Greed, page 12
part #3 of Seven Deadly Sins Series
“Really?” I looked from the doctor to Stephon and back. “I saw him Wednesday, and he was fine.”
“That happens. We have to keep him hydrated, may have to look at his medication and make sure he’s taking everything properly.” He paused. “Does your father live alone?”
“Yes, he has been,” I said. “Though I get by there to see him every day . . . just about every day.”
He nodded. “Well, it may be time to think about alternative care, but I’ll have someone talk to you about that.”
“Okay,” I breathed. “Can I see him?”
“Yes. We’re going to admit him; I want him under observation for the next day, maybe two. He’ll be moved from the emergency room to a room of his own. It may be an hour or so.”
“An hour before I can see him?”
“Oh, no, I meant it’ll probably be an hour before he’ll get a room. But you can go in. The nurse is in there making sure your father is comfortable. But no worries.” The doctor paused and looked at me and Stephon. “He’ll be fine.”
After Stephon shook the doctor’s hand, Dr. Mills led us through the double doors and then pointed to the last curtained area in the space. I tiptoed over, then pushed the curtain aside to step in.
For a moment, I just stayed there, studying my father lying in the small bed (though he looked smaller), the rails raised. A nurse stood over him, adjusting two tubes that were pinched into my father’s veins. And then there were the machines. One high above the bed, with dozens of numbers in a rainbow of colors. Then, on the side of the bed, another machine, another monitor, this one with tubes that led to my father.
I pressed my hand against my lips, hoping to push back the sobs that were trying to rise within me. It was only because Stephon put his arm around my shoulders that I was able to conjure up enough strength to move toward the bed.
My father’s eyes were closed, but then, as if he knew I was near, his eyelids fluttered, then parted.
“Hey, Daddy,” I whispered.
It took him a moment to turn his head and focus on me. But when his glance settled and he looked at me with eyes so clear, I wanted to drop to my knees and give thanks to God. “Hey, baby girl,” he croaked.
Leaning over the rail, I took his hand. “How are you feeling?”
His chin bowed to his chest as if he was trying to nod.
“You scared me, you know.”
When Stephon stepped beside me, my dad smiled. “I must . . . be sick . . . if you stopped painting.” His voice was raspy but clear.
Stephon and I laughed a little.
“You know this is the only place I’d be,” my man said to my father. “You’re my family.”
Though Daddy moved like it took all kinds of effort, he raised his hand and reached toward Stephon. He took my father’s hand, and my dad nodded. “You take good care of her,” he said in a tone that made me panic.
“Daddy!” I exclaimed. “Don’t say that. You’re going to be fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
He shook his head a little, swallowed, then said, “What are you talking about, baby girl? I know nothing’s gonna happen to me. I told him to take care of you tonight ’cause I’m . . . sleepy. I wanna go to sleep. And I want him to take you home.”
Stephon and the nurse laughed, though all I could do was breathe with relief. I guessed it was true: my dad was going to be fine.
“Well,” the nurse said, “your dad is right. He’s probably very sleepy. We gave him something to help him rest comfortably.”
“Okay,” I said and watched my father’s eyes flutter closed. “But I thought he was going to get a room.”
“He will,” the nurse said. “But he doesn’t have to walk; we’ll roll him up there.”
Now my dad’s eyes were closed, almost sealed, as if just that fast he’d fallen into a deep sleep.
Stephon said, “Well, if he’s going to sleep, we should go home.”
I shook my head. “I’m not leaving him.”
“I think he’d want you to go home, babe. Get some rest so you can be strong for him tomorrow.”
“No,” I said, wrapping my fingers around the bed rail as if I were preparing for a war—I was going to stay.
“And where’re you going to sleep?” the nurse asked as she secured one of my father’s tubes. “I agree with your husband. You’ll be better for your father if you get some rest.”
“That’s right,” Stephon whispered into my ear, “listen to your husband.”
Tears burned behind my eyes again, though I wasn’t sure why. Did I want to cry for my daddy, the relief I felt that he would be fine? Were my tears for my boyfriend, the man who stood with me now and who I couldn’t wait to marry? Or did I want to cry because I feared the future? Dr. Mills said my dad shouldn’t be living alone. What was that going to look like?
“You ready, babe?” Stephon asked and squeezed my shoulder.
My eyes were still on my daddy as I nodded. Stepping away from Stephon, I leaned closer to my father. “Good night, Daddy,” I whispered before I kissed his forehead.
I stayed hovering over him until Stephon took my hand and led me from the room, though I kept my eyes on my father until we stepped outside of the curtain. If Stephon hadn’t been there, I was convinced I would never have made it home. He had to help me into the car, then he drove with one hand while he held me with the other. Stephon showed me, without saying a word, all the reasons why I was so grateful that God had chosen him to be the man I would marry.
When I saw our bed, the exhaustion I felt was like a burden that I just wanted to lay down. So I stripped, leaving every piece of clothing and underwear right where they dropped, and I climbed into the bed. But once my head rested on the pillow, my eyes stayed opened wide.
