Death Benefits (15 page)

I run into Lars on my way out. When I ask him how he thinks Arthur is, he replies very slowly and deliberately, as if he has trouble forming words. I wonder if he has had speech therapy himself for some long-ago injury. Then I remember Mom saying that English is Lars's second language. He also speaks German and French, apparently. So European.

“I think he is getting better,” Lars says. “But you have to be patient. It is a long process.”

“Did you know he can hum?” I ask.

“Hum?” Lars sounds as if he doesn't know what humming is.

“Yeah, you know.” I hum a bit of “Happy Birthday.” “He hums.”

“When?”

“Like, just now.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. I've been playing music for him every day. When he hears show tunes, he hums along. He's got perfect pitch.”

“This is amazing.”

“It is?”

“Yes. I thought it was too soon.”

“Too soon?”

“For MIT. Melodic Intonation Therapy. It is a way of helping stroke patients with speech recovery. I just took a workshop. I was hoping to use some of the techniques with Arthur, but you are way ahead of me.” The more excited Lars gets, the stronger his accent gets and the faster he talks. I wonder if he reverts to Danish when he's really juiced. Like when he has sex. I yank my mind like it's a dog on a choke chain and get it back on track.

“So it's a good thing?” I ask.

“Definitely. Simply put, it means his right brain is assisting his damaged left brain.”

“But it's just humming, not words.”

“It is not
just
humming; it is evidence. Evidence that things are going on in his brain. Positive things. Words may be next. Listen closely.” Lars's beeper goes off, and he glances down at it and says something rude to it in Danish. At least it sounds like Danish and it sounds rude. It could be Norwegian, for all I know.

“I have to go,” he says. “We will talk again, yah?”

“I guess. But what should I do?” I ask as he jogs off down the hall.

“Keep playing the music.”

“That's it?”

“For now,” he calls over his shoulder.

I go back to school after Labor Day, and it's surprisingly okay. My teachers seem nice enough, and a couple of Dani's guy friends are in my classes. She's got a lot of guy friends. We hardly ever see each other at school, except in math class and wood shop. Yeah, Dani's taking shop, which lots of girls do, just like lots of guys take cooking. And yes, she's better at it than me. I make my mom a spice rack; Dani makes an inlaid coffee table. She's been taking shop for a few years, and her dad is a cabinetmaker, so I don't feel too bad. She's looks pretty cute in her goggles, handling the band saw like a pro. But I'm better at math, so we help each other out. On the weekends she has music lessons and dance classes and all kinds of rehearsals, so there's not much time for a relationship, even if she wanted one, which she doesn't seem to.

I don't see Arthur as often as I did before school started, and I feel guilty about that. Guilt is my new go-to emotion. When I do go, he's often asleep, and if he's awake, he can't speak. He's still on the iv, but he's wasting away: he looks like a concentration camp survivor. His eyes follow me as I move around the room, and all I see in them is accusation. I fail him every time I visit. I know that. But I can't do what he asked me to do. Not now. Not after the humming. So I sit with him and listen to music and look at his photo albums while he hums and glares.

In my favorite picture, which is in the album marked 1937–40, he's sitting astride his fire-engine-red Indian Chief motorcycle, wearing gauntlet-style gloves, knee-high black boots, and a brown leather bomber jacket. Around his neck is a white scarf. A pair of goggles is pushed up onto his head. He is smiling—no, he is laughing—his head tipped slightly back, his mouth open. Whoever took the picture must have been laughing too, since the picture is slightly out of focus. I look over at the figure on the bed and then back at the man in the picture. How does this happen? Where has the laughing Arthur gone? Is he locked away inside the frail, twisted body, or has he long since shriveled up and blown away like a leaf in winter? If he's still in there, will he ever reappear? If he's not there, why are we keeping him alive? Is there any way of knowing? The doctors and nurses and therapists write up reports and discuss his care with Mom, who takes even the smallest bit of progress as a sign that he might yet come back to us. We never discuss whether we're doing the right thing. In the absence of a living will, Mom (and Marta, I suppose) have adopted a “one day at a time” approach, which avoids the whole issue. In other words, they are doing nothing. I, too, have decided to do nothing, but for different reasons. Simply put, as Lars would say, I am a coward.

