• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

I interrupted and asked what had brought this on.

She said that he had a flu and because he wasn't eating, he hadn't taken his insulin, which was a big mistake.

"But nothing about drinking?" I asked.

She said, "I haven't spoken to him myself."

When I went back into the room, Archie was up. "I thought you needed a vacation," he said, trying to smile. "But it's kind of a busman's holiday."

I said, "I hate buses."

He said, "I have acute pancreatitis."

"I thought it was just average looking." I looked up at his IV. "What're you drinking?" I asked.

He said, "I'm sorry you had to come." Then he fell asleep again.

—•—

I went to the pay phone and called my father's hospital room in Philadelphia.

"What's going on there?" he asked.

I told him what the resident had said about the flu and insulin. My father said, "He went into DKA, diabetic ketoacidosis," and explained what it was so that I understood.

I was relieved to hear him sounding like himself. "Sweetheart," he said, "this was what I was talking about."

"I know," I said.

Then he said, "Did the resident say anything else?"

I said, "Something about acute pancreatitis."

He was quiet a second. Then he said, "Is Archie an alcoholic, Jane?" He sounded as though he already knew.

I didn't want to answer, but I said, "Yes."

His voice was gentle. "We'll talk about that when you come back." Then he said, "He's on an IV, getting sodium and insulin?"

"Something clear," I said.

He told me that Archie would be fine.

I said, "How are you, Papa?"

"About the same," he said.

I said, "I'll come as soon as I can." And he didn't argue.

—•—

I met Archie's real doctor in the hall.

"You're Jane?" he said.

I nodded.

"Okay," he said, "now listen to me." I couldn't tell whether he was furious or just in a rush. Did I know how serious this was? He told me that Archie could've lapsed into a coma and died. The doctor seemed to hold me responsible: I needed to regulate his diet and exercise; I needed to be vigilant about monitoring his blood sugar.

I said, "You better talk to him."

He said, "I'm talking to you." Then he walked away.

—•—

I sat by Archie's bed and repeated what his doctor had told me. I said, "He wants me to boss you around."

"We'll pick up a pair of stilettos on the way home," he said.

I said, "I need to go back to Philadelphia."

"Your mother's there," he said.

I told him that Henry had finally arrived, too.

"So, can't you stay?"

"No," I said.

"Jesus," he said. "Not even one goddamned day?"

"My father's about to die," I said. "And you're about to get better." I asked him who I could get to help us out, and as I said it I realized how few friends Archie seemed to have.

"Call Mickey," he said.

"Isn't he kind of clownish for this situation?"

"This situation calls for a clown." He hummed "Send in the Clowns."

—•—

Mickey arrived, wearing cutoffs and yellow high-tops. He was unshaven, and his hair looked greasy. He bent down and kissed Archie's cheek.

Archie made a face.

"I'm sorry I have to go," I said.

Mickey said, "I'm going to steal some drugs," and went into the hall.

I could see how hard it was for Archie to say, "Stay just a little longer?" and I took a later train back to Philadelphia.

X V

When Henry picked me up at the station, he told me that Dad was on a respirator now and heavily sedated. He was being kept alive, but that was it.

At the hospital, the respirator made a big inhale-exhale sound, breathing for my father. I held his hand. But I couldn't tell if he was still in there.

The nurse came in with a square plastic bag of blood. "He knows you're here," she said to me. "I can tell by the monitor." Then she turned to him. "I'm giving you some red cells now, Dr. Rosenal."

—•—

Henry called friends and relatives, and they started coming.

—•—

Once everyone had left, I sat in the chair beside my father's bed again. I thought of Kafka's story "The Metamorphosis," and how Gregor's sister knew to feed him garbage once he'd become a cockroach.