It was only when Stephon put his arms around me and pulled me into him that my thoughts settled, my anxiety waned. I lay there, just breathing, just thinking.
Until Stephon said, “Babe?”
“Hmmm.”
“So, what happened? Why weren’t you with your dad this afternoon?”
I sighed, having forgotten all about that. Having forgotten that Stephon and I had been interrupted earlier when I’d been ready to tell him all that had happened.
But right now, the truth felt like a bag of coal too heavy for me to hold. I’d need too many words to explain. So I said, “I was on my way and got a call about work.” That was true. “A new account.” Another truth. “So I went to that meeting, and then after, I headed back to Dad’s.” The whole twisted truth.
When I finished, Stephon pulled me so close, it seemed like he was trying to make us one.
“Don’t worry about anything,” he said. “I got you, babe. I got you all the way.”
I blinked back tears because I was just too tired to cry. I held on to my man. I’d figure out how to untwist this truth with him in the morning.
18
All I wanted to do was lower my head and massage my temples. It wasn’t that I had a headache, but I was preparing to do that as a preemptive measure because surely, one was not far away.
But then the hospital’s social worker repeated, “We can only release your father to a safe environment,” and that made me fold my arms against her words. She’d already said that, so why did she feel the need to reiterate that to me?
Since she was standing and I was still sitting beside my father’s bed, I had to look up to look straight into her eyes. I narrowed mine and told her, “I understand that. I will always make sure my father is safe.”
When she nodded, her ponytail bounced, and once again, I wondered if she had just graduated from college. I’d thought she was a nurse’s aide when she first walked into my father’s room asking if I was Zuri Maxwell. She’d introduced herself as Ms. Cobb and then gone straight into her spiel about my father’s care and safety.
“Of course.” Her tone seemed like she wanted to de-escalate the tension inside our discussion. She was probably used to dealing with hyped-up loved ones. “We just want to work with you. Your father’s been living alone, correct?”
My arms were still folded, my tone still sharp, my nerves still shot. I glanced over the rail of his bed, and wondered if he was asleep or just keeping his eyes closed. I said, “He’s been living alone because that’s what he wanted.” I paused and asked, “Should we really be having this discussion here?”
“It’s fine.” She gave me another ponytail-bouncing nod. “If he were awake, I would include him in this. In fact, I would like to speak with him as well because I understand his desire to live on his own. As we age, no one wants to lose their independence. But now, because of his stroke and this incident, we’re going to have to take more than just what he wants into consideration.”
I tightened my arms across my chest—my protection, I guessed, against her words. It’s not that I wanted to have an attitude with Ms. Cobb. It was just that I was already stressed out about this. Last night, I’d watched the clock tick by every hour, waiting for the decent time when I could jump out of bed and shake Stephon awake to take me to the hospital.
But my insomnia wasn’t just from wanting to rise and rush to see my dad; I couldn’t sleep because of all the questions in my mind, the same questions the social worker was addressing now.
She said, “I know this is a very trying time. It always is for a family when tough decisions have to be made. But you have to understand . . .”
“I do.” I stood up from the chair so fast, it tilted over. “I have some things to work out, and I’ll get back to you.”
Ms. Cobb’s eyes widened a bit, but she accepted my words as her dismissal. She gave me her card, told me she’d be in touch, and then I plopped back down into the chair once she left me alone.
As I stared at my father resting in the bed, it was hard to believe that last week at this time, we were getting ready to go to Centennial Park. The park was just a little over a mile from the hospital, but it seemed light-years away.
Leaning back in the chair, I shifted, trying to find comfort in the uncomfortable seat. When my phone vibrated, I slid to the edge of the chair, read my text, and smiled—this was my real comfort.
Just checking, babe. You good?
This was the first time I’d smiled for real since I’d found my dad last night:
Yes. No change. Stay focused, keep painting, I’ll let you know.
A second ticked by, then:
K. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ll bring you something to eat. I love you.
My fingers couldn’t type the words fast enough:
Beyond infinity.
I leaned back in the chair and wondered if I should have told Stephon about the discussion I’d just had with Ms. Cobb. But no—I really wanted him to focus on his work, and I needed to digest all the information myself first. My thoughts returned to Ms. Cobb and the conversation, which had left nothing but weight on my heart. What was I going to do? There really weren’t many options, especially not in Georgia. We could find some kind of assisted living facility, but my dad would have to sell his home, and not only would that be traumatic for him, but even after the sale, would that be enough money? How long would that money last? My father was still a relatively young man.
And then the other option . . .
I could move home; I could take care of him. But what would that mean? And what would that mean for me and Stephon? I couldn’t ask him to move in with my dad. And how would my dad and I even live if I gave up my job?
My job.
Alexander.
I sat up straight in the chair. I guessed I’d pushed him out of my mind, but now, remembering him made tears burn behind my eyes. Pushing myself up, I moved around the machine and kissed my dad’s forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
The moment I stepped out of the room, I released a long stream of air as if I’d been holding my breath the whole time I’d been inside. Passing the nurses’ station, I walked down the long hall, keeping my eyes away from other patients’ rooms until I found the fourth-floor waiting room.
