No amount of mental toughness can adequately prepare you for the moment you see a loved one in a hospital bed. I spent the entire flight to Los Angeles and subsequent cab ride to the hospital preparing for what I’d see. I tried to toughen myself up inside and talk through what I’d soon see so I could better accept the situation.

It failed miserably.

My father lay in a corner of the cardiac care unit, a myriad of tubes and intravenous lines zigzagging across his body. Clear fluids in plastic pouches slowly emptied their contents, while other machines with digital readouts beeped and adjusted their processes in rhythmic fashion. An oxygen mask covered the lower half of his face, and as I came closer to him I saw just how much equipment had been attached to him. I couldn’t tell where the human parts ended and the medical machinery began.

I put my hand gently on his forehead and ran it along his hairline, careful not to disturb the wires and sensors that ran along both sides of his body and behind the bed to various gauges and mechanical units. He didn’t move. His body remained rigid, his skin showing the lines of age. His eyelids were motionless, showing none of the movement one has when lost in a deep sleep.

I gently adjusted a telescoping light so the glare wasn’t directly on his face. I backed away slowly until I felt my back along the side wall of the room, and slid down until I was in a lump on the floor. This couldn’t be happening. He was a healthy man. He took care of himself. He exercised and ate well. He wasn’t overweight. He was supposed to have another twenty golden years of retirement, another twenty years of idle time walking on beaches in exotic countries. He had worked hard his entire life supporting a wife and three children. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair.

I felt nauseous.

The waiting room sat mostly empty. My mother, Alexis, and her husband Roger were being talked to by a doctor. There was no sign of Peter anywhere. Alexis and Roger corralled me into a corner as I approached.

“I came as soon as we touched down,” I began. I looked around again, hoping to see Peter returning from the cafeteria with a cup of coffee. “What’s going on? Where’s Peter?”

My sister hugged me and Roger shook my hand. “We’re getting an update now. Father is doing better.” Alexis adjusted her hair and wiped a wayward tear with a well-used tissue. “Peter’s gone back to Carpenteria,” she continued.

“What? Why? How could he do that?”

“He stayed all night. He’s talked to all the doctors, all the specialists. He’s kept Mom together. He’s had maybe one hour of sleep. He needs to go home, Reed. He needs to be with his family.”

“This is his family!”

“You know what I mean. He has to get back to Marie and his children and clear some things from his work calendar. He’ll be back tomorrow. It’s okay.”

We returned to the doctor’s side as he was just finishing his update.

“The first eighteen hours are always the most crucial, Mrs. Becker. He’s showing the type of progress we like to see from a patient, and his initial response to the medication is promising. Hopefully by Wednesday we’ll be able to discharge him, and he can begin his home convalescence. Then we’ll talk about putting him on nitroglycerin so there are no further infarctions.” The doctor said a few things to the nurse on duty and began walking away.

I had to know what had happened. I didn’t want paraphrasing. I didn’t want it sugar coated. I needed medical terms and full disclosure, and I needed it now.

“Doctor, a word?” I called out as I picked up the pace to catch up with him.

He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“I just arrived from out of town. Youngest son. Could you catch me up to speed with what’s happened?”

The doctor looked me over, seeing the distress on my face, hearing the nervousness of my words. He probably dealt with people in the same state a hundred times a day.

“Your father was admitted last night after he came to the emergency room complaining of chest pains and numbness in his right arm, and while he was here he experienced a myocardial infarction – a heart attack, and a major one at that. Now, it wasn’t the kind resulting from clogged arteries and high cholesterol levels in the blood stream; it was a different type, called a coronary spasm. Sometimes one of the coronary arteries providing oxygen-rich blood to the heart can spasm, and if occurs often enough – and over a long enough period of time – the artery can clamp down on itself and cause an occlusion, or a blockage. The heart begins losing its supply of blood and nutrients in the immediate area and muscle tissue begins dying. His heart stopped, it fibrillated. Coronary spasms can happen to normal, healthy people. And if your father came in complaining of pain it means it has been going on for some time. He may have experienced a heart arrhythmia earlier in the day.

“Specifically what your father had was a circumflex occlusion. The damaged tissue was on the backside of the heart. “

I ran both hands through my hair. “Jesus. So he had the heart attack right here.”

