Page 27 of Pity Play

“I thought you’d have gone back to Chicago by now.” He’s as friendly as an ax murderer.

“Nope,” I tell him. “I’m planning to stay for a while.”

“Why?” There is no pleasing this man.

“Even if you don’t need me, Mom does. She’s never going to leave your side if she doesn’t have someone she trusts to sit with you.”

He tips his head to the side and scans the room. “She’s not here now.”

“That’s because she knew I was coming,” I tell him. “I told her to sleep in.”

My dad appears slightly chagrined like he hadn’t been thinking of the toll his accident is taking on my mom. With a grunt, he says, “Fine. Sit down. We can watch the television.”

I did not come all this way to sit and watch TV, but even so, it sounds like a decent diversion from having to keep up my end of this painful conversation. “What do you want to watch?” I ask while moving a chair closer to his bed so I can reach the remote attached to his side table.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “I’m going to take a nap.” He immediately closes his eyes and pretends to fall asleep.

Instead of turning on the TV, I sit down and open the spy novel I got for him. After reading the first paragraph six times, I come to the realization I’m not retaining any information. Closing the book, I look at my dad’s still figure. I can tell he’s asleep for real because his mouth is hanging half open as it always does once unconsciousness claims him.

He’s starting to look old. Graying temples and laugh lines around his eyes aren’t the only giveaway. Long wrinkles are forming on his cheeks that make him look almost gaunt. Scanning the rest of him, I notice that he weighs considerably less than he did a couple of years ago.

I have spent very little time thinking about my parents’ age, but it occurs to me there are no guarantees in life, and every day is a gift. Standing up, I walk out the door and look for Tony. I find him typing away at his computer.

“Hey, man,” I say. “Any chance I can get a cup of coffee?”

He looks up and points to the door closest to him. “That’s the nurses’ station. You can grab yourself a cup in there.”

I walk in the direction he indicated and am happy to find a Keurig machine. Brewing myself a fresh cup, I consider ways I can connect with my dad. Once my coffee comes down, I add the sugar and then go back to his room. I’m surprised when his eyelids flutter open.

“I thought you left.” Is it me or does he sound disappointed that I didn’t?

“Nope, just got a cup of coffee.” I extend my hand in offering. “You want one?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

I sit down on the chair next to him. “I was just thinking about the summer when I turned eight. Remember how we caught all those bullheads?”

His mouth turns up nearly imperceptibly. “They sure were delicious. Although, I started to get sick of them after five straight dinners.”

I reminisce fondly, “We ate corn on the cob with each one and some kind of blueberry dessert that Mom made.”

“You can’t beat seasonal food,” he says. For a moment it feels like we’ve declared a small truce and it’s nice.

“You ever serve bullhead up at that restaurant of yours?” Now he sounds angry.

I don’t take the bait to fight. Instead, I tell him, “We rely more on catfish or trout. Although, I have a butter-sautéed sole on the menu that melts in your mouth.”

“You ever blacken that catfish?” he wants to know.

“Almost always,” I tell him. “That’s how you taught me, so that’s how I serve it.”

His head bobs slightly. “You serve it with coleslaw?”

“Mashed potatoes,” I tell him.

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“It fits the vibe of Capon better.”

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