Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Diane Stallings

Saying It

Tuesday afternoon Harold Gowan wore a hospital johnnie for the first time ever. He peered from beneath his ten-gallon hat as he clenched his teeth. The nurse had said chest pain might be indigestion. Shouldn't have crammed in the whole plate of chorizo and eggs, he thought. She was a pretty nurse but no friend of his after she confiscated his tobacco and rolling papers.

Harold's son, Rob, hurried from his Mustang convertible to the hospital lobby, smoothing down his hair. He punched the elevator button, swallowed the last of his latte and scratched his beard impatiently. He'd dropped everything, canceled the managerial meeting of his coffee bar franchise. He couldn’t imagine his father in a position of weakness. Not ever. Not now. Even when Mom died, Harold remained a tower of strength. Rob shoved his hands tight in his pockets and stepped onto the elevator alone.

Harold's covers stretched diagonally across his middle so he could keep his feet in cowboy boots propped atop the blanket. His eyes grew wide when Rob walked into the room. He hadn't seen his son in months. The doctor must be worried, or Rob, he figured.

"Take your hat off and stay a spell, Dad." Rob grinned, suddenly reassured at the sight of his father.

"I'll keep it on. Too much glare from that light." Harold waved at the florescent bar overhead.

"Can I help you take your boots off?"

"Nope. I have to get up and pee every ten minutes. They gave me some kind of medicine. Wringing me dry as a dishrag."

"I'll get you some slippers."

"Ain't wearing no sissy slippers." His eyelids lowered.

"They said you had chest pain today."

"Real bad. Almost knocked me off ol' Blue. I was out checking the fences. Took Blue fifteen minutes to get me back to the house. Thought I was a goner."

Rob sat in the chair and squeezed his father's hand, which surprised both of them. Touching was not something they did.

Harold pulled his hand away and scratched under his hatband. "The ambulance guys fixed me up. I'm okay now."

Rob hoped so. The tension in Harold's crow's-feet added ten years to his age. The pale hospital gown rendered him powerless. He’d always been vigorous enough to tie down a cow and brand it.

Harold drummed his fingers. "They took my cigarettes away."

Rob shrugged. "Maybe it's time to quit."

Harold’s neck stiffened. "I don’t think so." His steely eyes met Rob’s.

Rob crossed his ankle over his knee and tapped his loafer.

He’s still a kid, Harold thought. "I’ll get out of here tomorrow. Johnson said he'd water the cattle. Feed them." He hated like hell to depend on anybody, but Johnson was a good neighbor.

"Don't worry about the ranch," said Rob.

"Easy for you to say."

"You just relax and heal up, Dad. That's all you need to do." Rob tried to sound calm, but doubt itched at the back of his mind. The doctor couldn't say if it was a heart attack. They wanted to test his blood every eight hours until tomorrow. Then they might know something.

Rob didn't like dangling in ignorance. That night he couldn't sleep. He hit the hospital early the next morning. Cinnamon disinfectant wafted through the corridors. He found his father's room empty. The sheets drooped off the mattress. Dad's scuffed boots stood tall under the bed. His hat was gone.

Queasiness spread through Rob's stomach. He stroked his beard and walked to the nurses' station.

"Are you related?" the weary night nurse asked. "I'm sorry we didn't have time to call you."

Rob's mouth dried up like desert sand.

"At four this morning he showered and fainted," she explained. "His blood pressure bottomed out, and I couldn't get it back. We shipped him to Intensive Care, and they're doing some tests."

Rob placed his sweaty palms on the countertop. "Was it a heart attack?"

"I'm not sure." She averted her eyes. "The doctor might be able to tell you. If you're going to ICU, do you mind taking his clothes? I am so far behind." She gave him a bag and Harold's stetson.

Rob didn't tell her she'd missed the boots. He fetched them and followed the signs to Intensive Care.

Beyond the double doors lay a large circular area. Rob forced his feet onto the forbidding stretch of thin carpet and moved toward the nurses' desk.