“Yes. The occlusion caused the heart's electrical system to have serious rhythm disturbances, hence the fibrillation, hence the heart attack.”

I slowly digested his words, dissecting what he was saying and what he wasn’t, hoping for veiled signs of hope.

“What now?”

“Rest is of the utmost importance. His vitals are being monitored and he’s receiving necessary fluids and medications through an I.V. He’s also getting supplemental oxygen – the mask you saw – circulating oxygen around in his body and to his heart is important right now. We’re also taking regular blood tests to monitor the release of an enzyme called creatinine phosphokinase in his bloodstream. We’re monitoring the troponin levels in the cardiac muscle cells. These will tell us how widespread the damage to his heart was. We’ll continue the blood tests tomorrow and Tuesday. If this goes by the book, he should be good enough to go home come Wednesday.” The doctor adjusted a paper on his clipboard. “If not, well…let’s save that discussion for if it happens.”

Back in the waiting room, my Mother was being handed tissues one after another by Alexis as she wiped away tears. Her nose and cheeks were reddened from hours upon hours of crying, and she paused to quietly blow her nose as I sat down beside her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” I told her.

She patted me on the knee. “I know you came as soon as you could darling. We have to hope for the best, we have to…” the tears began welling up in her eyes and she grabbed at the air until Alexis put a tissue in front of her.

“How long has he been asleep?” I asked.

“Since noon,” replied Alexis. “They’re forcing him to sleep with the muscle relaxants and other stuff they’ve been feeding into his system.”

“I’ll stay here tonight,” I volunteered. When he wakes up I want to see him.”

My mother put her hand on my shoulder. “All we can do is stay until visiting hours are over at ten.” I looked at the clock, it was close to eight. “Then we come back in the morning.”

I started to offer to take my mother home, but realized I had come in a cab from the airport.

“I’ll stay with you tonight, Mom.”

“We’re already staying with her,” replied my sister, then looking at all the luggage I’d left propped against a chair, added “but we’ll give you a ride back to your place, I’m sure you’ve lots to unpack and want to get settled.”
____________________________________________________________________________________

When I arrived the next morning my father was awake and a nurse had replaced his oxygen mask with a thin, clear tube taped in place underneath his nose. His body was still marred by wires and tubes, sensors and electrodes. He looked simultaneously bionic and helpless. His eyes were bloodshot and his face bloated as he nervously inhaled the secondary oxygen. An upside-down L-shaped table had been placed beside him, its table top covered by a flower arrangement. He didn’t look good, and I had a terrible feeling he wasn’t going to recover from this. Chances weren’t good: His side of the family had a long history of heart disease, so no matter how well he took care of himself the problem would always linger. He couldn’t outrun it any longer and I was afraid it would soon claim its prize.

He became aware of someone being in the room when he heard my footsteps approaching the bed. He struggled for his glasses at the edge of the table.

“Hello Dad. You’re looking great. The doctor says you are making a big turnaround.”

He stared at me for a moment, and then spoke with a slow and labored delivery. “I can tell by the look on your face that you’ve already written me off,” he said. He was fatigued. He averted his eyes and concentrated on inhaling more air from the tube.

I tried to hide my fear and muster any strength and hope I had left. “Written off? You’ll be out of here in no time, ready to tilt at windmills and play with grandchildren.”

He slowly smiled, his head in a groggy place somewhere between sleep and consciousness. “No, I see it in your eyes. Your eyes always gave you away.” He rolled towards me but I eased him back so he could lay flat on the bed. “No, you’ve mapped out your conclusions. You’ve taken this to its final outcome. It’s okay, I feel the same way.”

“Don’t talk like that, Dad. This is just a setback.”

“No, it’s okay, I have no regrets. Immortals for a limited time, that’s all we are.” He switched to breathing through his mouth and sucked at more air. His voice was dry and his voice cracked when he spoke. “We need to put on a brave face for your mother and sister,” he added. “We have to be strong for them. We have to be strong for those who cannot.”

The doctor came in followed by my mother, Alexis, and Peter. There were more tests to be run today, all of them routine measuring sticks for gauging the extent of the damage.

Outside in the waiting room Peter pulled me away from the group. “What do you think?” he asked.

