She taps her foot in time to the song on the roommate's radio. She removes the thermometer and holds it up to the light. "It's not going down." Turning to my father she raises her voice. "Mr. Aherne, I'm getting a protein shake for you to drink before going to sleep." She looks at Leslie and me. Her expression is clear: 'It's up to you to see he drinks it.'
I see from my sister's expression she wants to tell me something but won't in front of our father. I can't help feeling impatient with him. Dad's supposed to be getting better. I expected to find him happy to be out of the hospital, flirting with the nurses, and planning the next time we'd go out to eat together. I want him to be like he was before Christmas.
"Dad," Leslie speaks softly. "Mark's here to visit." Her voice is hopeful that Dad will roll over and sit up, like Lazarus, healthy and raring to go.
He twists his head awkwardly. He's not wearing his glasses, and I doubt he'd recognize me if Leslie hadn't told him I was here. I've said nothing since entering the room. "Hi, Mark. Thanks for stopping by." He lays his head back on the pillow.
"How are you doing?"
He doesn't bother with the hand motion. "Metsa, metsa."
Leslie bites her lip. She acts exhausted.
"What's wrong?" I pull another chair over to the bed.
Leslie answers to prevent him from having to repeat everything. "He's complained about a pain in his stomach all day. He's been lying down most of the afternoon." She pantomimes that he hasn't eaten all day.
"How about some ice cream? That would go down easy."
Dad pulls his arms tightly against his chest. "No ice cream. I could do with some water."
"Of course." I jump up happy to have something to do. "I'll be right back."
He speaks as I leave the room. I stop and go back. I frown at Leslie.
"He said, no ice."
In the hallway, I follow signs to the dining room. An aide is setting the tables for breakfast. "Water?" She nods toward a corner and returns to the kitchen. The machine spouts orange juice and lemonade inside plastic containers. I'm thirsty and fill a plastic cup with orange juice. It's been watered down and thickened with something. I try another cup with lemonade but there's an aftertaste I can't identify.
I fill another cup with water, but it's cold. I add warm water and return to the room.
Leslie is helping Dad sit up with two pillows propped behind his back and one behind his head. His eyes are closed as if moving makes him dizzy. "Is that comfortable?" No matter how sick he's been in the past, he rarely complained. He sighs and opens his eyes, looks around like he expects the room has changed. Did he imagine for a moment he was back in his apartment? Leslie brings the cup to his lips. Dad raises his hands to hold it, but knocks the cup, spilling some on his shirt. He slurps the water and turns his head to the side.
"Have another swallow." Leslie remembers how dehydration contributed to Mom's fast decline. She blames herself for not keeping on top of it.
He takes another sip to please her, then pushes the cup away and closes his eyes.
"Do you want to sit up or lie back down."
"Down," is all he says. I help Leslie reposition him. At least he no longer faces the wall.
Leslie stands and takes her overcoat off the back of her chair. I notice a small vase of flowers she's brought in. Why don't I think to bring in something? I hear Rachel's answer. "It never crosses your mind. Like most men, so I suppose it doesn't matter much."
"Those are pretty." I point to the flowers.
"Aren't they. One of the nurses brought them in."
"Roberta Conley," Dad says.
Leslie continues, "She was wearing an Arlington High sweater. Her grandmother went to school with Dad."
"Ah-ha." I attempt a little humor. "Was she a rival for your affection?"
"No, we thought she was a lesbian."
"On that note, I'll be off." Leslie's voice is a mixture of relief and reluctance. "Mark will be here a little longer before he goes home for dinner. Okay?"
"You're staying, Mark?" My father sounds like he's afraid to be left alone. He needs me to stay, his words making me happy, but also sad. For a moment, I remember how as a child, I clung to the band of light beneath my bedroom door, dreading the darkness.
"Give me a kiss." Leslie kisses his cheek. "A good night's rest and some oatmeal for breakfast will set you right. I'll be back around lunchtime." She hates to leave him. "I have a meeting at work." She turns to me. "I've got something of Rachel's in the car." She waves at Dad. "See you tomorrow."
Dad attempts a smile. "I hope I'll be here."
"Of course, you will. But we'll get you home soon." She tips her head toward the door to make sure I follow her.
"I'll be back in a moment." I follow Leslie out of the room.
Out of earshot, Leslie drops her cheerful tone. "Lord, I've been here since two o'clock." She sounds tired and discouraged. "I'm afraid, Mark. He's not doing well. The head nurse says she's concerned about his high temperature. If his temp isn't down overnight, they'll send him back to the hospital."
"How long as he been like this?"
"Started two days ago, but it's worse today."
It's been two days since I've seen him. The guilt piles higher. I'll have to cancel another meeting if I'm to meet Leslie at lunchtime.
"He's not the same. I think he's given up." She is close to tears.
I must look more stricken than I imagine because she puts her arm around me. "We have to have faith he'll get better."
Outside in the fresh air, she regains a positive attitude. "I've asked them to give him a shower. That should help him fall asleep." She stops walking. "Try to get him to drink more water. He hates those protein drinks." She shudders at the thought. "They'll kick you out in half an hour, so they can get him ready for bed. See you tomorrow."