Mechanical tones dinged like fire bells at the desk. Paper tape reeled out from a monitor. A young nurse whose name tag read "Kitty" tore off the strip and bit her bottom lip.

"He's doing it again, girls. V-tach. He slips in, he slips out."

She glanced up at Rob. "You're supposed to call before you come in."

"Oh," said Rob. "I'm looking for Harold Gowan?"

Kitty touched her forehead and winced. "I'm taking care of him. You can come with me."

"How's he doing?" Rob followed her toward one of the rooms.

"Not good."

"He was fine yesterday." Rob's voice caught and lifted.

Kitty stopped at the foot of Harold's bed and faced Rob. "Did they tell you he had a heart attack?"

"Oh, geez, I knew it." He felt sick. His arms squeezed tighter around his father’s belongings.

"He had a heart attack yesterday and a much bigger one today," Kitty explained slow and clear.

From Harold's neck down, the blanket lay nearly flat, as if he’d shriveled into the bed. It took a moment for Rob to see that the pillows on each side of him caused this illusion.

"I don't -" Rob stammered. "How could this happen? He—"

Kitty moistened her lips and glanced at the heart monitor above the bed. "He discussed his living will with the ER doctor yesterday. That was a good thing, because his condition has deteriorated so much." She looked at Rob. "It would probably be impossible to resuscitate him."

"What? You're saying this is it? Yesterday he was fine." Rob blinked rapidly to clear his eyes.

"I'm sorry." Kitty rubbed her temple and leafed through her clipboard notes. She showed him the recent heart rhythm strip: a saw-tooth pattern. "This is a life-threatening arrhythmia. He’s done it several times. His heart is very weak. Look how low his blood pressure is." She nodded grimly at the monitor.

Rob didn't know which number she meant. Carefully he placed his father's hat and clothes on the countertop. The notch of Harold's boot heel held the dried remnants of a cow pie. Rob put the boots on the floor. His hand shook and knocked them over. He righted them.

Kitty said, "He's not responding, but he may still be able to hear you."

She pulled Harold's left hand out from under the sheet. "You can hold his hand and talk to him."

Rob rested his arms on the bedrail. They felt too heavy to move. He had more questions, but he didn't know where to begin.

Kitty nervously scribbled a note and checked the intravenous.

Harold's leathery tan ended at an abrupt line across his forehead. He didn’t look like Dad without his hat to protect the pale top of his head. His thin hair smeared against his scalp in every direction, like wet feathers on a chicken.

Rob wrapped his hands around his father's cold fingers, knowing he wouldn't pull away this time. "I'm here, Dad," he said loudly.

Harold's eyelids quivered and opened. He wondered why Rob was back already. His mouth felt parched.

"Hey!" Rob called. "He's awake!"

"That's amazing," Kitty said. "Most people don't wake up when their blood pressure is this low."

"Can you hear me, Dad?"

"'Course I can hear you. Don't have to shout." Harold smiled weakly.

"You're okay, Dad." Rob swallowed against his tight throat, thankful for this lucid moment. "You're okay."

"Good," said Harold.

Kitty drew her brows together. "You're not exactly okay."

"Dad?" Rob hesitated. He had to say the most important thing, the only thing that mattered, but the word love felt too mushy for Harold.

"What are you doing here?" Harold frowned.

"I'm here to be with you." Better words rose in his head. You mean a lot to me. You built my world. You’re my Dad.

"Aren't you going to work today?"

"I'm not going anywhere, just right here."

"I can't feel my feet." Harold pushed the fog from his mind. His flesh sank into the soft bed, yet he'd swear he floated above it. "You sure I'm okay?"

"Uh. No." Rob scratched his ear. "You had a heart attack."

"I feel fine."

"No pain?" Rob wondered how to tell him his life was gone.

"Nope. I'm groggy."

"It's great that you can wake up and talk," said Kitty.

"Is it?" Harold asked politely, thinking he might stay awake to watch this nurse. She loomed, all lipstick and breasts, above him. Then again he might go back to sleep.

