Jenny stashed her stuff while the nurse dashed out.
Local Time 0710 Hours
Jackson McGrath looked small and sickly lying in the hospital bed in the intensive care unit. He was at least twenty pounds under his best weight. Several days’ growth of beard stubble, all black and gray, covered his face. His hair was too long and uneven from bad haircuts he’d given himself. Yellow tinged his skin.
Jenny knew her father was that color because his liver was trying to fail. Once it did, death was right around the corner.
The doctors had already examined Jackson McGrath’s liver and said it was a miracle he’d lived as long as he had. Both legs and one arm were in casts from the single-car collision that had landed him here. He’d been drunk when he drove off the street and hit a tree. Bruises still showed on his pallid, too-thin chest where the seat belt had cut into him.
Seated in the chair beside her father’s bed, Jenny stared at him, recalling numerous memories of him drunk and sober. None of it was pleasant. Jackson McGrath had never been a happy man. For a long time, he’d blamed his unhappiness on Jenny, telling her that raising a daughter by himself was too hard. At least, too hard to do sober.
Truthfully, though, Jenny had been forced to learn how to raise her father. And he’d fought her at every turn.
“How are you doing this morning, kiddo?” Katie Lang, one of the morning ICU nurses, filled out the chart at the foot of Jackson McGrath’s bed. She was in her late thirties, a heavyset woman with a quick smile and an even quicker comeback. Patients learned early not to give any guff to Nurse Lang.
“Doing okay,” Jenny said.
“You look pretty this morning.”
“Thanks. Ester said the nurses got me the new outfits.”
“You deserve them.”
“I appreciate them, that’s for sure.”
“We were happy to get them for you.”
“Has there been any change with my father?”
Katie took in a deep breath and let it out. Then she shook her head. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”
Despair swallowed some of Jenny’s good mood. “The longer he stays in a coma, the less chance there is of him recovering.”
“Don’t give up on him,” Katie advised. “I’ve been a nurse for a long time, and I can tell you right now, I’ve seen some of the most audacious things happen that you wouldn’t believe.”
Jenny nodded, not because she believed what the woman was saying but because she knew it was expected. Everyone talked about miracles in the hospital like it was a requirement or something. But she knew that not many people believed.
“If you give up on him,” Katie whispered, “he might give up on himself. Just because they don’t respond to you doesn’t mean they’re not listening.”
That was something else Jenny had heard a lot about. She made it a point to talk to her father every day. Sometimes she read stories she thought he might like from the newspaper. Other times she created a make-believe horse race and reimagined it for her father. She embellished the race and the names of the horses and jockeys. In addition to alcohol, gambling was also a problem for her father. She felt bad about feeding that addiction, but she didn’t know what else to talk to him about that he would have found interesting.
“I know,” she said to Nurse Lang, and she felt guilty at once. Before coming to the hospital, when she first heard that her father was in bad shape, she’d resented him all over again for disrupting her life. She’d been happy with Megan Gander at Fort Benning. While there, Jenny had found purpose in helping teens who had been left behind.
Now she was here in the hospital. Waiting for the worst like she’d been doing for years.
“As long as he’s hanging in there,” the nurse said, “you’ve got to do it too.”
“I know.”
The woman patted Jenny on the shoulder as she passed. For a few minutes, Jenny sat there and looked at her father. Then she spoke. “Dad, I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but I hope you can. I’m here for you. I’ve been here for you every day. But I’m getting tired. And maybe I’m getting a little scared. You know how I hate being scared. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
The machines kept beeping and chirping. The ventilator pumped up and down, filling Jackson McGrath’s lungs with oxygen and emptying them again.
“What I need you to do,” Jenny said in a voice so thick with emotion she could barely get it out, “is come back to me. Everything you’ve done, we can fix it. Somehow. All you’ve got to do is come back.”
There was no response.
Gently, Jenny took her father’s free hand in both of hers. His flesh was cold and felt slightly stiff, but that might have been her imagination. She kissed the back of his hand and felt hot tears fill her eyes. She blinked them away with effort.
God, I know a lot of people don’t like my father, and I know he’s given them plenty of reasons not to, but he doesn’t deserve to die like this. And I don’t want to watch it happen.
Jackson McGrath’s thin chest rose and fell.
I’m not even sure what I’d say to him if he makes it back from this. We didn’t have a whole lot to talk about before. But he’s my father. I love him.
She massaged his hand, trying to put some warmth into it.
If Megan Gander is right-if these are the end times and we’re all going to be facing hell itself in the next seven years-I want my father to have a chance to know Your mercy. That’s what these times are about. Touch him, God. Heal him and make him whole. He’s not going to be able to do it on his own.
For a moment, Jenny thought about praying for herself. That felt foolish and selfish, though. Praying for her father was one thing, but she didn’t know how much she believed in God. God hadn’t ever been a big part of her life, and she saw no real reason to change that now. But since she couldn’t help her father herself, she knew she had to pray so she’d have at least something she felt she was contributing.
Silently, she lowered her head and prayed again for her father’s swift recovery. Then she placed his hand back on the bed and went to join Ester for breakfast.
Fort Benning, Georgia
Local Time 0731 Hours
“You mind having company, Joey?”
Seated at one of the long tables in the camp mess, Joey looked up and saw Heather Simpson standing across from him with a breakfast tray in her hands. She was sixteen, a year younger than he, with long brown hair and soft brown eyes. Freckles spattered her nose. She wore capris and a printed blouse.
Joey knew her from camp and from school. Her dad worked in the motor pool. He hadn’t exactly been friends with Heather, but he’d known her well enough to talk to her in the halls and in passing.
“I don’t mind,” Joey replied.
Heather sat at the table and picked up one of the waffle squares on her plate. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Was breakfast this bad before all this weirdness?”
“Don’t know. Mom always fixed breakfast.”
“Isn’t she fixing breakfast this morning?”
“Probably.” A twinge of guilt sped through Joey when he answered. He knew his mom would be expecting him there.
“So you chose this misery over your mom’s cooking?” Heather shook her head in disbelief.
“Kinda crowded at my house right now.”
“I heard.” Heather opened her carton of milk. “I thought about crashing breakfast some morning. People I talk to say your mom is great. That her breakfasts are great.”
Joey ran a spoon through the runny powdered eggs on his plate. “Yeah. She is. It is.”
“If you ask me, I’d have stood in line at your mom’s house and got a good breakfast.”
A spark of anger flared through Joey. “But nobody asked you, did they?”
“Nope. Somebody got up grouchy today, I see.”
Joey ran a hand through his hair. “What is it about girls that they think they have to ask questions about everything?”
“We’re girls. It’s our job. We allow people to get in touch with their feelings.”
“Maybe some of us don’t want to be in touch with our feelings.”