I close the album and put it back in the box. Louis Armstrong is singing, or rather growling, that it's a wonderful world, which strikes me as kind of funny in a morbid sort of way, given the circumstances. Arthur is humming, and then suddenly he is singing. Three words. “
Skies of blue
.” I'm sure of it.

I get up and sit next to him so I can hear him better. His breath reeks, and they haven't shaved him today. I should bring in his electric razor or call Kim and get her to come by and tidy him up. The thought of Kim in this sterile room is disconcerting; it would be like seeing an orchid growing out of a snowbank. Arthur opens his eyes and hums some more. I wait for him to sing another word—
tree of greens
or
red roses too
or
clouds of white
. I even sing along to encourage him. His bad hand, the paralyzed one, twitches, grazing my thigh. I jump up as if he's pinched me. I feel like I've witnessed a miracle, like the face of Jesus in a bowl of Cheerios. I should run and tell somebody, but I don't want the room to fill up with people. I don't want to have to move aside so that Arthur can be poked and prodded. I just want to sit here and listen to him hum.

When he finally drifts off to sleep, without singing or saying another word, I go in search of Lars, but he's left for the day. I call Dani, even though I know she's at a band practice. I get her voicemail, but I don't leave a message. I call my mom, but she's out, probably with Lars. I ride home, do my homework, watch some
TV
and go to bed. The next morning when I get up, there is a note from Mom on the kitchen table.

Arthur had another stroke in the night. Lars is taking
me to the hospital. Go to school. Keep your cell phone on.
Don't worry. XO Mom.

My first thought is: Was Lars here overnight?

Fifteen

I
don't go to school, and I don't answer the phone until Mom calls, even though Dani texts throughout the morning:
Where r u? Is something wrong?
I try to force myself out of bed and onto my bike, but I'm not sure if I want to ride to school or to the hospital, so I stay where I am. I can't face Dani's concern any more than I can face what's happened to Arthur. Mom calls around noon.

“He's stabilized, Rolly.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

She hesitates. “It means...he's out of immediate danger, I guess.”

Immediate danger. Like an avalanche or a charging grizzly.

“Did they shave him yet?” I ask. “Brush his teeth?”

“What?”

“He looked like crap yesterday, Mom. Like no one cared.”

Mom starts to cry, and I realize she thinks I mean she doesn't care.

“I didn't mean you, Mom. I meant the people at the hospital. Isn't that what they're paid for?”

She gives a strangled laugh. I wonder if I should tell her that Arthur spoke—that he sang—yesterday. Would it make things worse or better? I can't decide, so I keep my mouth shut. The secrets I'm swallowing make me feel bloated and lethargic, as if I've suddenly gained fifty pounds.

Mom tells me it's okay if I don't come out—Arthur is sleeping and heavily medicated. Lars is going to take her out for lunch and then she'll come home and have a shower and a nap before he takes her back to the hospital. He doesn't think she should be driving.

“I'll be there soon,” I tell her. No way do I want to be here when Lars brings her home. For all I know she's planning to shower and nap with him. I just can't deal with that right now. I know I should be happy for her, I know Lars is helping her through a bad time, but it still seems disloyal to Arthur. To me. Maybe I should have taken the T-Bird and made a run for it when I could. Everyone would have been happier.

I'm at the hospital within the hour. Arthur's room is empty, the bed flat and smooth, the iv pole gone. A prickly sweat floods my body, and I feel as if I'm going to pass out. I sit down on the end of the bed, put my head between my legs and wait for the wave of terror to fade. Questions fizz through my brain. Is Arthur dead? Where is his body? Does Mom know? Why didn't she wake me up last night? Why did I lie in bed all morning? Why isn't Mom here? Where is all Arthur's stuff? I jump up and run to the nurses' station, yelling, “Where is Arthur Jenkins?” at an RN I've never seen before. Her name tag says
Marnie
. She seems to be moving in slo-mo as she pulls out a chart and reads it, her lips moving as she runs a finger down the page. When she looks up she says, “And you are?”