When the nurse grasped his free hand, Harold gathered a dim suspicion of what this was all about. She and Rob leaned in on either side of him like a couple of bridesmaids. He guessed he was the bride, damn it all.

"You had a heart attack yesterday." Kitty gazed into his eyes. "When you showered this morning, you had a bigger heart attack. It was so big it blew out the septum—the wall in the middle of your heart." She drew a split down the center of her chest with the side of her hand.

Harold tilted his head, absorbing this news.

Rob's face crumpled. He bent his head, wiped his eyes on his shoulder.

"So the inner wall is gone," Kitty explained. "Your heart can hardly pump anything without it."

"Can ya'll fix a thing like that?"

"No. We can't." She looked right at him and squeezed his hand. "It's not going to get better."

"It's not," Harold repeated.

"No, it's not," Rob said hoarsely.

"You don't have much time," Kitty said. "It's hard to predict. Every so often your heart skips its rhythm, and that—that could do it."

"Hmm." Harold pushed his chin up.

"You're mighty tough, though," she said. "It's surprising you're awake right now, with a blood pressure of sixty over thirty." She patted his leg, turned away and dabbed her eyes.

"Yeah, Dad's a tough nut." Rob massaged his father's grizzly hand. "Never seen anybody tougher."

Kitty took her paperwork out to the desk.

Rob chewed the insides of his cheeks to keep control. He wondered how life could vanish so quickly. Even seventy-eight years was too short. How could you cram anything into the last few minutes, here now? He swallowed again. "Dad, I want to tell you—"

"Easy on that hand, Son. You're wearing it out."

"Sorry." Rob was glad his father didn't pull away. "I should have visited you more often at the ranch."

"Hell, you're busy. I'm busy. I wasn't waiting around for you."

"I wish I'd—I don't know." If only he'd paid attention, spent more time, invested more of his heart. He wished for something he couldn't name.

"No good, wishing," said Harold. "The jig's up."

"I'm sorry."

"What for? I had a good life. Maybe I'll see your mom today."

"I know I disappointed you sometimes, and I'm sorry."

"I disappointed you a time or two, so we're even." Sleep tugged at Harold.

"When I ran out from under the draft—"

"Hell, your mom was happy about that. Relieved. Costa Rica was the best place for you." Dizziness sputtered through Harold's head. He tried to stay clear for Rob's sake.

"I'm sorry I didn't work the ranch."

"No big deal. Not your cup of tea. I knew it when you were still in short pants. You hid out every time we butchered a barnyard chicken, never mind a bull."

Rob smiled. "You're the real thing, Dad." A tear ran off his nose and landed on his forearm. "I'm proud of you."

"You ain't half bad yourself." Harold's eyes glistened. "You and your cafés. You done all right."

"I wish I'd given you some grandkids."

"Never too late. You oughta settle down."

"I doubt that will happen. I'll keep the ranch going."

"Naw." Harold's eyelids eased down.

"I will."

The mattress enveloped Harold, pulling him toward sleep. Rob's voice nagged in that tone from decades ago, when he would ask to play catch after a hard day's work. The boy would drag him from his nap so they could toss a ball. Play games. Suddenly now his life's work looked like nothing but a game. In his mind the ranch folded up and tucked itself into a box, like Monopoly. Tiny brass cows.

"Dad?"

"Hmm." He felt Rob milking his hand again.

"Dad, I—." Rob's tongue thickened. "I love you."

Harold blinked. "Well," he mumbled. "You're my son."

He hoped that explained everything, but wasn't sure it did. Rob had no children, so how could he understand? When his son was born, Harold's heart grew tenfold and kept on growing, doubling, expanding despite anything the boy did or didn't do. His love ran deeper than Harold himself could fathom, much less describe to Rob. His mouth felt pasted shut. He pressed his son's hand and let himself float.

Copyright © 2004 Diane Stallings

About the Author
Diane Stallings lives in Fountain Hills, Arizona, with her husband and kids. "Saying It" was inspired by several sources in her work and family.