It was small, with about ten or twelve chairs, but it was fine because it was empty. Finding the remote, I lowered the volume on the television, then slumped into another uncomfortable chair.
I stared at my cell, really wishing I didn’t have to do this, but for me, my father had to come before everything.
It still took another moment before I opened my text app:
Alexander, I want to thank you so much for the opportunity. It meant so much to me. But I won’t be able to accept the position of designer.
I paused and wondered if I should just leave it there or explain. After a moment, I continued:
My father was rushed to the hospital last night, and though he’s going to be fine, my focus has to be on him for a little while.
Another pause. This was a text, not an email, but there was one more thing I wanted to say:
Please keep me in mind if you’re ever in Atlanta again and a job like this comes up. Again, thank you so much. Best, Zuri Maxwell.
I reread my text, and then my finger hovered over the SEND button until I pressed it. I really wanted to cry, but I didn’t because it didn’t matter what I wanted. The only one who mattered was my dad. No one would be able to take care of him better than me.
Still, I stared at the text and wondered what this was all going to mean. I’d have to talk to Stephon, but I wanted to go to him with a plan so he wouldn’t feel obligated to move in with me and my dad. Stephon doing that was not realistic. He was already busting out of our apartment. The living room was his studio, and I spent most of my time in our bedroom because of that—there was no way he’d be able to do that to Daddy’s living room, that we’d be able to live that way at Daddy’s house.
My ringing cell phone took me away from these thoughts, and the name on the screen surprised me. “Ms. Viv,” I said the moment I answered.
“Zuri, dear, how are you? How is your father?”
Now I frowned. “How did you know?”
“Oh, there are so many people in so many places, but none of that matters, dear; I’m really concerned about you. How are you?”
I sighed . . . and then I did something I didn’t expect—I cried. “I don’t know why I’m upset right now,” I said. “Daddy’s going to be fine, and for that I am forever grateful.”
“Thank God for that. You’re probably just relieved.”
“I’m relieved, and I’m a little scared. I have so many decisions to make that will be life-changing for him and for me.”
“Like what?”
“He can’t live alone any longer, though I don’t know why I’m upset; I’ve known this was coming for a long time. I’ve been trying to talk to my father about it. And really”—I sighed—“I shouldn’t have let him live by himself after his stroke. But he insisted.”
“Oh, I know. It’s hard for parents to switch roles with their children.”
“I get that. But now he won’t have any choice,” I said.
“So what are your plans?”
“I’ve been asking myself that; I think I’ll move in with him and give him the care he needs until we can figure this all out.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I think that will be too much on your plate. You’re already doing so much.”
“I know, but what else am I supposed to do? I’m his daughter, and I have to take care of him.”
“I understand, and I may have a solution.” She paused for a moment. “I may know someone who can help.”
She had hardly finished her sentence before I began shaking my head. “My dad and I can’t afford to have someone come in with him. That was the first option I looked into, but the cost of in-home care . . .” I stopped right there. That was enough. She could figure out the rest.
“When is your father going to be released?” Ms Viv asked as if she hadn’t heard (or was ignoring) what I said.
“I don’t know yet. I was thinking today, but the way he’s sleeping, maybe tomorrow or the next day.”
“Well, you keep me posted, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Ms. Viv . . .”
“Zuri, don’t worry about anything. You take care of your father, and I’ll do my best to take care of you. Just remember to pray over him, Exodus 23:25.” She paused, and I wondered if she was searching for the Bible or just trying to remember the Scripture. Then she said, “ ‘Worship the Lord your God, and His blessing will be on your food and water. He will take away sickness from among you.’ And that is a promise, Zuri. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”
She clicked off before I could say good-bye . . . or maybe she just didn’t want to hear me protest anymore. Looking down at my phone, I realized this was the first time since I’d met her that Ms. Viv hadn’t made me feel better.
In fact, I felt a little worse because her words added weight to my burden. Did she think I wouldn’t be able to take care of my father? I’d show her. I’d show everyone.
With a new determination, I stood up and marched up to the nurses’ station.
The nurse who was on duty for my father looked up from the computer, where she’d been tapping on keys like she was writing a novel or something.
I said, “I need to speak to Ms. Cobb, the social worker.”
The nurse nodded. “Okay, when she comes back up on the floor, I’ll tell her to stop by your dad’s room.”
I added, “That’s fine, but if you can reach out to her, that may work better. Because I need to speak to her as soon as possible so I can know when my father and I are going home.”
Then I did an about-face and marched right into my father’s room because the one thing that Ms. Viv had told me to do, I was going to do: I stood at my father’s bedside, opened the Bible on my phone, and prayed Exodus 23:25 over and over again.
19
It almost felt like a party, the way we were piled into my father’s bedroom. It was only me, Stephon, Audra, and Joseph—but then, there was my father, and he filled up the bedroom with his presence.
“I don’t know why y’all think I need to be in bed in the middle of a Monday afternoon,” my father groaned and grumbled.