I rubbed my temples. My head hurt and my eyes were burning. “Not good. Not good at all.”

He shook his head. “I know. This family's problem with heart disease is reaping what it’s sowed. I don’t want to sound like I’m incapable of holding out hope, but I don’t think he’s going to pull through.”

I fumbled around in my pockets for a tissue. I needed to blow my nose. As I dug deeper in my khakis I replied, “Yeah. The worst part is that Dad knows it. He doesn’t think he is going to make it either.”

“At least there won’t be a denial phase to struggle with.”

“I’m not worried about him so much.” I motioned with my head towards my mother and Alexis. “It’s them. Mom in particular. Her whole world was Dad.”

Peter scratched his ear and shifted his feet nervously. He fumbled about, trying to find the right combination of encouraging words. When that failed he simply said, “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

I stayed with my father all day Monday until the nurses shooed me away to the confines of my lonely apartment, stale with the smell of dead air that had gone uncirculated for nearly five months.

Tuesday showed progress as my father became more responsive. His test results were promising, and the doctor was certain he would be able to leave on Wednesday. By Wednesday my father’s sense of humor had returned and by all accounts he was ready to begin his home convalescence.

He walked out the car, flanked on each side by Alexis and me, and we gingerly lowered him into the car while my mother watched from the driver’s seat. At my father’s request I was staying with them for a few days to take the pressure off my mother. She had waited on him hand and foot their entire married life. It also relieved my sister from duty so she could go back to south Orange County and try to sleep away the stress that had accumulated over the past few days.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Dogs rarely forget a smell or a location. Scents in particular; once they commit it to memory it is an everlasting thing. Sophia picked up my scent when I was about twenty feet from my parents’ front door, as I led my father by the arm up the walkway. She began whining and when that failed to produce a result high-pitched yipes ensued.

“Sophia!” I yelled, asserting my alpha position in the pack with her. “Quiet.” The whining stopped, though I could hear her panting from behind the gate.

I led my father inside and straight into the guest room which Alexis and I had previously set up for him to rest in. When he was settled my mother brought him a pitcher of water and a glass, setting it on a table just within his reach. Flower arrangements from well-wishers littered the room, some from friends living within the walls of the country club, others from my father’s former employer and various associates.

I went into the back yard and the dog nearly tackled me. Sophia was so excited to see me that not only did her tail wag, the whole back half of her body swayed furiously back and forth. It was if the excitement couldn’t be contained in her tail and spilled down into other parts of the body. I leaned down so she could inventory the scents on me, and she licked my face over and over. She was so excited I thought she was going to pee, just as she did when I first picked her up at the dog breeder’s house.

When she had her fill of playing kissy face she sat and rolled her body weight onto one hind leg in a lazy position and let her tongue roll out to the side, as if to say okay, you’re here, and I’m here! When do we go home?

I reached out and ran my hand along the wrinkled rolls of skin on her head. “Sophia, if only it were a happy occasion.” Just days ago I’d been consumed with moving us across the country and into Canada. Days ago I was nervous about how a dog without a thick coat of fur would cope with Toronto’s cold, unforgiving winters. Now all of that felt so far away. Sophia looked at me, her mouth agape and her marbled tongue to one side. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss,” I told her.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

My father was not taking well to being bedridden. As much as he wanted to be mobile – the doctor did advise short walks around the house to better circulate blood throughout his system – his biggest prescription was rest. By Friday he had gone through as many magazines and books as he could take. He needed other stimuli. I had been checking in on him regularly, but when I went into his room Friday afternoon he wanted to talk.

“Sit down,” he said, “and keep an old man company. I want you to know it means a lot to your mother that you are here to help out. Even if she hasn’t said those words to you, it’s how she feels.”

“I’m not here for her as much as I am for you.”

“She’s going to need you for support when I am gone,” he replied. He reached feebly for the half-filled glass of water on the table.

“You shouldn’t talk like that. You should have more optimism.”

My father finished off his water and picked up his watch from the table, checking the time. “Time for another batch of pills,” he said. Then, turning his attention back to me, “what I’m being is realistic. Heart disease killed my father. It killed his mother before him. And there’s a good chance it may kill one of you in time. You can hold it at bay for as long as you can, but if it wants in, it gets in.”

