Brother, I'm Dying - Edwidge Danticat [54]
Before we entered my father’s room, my mother, whose hands were burdened with a bag filled with food-packed Tupperware, waited for us to be all grouped together. Her eyes filling up with tears, she said, “If you look sad, you’ll make him sadder. So please, look hopeful.” And then just as though magic dust had been sprinkled into her weary and reddened eyes, her face brightened with a hopeful grin.
My father’s bed was next to the window, giving him a clear view of the parking lot below. But his eyes remained fixed on a television set bolted on the opposite wall.
He wasn’t expecting me. Lowering his oxygen mask, he wrapped both his arms around me when I leaned over to say hello.
His body was even smaller than the last time I’d seen him, yet his face looked round and full from the prednisone. He also appeared relaxed, calm, as though relishing the brief respite the hospital allowed him from having to cope with his illness on his own. There, at least, he could turn it over to the doctors and nurses to manage for a while.
“How’s Fedo?” he asked.
“Good,” I said.
“Married life?”
He slid his finger over my blouse, checking to see how much the baby had grown. I was still not showing. I simply looked like I had put on a few pounds.
Turning to my uncle, my father winked. I hadn’t had a chance to tell my uncle I was pregnant. His phone in Bel Air wasn’t working. I probably should have told him sooner, written him a letter, but as with my parents I hadn’t found the right tone or time.
“Your daughter,” my father said, teasing my uncle. “And she doesn’t even tell you you’re going to be a grandfather.”
My uncle’s hands came together in a joyful clap.
“Denise would have been so glad,” he said.
My father was discharged from the hospital the next day. After consulting with Dr. Padman, a resident prescribed around-the-clock oxygen. Once the tanks were delivered, my father stopped working. His daily routine was now centered around a few activities. He would wake up in the morning and walk to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth. He’d then return to bed, where my mother would bring him a breakfast of tea and soup or sometimes eggs—scrambled or boiled—and bread or cornmeal and herring. Along with his breakfast, he would take his first series of medicines, both herbal and pharmaceutical. Then he would pray out loud as though conducting a boisterous one-sided conversation with God.
His prayers were most often about his illness—“God, if you see it fit to cure me, please do. If not, your will be done”—but he also prayed for me and my brothers, for our safety and well-being. He prayed for patience and strength for my mother, who was caring for him. He asked God to bless her for taking care of him. He prayed for a favorable outcome to the American presidential elections, for peace in Haiti and in the world in general.
The week after my father left the hospital, my uncle would rise early to pray with him. Sleeping in the room next to my father’s, I would sometimes be awakened by their combined voices, my father’s low, winded, my uncle’s loud, mechanical, yet both equally urgent in their supplications.
Sometimes, my father remained quiet while my uncle alone implored. “God, do not forsake your servant now. He’s sixty-nine years old. He has so much yet to experience. He’d so like to live to rejoice in all the promises you’ve made to those who serve you. He’d like to watch his progeny flourish, to see the generations emerge before him. He would glorify your name if you were to grant him your grace and lengthen his days. Were you to allow him to return from where he’s standing now on the edge of the valley of death, he’d have a testimony to match that of many of your prophets.”
After the morning prayers, my uncle would sit in a folding chair at my father’s bedside. To fill the silence, my father would attempt to start a conversation, recalling a person they’d both known or some incident they’d shared.
One morning my father