"Don't you have something for Rachael?"
"No, I wanted to talk in private."
She walks to her car to drive home to an empty house. My heart goes out to her, but whenever Rachel and I act concerned and invite her to dinner, she reminds us she must get home to feed her dog. "He's like a child and a lot less trouble."
***
I return to his room. The protein shake is on his bedside table, unopened. His eyes are closed, and he's rolled over to face the wall again. Until he feels better, I doubt the real world holds any interest.
One of his roommates is reading the Globe and listening to his radio.
The nurse returns with a thermometer. She's older and acts like she's seen it all before. "Let's get your temp before you start the protein drink."
Dad opens his eyes but doesn't move.
"Roll over. I don't want you breaking my thermometer."
"It's not yours." His irritation is obvious. I'm surprised when he doesn't move. Dad always follows the nurses' instructions if only to stay in their good graces.
"It's mine at the moment," she snaps, pausing to wait for him to roll over. "Don't make me go back and get a rectal thermometer—"
"Don't raise my hopes." For a moment his humor reappears. He rolls over and opens his mouth.
"That works every time." She winks at me, shakes the thermometer, and sticks it under his tongue. She notices the flowers. "I heard Roberta brought those in."
Dad nods, the thermometer bobbing.
"She thinks you're charming."
I notice that Dad can't hide looking a little smug.
"But you don't fool me. Some of us see right through you." She laughs and pulls the thermometer out of his mouth. "Down a bit. Let's hope that keeps up."
She turns to me. "Are you the younger Mr. Aherne?"
"You are correct, madam." I bow, trying to keep the conversation light.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Helen, but I'll have to ask you to leave. We need extra time to get your dad ready for bed. A tepid bath is on the docket."
Dad groans. "I knew she'd have my pants off before she was finished."
She puts her hands on her hips. "Ha! I doubt you've got anything to shock me."
"Don't be so sure about that."
Helen glances at me. "Big promises."
Dad ignores her and speaks to me. "Go home and have your dinner."
"Mr. Aherne. you need to follow your own advice. You have a protein drink to finish after your bath.
"I'll be back tomorrow before lunch." I lean over and hug him. "I love you."
Outside I drink in the night air. The facility is overheated and I'm sweating. The air chills me and I zip up my coat. My nose itches and I imagine my nostrils are filled with dust.
***
Before driving to the nursing home, Leslie and I meet to visit an assisted living facility not far from her house. The cost is more than Dad can afford, but we're determined to never have him stay in a place like the one Mom was in. We'll have to lie because there's no way he'll agree to live in a place that expensive.
On the way to the rehab center, I total the costs he'll save after moving. Apartment rent, food shopping, the twice-monthly cleaning lady. Leslie and I also include selling his car. We'll argue it's unnecessary because they provide transportation to medical clinics and a shopping center. That eliminates the cost for gas, repairs, and insurance.
To these savings, I add Dad's social security check. He also has a pension from the engineering firm. It's $950 a month which Rachel says is a disgrace. "After forty years?"
When I subtract the savings from the facility charge, my calculation identifies a gap of $2200 a month. How long can he remain there with $80,000 in savings? Barely three years, if the housing fee doesn't increase, which it will. Then what?
Leslie and I agree to each contribute $400 a month. I quickly discover that's only two extra months! Mom was in a nursing home for over five years.
***
Leslie and I arrive at the rehab facility. An ambulance blocks access to the parking lot behind the building. The EMTs slam shut the back doors and the ambulance drives off with an ear-splitting siren. When we walk by the nurses' station, a nurse we don't recognize is looking at a patient's record with a phone receiver in her hand. She's working alone and doesn't notice us. Entering Dad's room, I say a silent prayer that his temperature is back to normal. God will earn extra points if he's eaten breakfast.
Instead, we find Dad's bed stripped bare. Leslie gasps, her hand pressed over her mouth. I'm sick to my stomach. We have the same thought: Dad died during the night.
Leslie's cell rings. Her hands shaking, she fumbles taking it from her purse. "Hello?"
The noise in the hall prevents me from hearing the person on the other end of the call.
"Thank God." To me she mouths: He went to the hospital. "Why wasn't I called? I was shocked to find him gone. When I saw his bed stripped, I thought he had died."
I glance at the roommate sitting on his bed. He's enjoying the excitement. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, "She's a spitfire."
"Yes, of course, I'm here. I'm standing in his room. Why didn't I get a heads up?"
Leslie glares at me like I'm a stand-in for the person she's talking with.
"But I never got a call. It's incompetence. That person couldn't have tried very hard."
I try to imagine the person on the other end of the call trying to get a word in.
"Who decided it was necessary?"
The roommate shakes his head in sympathy. It must be confusing when roommates appear and disappear without notice. I shrug in agreement.
The roommate looks like he wants to leave the room.
"The doctor was late?" Leslie throws her arm up in disgust. "Where did they take him?"
If she only complains to the director of the center, he should count himself lucky.
"Fine. Good-bye." She closes her cell phone. "He's back at Lahey."