I pulled my chair closer to him and looked at his view of the back yard. Outside, Sophia was chasing after a bird that had flown into the yard. Apparently my ugly dog had annexed the yard as her own and was intent on defending it to the end.

My father laughed. “That dog. We’ve enjoyed watching her. Especially your mother, they’ve grown very fond of each other the past few months.” He paused and rubbed his eyes with a cool towel I had brought for him earlier. I took it from him, balled it up, and set it on his bed stand.

“She sure does sleep a lot, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I responded. “It’s one of her better qualities.”

He shifted his legs and tried to get at the pillows propping him up.

“You want these?” I asked, removing them from his lower back.

“I just need an adjustment, I’m uncomfortable.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled. “You know, I’m glad we can talk like this. There are so many things I’ve wanted to tell you over the years, things I thought were important for you to know, but I never had the chance.”

I looked nervously at him. “You’re not going to confess that you killed somebody back in the 70s and disposed of the body, are you?”

He laughed a forced, deep laugh, one that sounded like it had fought hard to emerge from the depths of the old man.

“No, nothing like that. You grew up so far behind Peter and Alexis. The things they learned when you were young you had to wait so long before you could experience them yourself. You may have felt left out but I’ve found great value in your age differences. They grew up so quickly and rushed off to live their lives. Your staying behind allowed me to have a closer relationship with you, closer than I feel I have with either of them. That means a lot to me. It’s because of that closeness I’ve been able to pass on so much of my culture, tradition, and family history to you. It’s for those same reasons your mother and her parents imparted their Greek heritage and practices to you too. Every generation has a de facto family historian who gets passed down the stories, the anecdotes, and the origin of things. Among my sisters and brothers it was me. In your mother’s family it was your Aunt Katrina. Now it’s you.”

He fluffed a pillow and gently placed it behind his shoulders. “I’m telling you this for a reason, Long ago your mother and I decided that when we died, we would each be cremated.”

“Dad, I don’t know if I want to hear this,” I interrupted.

“You need to hear it, whether this happens tomorrow or in ten years.” He tilted his head back and partially closed his eyes. “It’s important you know our plans and how they involve you.”

“Me?”

My mother came in with more medication and a fresh glass of water. As soon as she entered my father clammed up, refusing to continue the conversation. My mother noticed the sudden silence, and as she left quietly said “I’ll leave you men alone to continue your secret discussions.”

When my father could see she was gone he continued. “Like I said, we decided to be cremated. Now listen Reed, this is important.” His voice cracked and I could see his eyes becoming flushed as he grappled with the reality of having to reveal decisions he and my mother made years ago.

“We are splitting up our ashes.”

“What do you mean splitting up, who’s splitting up?” I asked. I was dumbfounded. “How do you split up ashes?”

“The remains will be divided in half. One half will go into a joint burial plot at Forest Lawn. The other half will be placed at a memorial in Monifieth.”

“In Scotland?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s always been a desire of mine to have my remains at rest in the city of my forefathers. It’s a way of maintaining a connection.”

I wasn’t certain where this was going. “Why are you telling me this?”

He looked at me, a stern look on his face. “Because you are going to be the one to see that it happens.”

I shrunk back from him in horror, the implications of his request hitting me like a splash of ice water on a drunkard’s face. I was being charged with the job of carrying his remains to their final resting place thousands of miles away. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t look at him as I spoke. “I can’t carry this kind of thing out. Why me? Why not Peter or Lexy?”

“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me,” he repeated. “Your mother and I knew this would be difficult for you to accept. It’s the right thing to do. We knew when the tame came, Peter and Alexis would be married and starting their own families. We couldn’t pull them away from those obligations and put that kind of stress upon them. You have been groomed for this for longer than you realize. You know the traditions. You know the people and the country. You can go through with this and you will. We’ve even put it in our wills, so it will be.” He folded his arms in satisfaction.

“We put it in?” I asked. I definitely did not like the sound of that.

“Yes. When the time comes for your mother, you will likewise place a part of her ashes to rest at Forest Lawn, and a part in her parents’ village outside Lamia, Greece.”

I shot out of my seat in a panic. I felt woozy. I felt sick.

