Page 58 of You & I, Rewritten

The man in front of me types away on his computer. “Your father is in room 423. Take the elevator to your left up to the fourth floor, and it’ll be a straight shot,” he informs me, his voice filled with compassion. I yell thank you over my shoulder as I’m already half-running, half-limping toward the elevator.

Everything around me is moving in slow motion—the speed of the elevator, the endless seconds it takes for the doors topingopen, the time it takes to travel up four floors. I can feel my heart beating out of my chest.

Floor 2.My mouth is dry and I’m really struggling to breathe. I can’t think of a time in my life where I’ve ever been this scared.

Floor 3.I need him to be okay so that I can yell at him for missing so many of my life’s moments. For not being the father I deserved. I need him to know how badly it hurt when he wasn’t there. How desperately I wanted him to be. I need him to know that I love him.

Floor 4.The elevator doors open, and I barrel forward, looking to the nearest sign to see how much farther I have to go still. Just a few more rooms. The spike of adrenaline I’d been running on is gone, filling my body with a cold emptiness that sends a chill down my spine with every step forward. Looking down the hall, I can see the blurred movement of medical staff at work, their movements fast and rushed, their urgency calls me forward.

417, 419, 421…I’m almost there.423.The hall goes momentarily silent and then the long, piercing tone—the one you hear in all the movies—shatters through the void. That’s when I know.

He’s gone.I know without knowing. The only thing I can hear is the tone that’s replaced my father’s heartbeat and I’m left standing in the doorway, staring at the chipped tile, unable to look into the room.

“I’m his son,” I whisper, unsure if anyone even cared to hear me. “I said I’m his son,” my voice louder this time. Nothing.You have to look up. Look up, Will. You have to.

So, I do. And I immediately wish I hadn’t.

Gone was the muscular man who served his country all those years ago, and in his place, a stranger who looks vaguely familiar but entirely unrecognizable. His face is gaunt, his body bloated, gorged in an almost cartoonish manner. His skin, once tanned and full of life, is tinted yellow, a sign of his liver failing like Anne mentioned. Every tube known to man is sticking out of him, a living pin cushion, the remnants of the doctors doing everything in their power to save him. The sight of him like this causes bile to fill my throat, the sting of the sterile environment filling my nostrils causes the room to spin.

I collapse to my knees, a sob ripping through my chest, threatening to tear me in half and slam my fists into the ground.

“I’m his son,” I cry, unable to hold it together any longer.

“I’m his son.” The room goes black; the sound of the heart monitor drowns me into oblivion.

Dad, I’m here…I’m here, Dad. I’m sorry I’m late, but I’m here.

* * *

“Mr. Cowen? Can you hear me?” A murky voice breaks through the ringing in my ears. Are my eyes open? I feel like my eyes are open, but I can’t see anything. “Mr. Cowen, can you open your eyes for me?”That explains it.

Opening my eyes, I’m staring into the faces of several concerned doctors and nurses, their expressions change slightly once I’m alert. I realize I’m still on the floor, the coolness of the tiles causes me to shiver.

“Come on…let’s get you up in this chair.” I couldn’t have been out for more than a few seconds, but I feel like I just woke up from the deepest sleep and everything is resonating with a cloudiness that only adds to my confusion.What the hell?I’m lifted up into the chair across the wall, my body tense and limp all at the same time.

When I’m placed in a seated position, the doctor to my right checks my pulse, her fingers sure and strong against my wrist. “Sir, my name is Dr. Sharvina Ziyeh. Can you do me a favor and follow my fingers? I want to make sure you didn’t injure yourself.”

I nod my head as she begins moving her fingers slowly in front of my face, my eyes compelled to follow. She examines my head, gingerly tracing her fingers along my skull.

“Dr. Ziyeh, I’m okay. I don’t think I hit my head,” my voice hoarse.

Satisfied with her examination or possibly just taking my word for it, she takes a step back, her gaze softening. “Still, I’d like to give you something for shock.”

“I don’t think that will be neces—” It hits me like a ton of bricks.

My father is dead.

I stand a little too quickly, my legs buckle but find their balance, and push past her.

“Mr. Cowen, please take it easy,” she says, her hands on my arms. I need to see him for myself, not trusting the nightmarish mental image now playing on repeat in my mind.

But there he is, lifeless and empty, a physical depiction of how I’m feeling on the inside. I place my hands on the foot of his bed, afraid to touch him but feeling compelled to be near him. They made quick work of the tubes and wires while I was out. He looks more human now, peaceful even. His facial hair has grown in and is flecked with gray. His hair, normally cropped short and close on the sides, has been left untouched for a while. I look at his hands, the same ones that used to bring me so much comfort and then so much pain and see the thick calluses that have been present my entire life.

I feel numb.

“If I promise to sit down, can I have a moment alone with him?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“Of course, take all the time you need.” She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze, one that tells me she knows this moment all too well and turns to leave with the rest of the medical staff.

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