Yes I do. I have to get outside. This gives me an excuse to be out here. She leaned the broom against the house wall and Lorraine handed her the phone and went back inside.
Yes. This is Mary. She stood facing out across the street.
This is Doris Thomas calling. I saw Frank.
What did you say?
I saw Frank.
What do you mean?
At the airport in Denver. He was in the lines at security where they make you walk back and forth between those straps and we kept passing each other and I knew right away it was him. He was wearing a cap so I couldn’t see the top of his head but it looked exactly like him. Like your husband used to look when he was that age.
What did you say to him?
I didn’t say anything to him. I didn’t want to embarrass either one of us.
He was flying someplace?
Yes. I just thought you’d want to know.
When was this?
Two weeks ago. I was on my way to Seattle to be with my daughter. She had her baby.
Did he look okay?
Frank? Yes, I think he looked okay.
I mean, did my son look happy?
Oh. I wouldn’t be able to say about that.
She stood facing out across the fence and gate and the street to the empty lot on the other side. Inside the fence the shade under the silver poplar trees was shifting and moving on the grass. There were tears in her eyes now and she stayed for a long time crying quietly and thinking. Then she wiped her face and went back into the house. Lorraine was upstairs in her bedroom. At the foot of the stairs she called up to her. Will you come down now?
Is something wrong?
I want to tell you and Dad at the same time.
What is it?
She turned and went into the living room. Dad was sleeping and she went over and put her hand on his arm and held it there until he opened his eyes and looked up at her. Are you awake, honey? she said.
I am now.
I want you to hear something.
Lorraine came into the room.
I want to tell you both something, Mary said. About a phone call I just got from Doris Thomas. You remember her.
No. I don’t, Dad said.
Yes, you do. She had the daughter that moved out to Washington State. She and her husband lived over on Detroit Street until he died.
Don Thomas.
That’s right.
He always talked a lot, said Dad.
Well, I don’t know about that.
They had a boy my age, Lorraine said. I never heard what became of him.
What about this phone call? Dad said.
Mary looked from her husband to her daughter. Doris said she saw Frank. At the airport in Denver.
How could she see Frank?
That’s what she said. She said she saw him at the airport.
When?
Two weeks ago.
Why is she just calling now?
Because she was in Seattle seeing her daughter. Her daughter had her baby. She just got back.
What did he look like? Dad said.
She said he looked like you when you were his age.
I doubt that.
That’s what she said.
I doubt it.
Dad, she said she saw him.
I don’t believe any of this for a minute. It isn’t possible.
But, honey, what if she did.
No. Frank’s gone off someplace far away. He’s not coming back here or anywhere near here.
I don’t think she saw him either, Mom.
Oh why do you say that?
I don’t think she could have. I don’t think Frank would be flying anywhere.
Mary looked from one to the other, her eyes filling again with tears. Shame on you both, she said. Shame on you.
She left the room and went out through the front hall to the porch and carried her broom to the swing and sat down.
In the house Dad said, Go see about her, will you? She won’t talk to me now.
Lorraine went out to the porch. Can I sit with you, Mom?
No, I don’t want any company. I don’t want to speak to you or anybody else right now.
6
THE NURSE from hospice was a small active woman with beautiful teeth and shiny hair. She came into the living room on a sunny morning in her pink shirt and vest and blue jeans and came over to Dad, walking slowly so as not to surprise him, and he turned from the window to look at her. Lorraine brought her a chair and she sat down in front of Dad and took his hands and examined them, inspecting his fingernails, and smiled and he looked at her soberly, not smiling but not frowning as he sometimes did. She said, Mr. Lewis, how are you this morning?
About the same.
You’re out of bed and in your chair. You still feel well enough to sit up.
Yeah.
What did you have for breakfast? Did you eat breakfast?
I ate something.
What did you have?
He looked at Mary who was standing behind the nurse with Lorraine.
You had your oatmeal, she said.
I had some oatmeal, Dad said.
He didn’t eat very much of it. He didn’t want his toast.
I’m tired.
Yes, the nurse said. You eat whatever you want to.
She thinks I need to eat.
Of course. Because she cares about you.
I’m not hungry anymore.
I know. That’s what happens. We get like that. Did you have a shower today?
No, he said. Later maybe.
All right.
We’ll see. I don’t know if I will.
Do you mind if I check your breathing and pulse?
If that’s what you want to do.
I do.
She took his temperature and his pulse and put the clothespin-like oximeter on his finger to gauge the oxygen level.
What is it today? Mary said.
It’s ninety-two. Still satisfactory.
Can I listen to your heart and your breathing now, Mr. Lewis?
She took the stethoscope out of her bag and he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled up the undershirt. His chest was white and bony and almost hairless, the ribs jutted out. She bent forward and listened to his heart and his chest and his stomach.
You sound all right for today. Do you feel okay?
Well. I know I don’t have long. If that’s what you mean. But I don’t feel too bad.
Are you in any pain today?
Some.
A lot of pain?
There’s some pain. Yeah.
Honey, you don’t tell us that, Mary said. I wish you would say something.
He looked at his wife and then turned and stared out the window.
He can take the Roxanol too, the nurse said. Along with the MS Contin.
How often can he take it? Lorraine said.
Whenever he wants, the nurse said. It won’t hurt him. Every fifteen minutes if he needs it. Mr. Lewis, will you listen to me? she said.
Slowly he turned back around. His eyes were flinty now.
When you’re in pain you need to tell your wife or your daughter. They can give you something that will help right away.
I don’t plan on getting addicted, he said.
You won’t.
It’s morphine, isn’t it?
Yes. It’s a form of morphine. But it won’t matter.
He studied her face. Because I won’t last that long. That’s what you’re talking about. Not long enough to get addicted.
That’s right. But it’ll give you immediate relief. I’ve told them about it and they can help you take it.
He looked at her and then he began to rebutton the front of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. The nurse took his hands again.
What are you going to do today?
Today?
Yes.
Not much.
What are you thinking about? Will you tell me?
I was thinking I’d like some peace, he said. He withdrew his hands and turned and peered out the window once more.
Well, you seem to be doing pretty well here. I’ll come again next week. Is that okay?