“Excuse me, I’ve gotta...” I said, not able to finish as I cleared the room. I vomited twice.
____________________________________________________________________________________

I didn’t talk to him again until Saturday morning, when I saw him fumbling about for his slippers. I watched as he stood up and walked around his room. His movements were labored, like a patient with muscle atrophy relearning his steps. He got to the doorway separating his room from the den where my makeshift bed was set up on the sofa, and paused suddenly, leaning against the jamb for balance. I quickly shot up from the sofa and helped him over to a chair.

“It’s okay,” he assured me while I sat him down, “it’s just some dizziness. I have to be careful about moving too quickly. My equilibrium isn’t up to par.”

“Dad, about last night. Sorry about the way I reacted. It’s a lot for me to take in and digest. It’s not every day I go around hearing my parents’ last rites requests.”

He tapped his hand on top of mine. It was thin, and cold. “I understand. But you must understand that nobody is going to do this for you. It is for you to soldier through. We are both counting on you.”

I walked with him around the house, pausing near the kitchen so he could catch his breath. When we went outside Sophia was ready with a ball and dropped it at his feet.

“Sophia, heel!” I commanded. She quickly moved around to my left side and came in close to my leg. The three of us did three laps around the back yard, pausing to look over the wall at the fairway of the country club that backed against my parents’ yard.

“Ever get a wayward ball whacked over here?” I asked.

“No,” my father laughed, “the people who live here all know how to play the game, unlike you.”

“Eh, it’s a waste of time. If you want to hit a ball go to the batting cages. That’s my philosophy.”

Back inside it was time for more medication. I looked at the clock. I hadn’t slept for more than two hours at a time for almost a week. Anytime I heard any sort of noise from his room I was off the couch and in there checking on him. I realized this was how Peter and Marie must have felt when they became parents for the first time. It’s no longer just about you.

My father took a nap well into the afternoon and I thought I’d follow suit. I let Sophia in – I’d shown her so little attention since I’d been there that I felt guilty – and she promptly jumped on the couch and arranged herself over some blankets I set up for her. One turn, two turns, three turns, and she dropped herself in a half circle onto the blankets, leaning her body against my feet just like old times. In a couple of minutes she was out. In a few more so was I.

I brought my father dinner later in the evening and sat with him while he ate. His appetite was growing, a normal and positive sign the doctor said, indicating his strength was coming back as his heart adapted to the muscle loss.

“Have you eaten yet? You should eat, I’m sure your mother can fix you something.”

“No thanks,” I replied. “I haven’t had an appetite lately.” I looked out his window and watched Sophia dart back and forth in pursuit of another finch skittishly making its way across the yard.

“So has your mother put on her ‘relationship hat’ while you’ve been here? Any prodding?”

“No, she’s been relatively quiet and withdrawn. It hasn’t come up.”

“She does not mean to come off like a nag about those things. Your mother and I were brought up differently than today’s kids. Both of our parents were immigrants, and they brought with them the mindset of the old country. Women were supposed to marry young and have a big family. They laid down the law of the house and raised the children while the father was away at work. Your mother’s greatest joy has been the three of you. Mine too. It’s only natural that someone so happy would want their children to marry and experience the same happiness for themselves. Your mother doesn’t want you to settle down because there’s shame in being single, she wants you to marry because of the joy she believes it will bring you. Peter is happy. Alexis is happy. By extension she thinks the same will happen for you.”

I pulled forward a chair and sat beside him. “How do you know you are with the one who will make you happy and bring you that joy?” I asked.

“I can’t answer that question for you, only for myself.” He rubbed his forehead and took a sip of water. “The answer is different for every person, and each must find their own answer. Because of our age difference your mother sometimes forgets that I went out into the world and blazed my own trails. I traveled around Europe and learned about things. I met a lot of different women. By the time I met your mother, I pretty much knew what I liked and what I did not about the opposite sex. And with your mother, we came from similar backgrounds and we complemented each other. We shared the same goals and outlook on life. We both saw eye-to-eye on how to raise a family and valued the same things. I knew she was the one for me. When I proposed to your mother, I didn’t feel like I was making a choice. I felt it was a natural progression.”

He leaned in closer to me. “If you ever hear somebody say they hope they are making the right choice by getting married, then they aren’t with the right person.”