I want to punch her and grab the chart from her pudgy hands, but I grit my teeth and say, “His grandson.”

“His grandson. Oh yeah, Royce. I heard about you. Your granddad was moved to Intensive Care last night. One floor up.”

I'm already on my way to the elevator when I hear her say, “I'm sorry, dear.”

Why is she sorry? I find out when I get to the ICU. A nurse stops me at the door and asks me who I'm visiting. When I tell her, she takes me into a small office and sits me down, which is almost as frightening as not finding Arthur in his room.

“Are you close to your grandfather, Royce?”

Am I? I think about her question for a minute and then I nod.

“When was the last time you saw him, Royce?”

“Yesterday afternoon. He was…okay. I mean, he was…the same.” I don't tell her about the singing or the way his hand touched my leg. It's private, between him and me. Not her business.

“I need to prepare you a bit before you see him, Royce.” I wish she'd stop using my name. It's like she's had lessons on how to speak with distraught family members, which come to think of it, she probably has. Always use their names. Make eye contact. As if on cue, she looks me in the eye and says, “It can be very upsetting. He has a tube in his nose that goes into his stomach, for feeding. There's also a tube in his mouth—it's called an endotracheal tube—that's attached to a mechanical ventilator. There are a lot of wires attached to monitors. We need to keep an eye on his various…functions. He's catheterized, and of course there's an iv for medications. It can be a shock to see someone you love like that.” She stops to see how I am taking it.

“So he's basically on life support?”

She hesitates before she answers, as if she wishes someone else were there to give me the answer. “Yes.”

“Can I see him now?”

She gets up and says, “You have to wash first and put on a mask and gown. We've had another superbug outbreak. You can stay for fifteen minutes. No more.”

“Okay.” She shows me where to scrub up, and where to find the gowns, which are made of a ludicrously cheerful Hawaiian print. Palm trees and hula girls. An alternate universe. When I'm ready, she leads me to one of the glass-walled cubicles that surround the nurses' station like cells in a honeycomb. The only noise in the room is the rhythmic
swish
of the ventilator. Arthur looks even smaller than he did yesterday, as if each successive stroke is shrinking him. Even though I have been prepared, I am not prepared. No one ever could be. The body on the bed is not Arthur. I am as sure of that as I am of my own name, but I know I need to say something.

“Hey, Arthur,” I say. “It's me—Rolly.”

I sit on the edge of his bed while the nurse checks his vital signs.

“Can he hear me?” I ask.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she replies. “It can't hurt to talk to him, and it might help. Lots of people think it does.”

“Can I bring in a
CD
player? He loves music.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” she says as she leaves the room. “Fifteen minutes, Royce.”

I nod. As soon as she leaves the room, I pick up Arthur's right hand, the one without the iv. This is the hand that grabbed the rope at the swimming hole in the summer and hurled snowballs in the winter. This is the hand that held that first cello bow, the one he bought at the auction. This is the hand that revved the Indian motorcycle, that changed the gears in his T-bird, that stroked his lovers. The hand is useless now, speckled with age spots, the fingernails long and gnarled. Bruises are blooming under the translucent surface of its skin, and I marvel at how any of us can be contained by something so thin, so fragile.

I am still holding Arthur's hand when Mom arrives and taps at the window. Her hair is still wet from her shower, and her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Standing beside her is a tall woman in a tailored pink suit. When I come out into the hall and take off my mask, she offers me her white-gloved hand to shake. She is old—although not as old as Arthur—and still beautiful. Her white hair is arranged in a loose bun on top of her head, and she is wearing dangly pearl earrings that match her necklace. When she smiles, I recognize her immediately. Coralee. Wife Number Two.

“I am so happy to meet you, Royce,” she says, “although the circumstances are less than ideal.” She glances at the still form on the bed.

“You're Coralee, right?” I say as I shake her hand. “I've seen your picture.”