I sat back and smiled as my mind flashed to some of the women I’d dated in the past few years, some wise decisions, others not so much. “Mom would think I’m with the wrong people.”

“That’s for you to decide, not her. And if you realize they are wrong, then good for you. It shows you are making sense of it all and weeding out the ones who aren’t good for you. Whether she would like them or not is not the point. What she wants – what we both want – is to know you are happy and not settling for anything less than whom you want. Find that person, the one it feels right to be with for the rest of your life, and hold on tightly to them. Never let them go.”

I thought of Samuel, my widowed friend in Toronto, and the similarity of his words to my father’s.

“I know you date a fair share of women. Just tell me, are you having a good time, or is it leaving you more and more frustrated?”

I took his hand in mine, feeling along the deep ridges of the lines on the palm of his hand. The top of his hand was wrinkled and had lost some of its pinkish skin tone, the effect of age and having worked with his hands when he was much younger.

I looked into his eyes. He smiled warmly, perhaps for the first time since I’d come home. It was the type of smile that was a window to the soul, revealing the hope and confidence he had, not in himself but in me. The type of smile that oozes of self-satisfaction when you see your creation fully realized. The kind that says “you’re going to be alright, no matter what happens to me.”

“Are you having a good time?” he asked again.

“You would have enjoyed the ride, Dad.”

He adjusted a pillow. “Yes? Then tell me about it. Let’s forget for tonight that I am a sick father and you are a grieving son, and instead let's talk like two men.” He poured himself a glass of water and swallowed some tablet he was only to take at night. “Tell me.”

I spent the next hour divulging my dating life. I went through them all, starting with Kristie in high school, and moving through the years. I told him about the Delta Zeta girls in college. I told him about a few of my sister’s friends I saw behind her back. I told him about the girls from the Isla Vista beach club. I relived party flings and longer courtships. I brought up Sharon, one of the few I’d dated long enough to warrant an introduction to my parents.

“I always liked Sharon. She was nice to look at,” my father said.

“Yeah, she’ll make a great trophy wife for someone,” I replied. We both grinned in unison.

I told him about the more recent women in my life. I told him about the daughter from the country club’s social committee who worked months on seducing me, only to drop me when her ex-husband came back looking to reconcile. I told him about Monica, about Renee and Austin, about Katie, about Rebecca. I told him about what I didn’t like about each of them, and what attracted me to them to begin with. I talked about Melinda and a few women from work. I talked about what I looked for in a woman, and what raised red flags. I told him about my time in Toronto with Elizabeth.

He listened to it all as if my confessor. I told him about women I’d talked to and wanted to meet, and women I had no intention of ever meeting.

When I was finished he simply said, “and now?”

“Now there is somebody else. Her name is Carolyn. We’ve been seeing each other for a little over a month. I met her back in February.”

“And how is she?”

I sat back in my chair as thoughts of Carolyn flooded my memory. How she could look as beautiful in a t-shirt and jeans as she could in an evening gown. I thought about her smile and her tough exterior. “She’s something. Beauty, brains, very motivated.” I nodded my head. “She could be one of the great ones.”

He smiled and replied, “Then I hope she is.” He scratched the area of his neck just below the chin. “Hearing you talk about these women, and being able to reason what was right and what was not about each one – I can tell you are doing the right thing. Your head is screwed on the right way, Reed. The most proud any parent can be is when they see their child fly from the nest and make their own way in the world. And you three have. For that your mother and I are very proud. And if you feel that way about this Carolyn woman then maybe this time will be different.”

I thought about the distance between Carolyn and me and grimaced. “She’s in Toronto. And I am not,” I added.

He looked me over. “You’ve suddenly become very sad. What is it?”

“Last month, I knew I wanted to stay there. Last week, I knew I wanted to live in Toronto and work there. And now...so much has changed so quickly.”

He nodded. “I can’t force you to alter your future plans, but your mother is going to need somebody to look in on her and make sure she’s okay. This is new terrain. She’s never lived on her own. She went straight from her parents house to mine.”

I had been afraid of this topic since I’d returned. Now it was on the table.

“The thing about Toronto, Dad...I felt like I could be who I wanted to be. You talk about making my own way in the world? I felt like I was blazing my own path in Toronto. For my entire life I have been defined by this family. For once it felt like I’d stepped from behind that shadow. I felt like I was doing things on my terms.”

He nodded again. “Your family will always be a large part of who you are. There’s no denying or running from it.” He refilled his water. “I can’t ask your sister to look after your mother – it wouldn’t be fair to Roger. They’ve been married barely a year and already he inherits a mother-in-law? That’s not right. Alexis will try to bully you on the issue. She is the only girl so she feels a special attachment to your mother that you may not. But you live the closest, and you are still single. It will be up to you.”

That was that, his mind was made up. Just like that, I was stuck in California.
____________________________________________________________________________________

When I went in to his bedroom to check on my father Sunday morning, my mother was sitting with him. He was propped up in bed, rotating his left arm like a windmill as he held his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your father was complaining of pain in his shoulder. We’re trying to figure out if we should take him back to the hospital.”

“I don’t think it’s anything,” my father said, grimacing. “It’s a numb pain, but it’s not radiating through the limb like it was the last time. And I feel no pain in my chest.”

The two did a couple more tests and decided there was no need to call the hospital. I left them to talk and went outside to play with Sophia. I saw her frisbee on the lawn; it was time to see if she’d jump for me too or if she saved that trick only for my mother.

When I came back inside both of them were asleep. My mother was slumped over in her chair. I looked at her. She hadn’t been able to sleep much during the past week, who would? I tapped her on the shoulder and she awoke in a jolt.

“What? What’s happening?”

I put my forefinger to my lips and pointed towards my father.

“It’s okay, he’s sleeping. You should go to bed. I can watch over him.”

I sat down on the couch in the den at an angle where I could still see him and thumbed through an issue of Vanity Fair. Boring. Stale. Their writers always try to sound more stuffy and sophisticated than they really are. I’d had enough of the issue and threw it down on the table. I phoned Alexis and then Peter to give them updates, and then called Michelle to tell her I was back in town, and why.

“Anything I can do?” She asked.

“Turn back the clock,” I replied. “Thanks, but no. I have to wait things out.”

When my father awoke he called for me. “Walk beside me as I go to the kitchen and around the house. I want to do it on my own though, so don’t support me unless I start to falter.”

“How’s the shoulder feeling?”

“Fine.” He walked around the house at a pretty good pace. He didn’t need help. The dog barked, eager to be let in but I didn’t want Sophia in the way. When he had enough of walking my father sat down on the living room couch. He looked out the French doors and past the yard toward the country club fairway where golfers were taking practice hacks. The sun was shining. People were out and about. Everywhere else it was a beautiful day.

“I’ve been thinking Dad…”

“About what?”

“Going to Scotland. Taking care of your affairs. Why isn’t Peter doing it?”

“I’ve told you why,” he responded.

“But he’s the oldest, the firstborn. Wouldn’t the oldest child normally do this sort of thing?”

He turned his gaze from the golf course. “Peter has had the responsibility of being the first to go through everything for himself with nobody’s advice to fall back on. You and your sister have had his advice and experience to draw upon. He hasn’t and it’s been that way all his life. He’s had his own challenges to face alone. And growing up he’s always looked out for you and Alexis.”

I looked at him skeptically. I didn’t equate anything Peter had to face growing up with carting the remains of a parent around the globe.

My father saw the skepticism in my face. “What else did you want to ask me?”

“What?”

“You look like you have more questions. Ask me anything, anything you want to know.”

I thought of all the things I could possibly ask him, all the things I’d ever wanted to know. Nothing popped into my head. It was a void. Then, at last, something did.

“Why don’t I have a middle name?”

He laughed. I guess he wasn’t expecting that light a question.

“Little-known Greek tradition. Did you know that when parents name their children, many try to gauge what talents they hope their children will have and name them accordingly in hopes of instilling those traits in the child?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” I replied.

“It’s true. And it’s what we did. Peter was the first; first born, first son. We knew through Peter we’d write the rules for how we raised our children. He’d be the first to go through all the experiences a child goes through growing up, the first through puberty, the first to be a teenager, the first broken bone, the first college graduation. We realized this while your mother was pregnant with him. And so we named him Peter – the rock. Whatever we bound with him, we’d later bind with Alexis and yourself. And whatever was loosened...you know how it goes.

“When your sister was born she was beautiful, simply beautiful. I remember nurses in the maternity ward telling us how they hadn’t seen a child as beautiful in some time. And the first night she slept on her own in the ward she wrapped her arms over her head, as if she was protecting herself. The beautiful protector – Alexis. That’s what her name means in Greek.

“When you were born I wanted a strong Scottish name for you. Your mother got to name the first two, which resulted in the Greek names, but I wanted my heritage represented as well. When you were delivered you were crying and crying. The doctors cleaned you up and still you cried. They wrapped you, yet still you cried. You didn’t back down. It was defiant, and strong. When they placed you by your mother’s side you continued to cry, but it was a cry that sounded like an announcement, more pride than fear. When they took you away you resumed your crying and did not stop until the placed you back with your mother. Your unwavering resilience paid off.”

“That just sounds like I was afraid to be on my own,” I said.

“No. Your resilience made you stronger and more powerful.” He took a deep breath and coughed slightly, leaning forward to help the air out.

Have you ever heard about the reeds which reside in the gulf of Aqaba?” he asked. I shook my head.

“In Aqaba, along the gulf where the Sinai Peninsula, the southern tip of Israel, and the southwestern edge of Jordan all converge, there are reeds which live on a sandbar just a few feet under the water. Fields and fields of them, and they’ve been there for thousands of years.” He adjusted the glasses on his face and paused to watch a golfer in the distance whack the ball and curse his results in disgust. “Every year the plains that run off into the gulf flood, drowning the reeds. They should die. They should snap right in half and be carried out to sea, yet every time they survive. They are bent by the rapid, rising waters, and still they return to form, each time a little stronger, each time a little more resilient. Just like you.”

His face was serious, his stare fixed. “That is what you have in common with the Aqaba reeds – you have an unwavering flexibility. With each challenge you emerge stronger. Reeds don’t break. And that is how you got your name.”

He adjusted his glasses and began to stand. “And that is why your mother and I know you are the right child to carry out our final requests.”

I walked back with him to his bedroom and watched as climbed into bed on his own. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to retrieve my wife for me,” he said. It was odd. I couldn’t remember him ever referring to my mother as such.

I found her in the kitchen putting away some dishes and followed her to his room. She entered and I heard him ask her to close the door. I sat down and started reading a book on photography that I’d brought with me.

The door remained closed for hours. I’d wondered what they were talking about, what fond memories they were reliving. I let Sophia in and she immediately went into her play stance.

“No, not now Sophia.” She refused to listen, instead running around in a mild gallop.

“Sophia, come here,” I said. Still she didn’t listen.

“Sophia! Heel!” She stopped running and locked eyes with me. I didn’t avert my stare. I needed to assert my dominance in the pack. Within seconds she looked away, then slowly approached the sofa and sat at my feet.

“Good girl,” I told her. She huffed in contempt. We sat there for another hour in silence as the sky outside turned dark and the room followed suit. I didn’t turn on any lights; I sat on the sofa with Sophia at my feet as we watched the light leak from inside my father’s room out into the living room, where it spilled about the floor in an arc. Normally the dog would have gone off to sleep but tonight she stayed by my side.

“You know Sophia, I realize more and more whenever I’m around you how much we are alike.” She cocked her head and stuck out her marbled tongue to the side. “We both are stubborn and maybe we don’t listen as much as others would like us to, but in the end we always obey the commands. We’re right here by the side of whoever needs us.” I ran the back of my hand across her head and I could see her curly-queue tail start to shake.

“Thanks for understanding, girl,” I added.

My mother finally emerged from his room, wiping tears from her face. Whatever they talked about had taken its toll upon her.

“It’s dark in here,” she said, fumbling for the light switch.

“Does he need anything?” I asked.

“Just a refill of water, he’s likely turning in for the night,” she said as she shuffled across the room in the direction of the kitchen. I picked up my book and resumed reading.

She returned with the water and disappeared into his room. Moments later I heard the sound of glass shattering on the floor.

“Reed, he’s stopped breathing! Dial 911! Dial 911!” she screamed as she burst from the room. She began crying. In a flash I was on the phone to 911 emergency dispatch.

When the paramedics arrived they confirmed what we already knew: Her husband, her best friend, her partner in life, was dead.