“Why would they give her just one shitty blanket? It’s twenty fucking degrees in here.”
Were they supposed to buy flowers or something to brighten the place up? “Hey, Val. Should we buy flowers?”
“She’s not going to be here that long.”
Amadeo jerks his head back.
Valerie turns slowly, pale. “I mean,” she says, “she’s going home soon. We’ll get her flowers at home.”
At night, the sounds of the hospital are more pronounced: the whirs and ticks and pulses, the murmurs from the hallway. On the other side of the room, behind the patterned green curtain, there’s another patient, a Marcella Tran, according to the whiteboard, but she’s so quiet Amadeo doesn’t believe she’s there until he peers behind the curtain. A heavy Asian woman wearing a satin shower cap gazes at him impassively, and Amadeo retreats. He sits in one of the chairs, and only then does Valerie settle beside him.
From underneath the bandage, a tuft of hair emerges, bristly and dry against the pillowcase. They didn’t shave her whole head, the doctors said, just a semicircular line for the incision. They then peeled back their mother’s scalp and, with a delicate power saw, cut into bone. They’ve left the skull open, accessible for more surgeries. Amadeo can’t think about it, can’t think about it. He only realizes that he’s grabbed his sister’s forearm when she puts her hand on top of his. She rubs the back of his hand with a thumb. The gesture seems automatic, the kind of comfort she might offer one of her daughters. Again, he flashes to when they were children, clutching each other.
“Val,” Amadeo whispers. “Do you remember when Dad died, how every day after school we sat on the couch hugging?”
Valerie looks into his face, startled, then suspicious. She withdraws her hand. “Why?”
“I was just wondering, is all. If you remembered.”
“I don’t,” says Valerie, but her color has risen and her voice doesn’t sound as guarded as usual. “Why are you asking me that now?”
Amadeo shrugs. He wants some confirmation that those afternoons happened, that they don’t exist in Amadeo’s memory alone, wants some reassurance that comfort might still be possible between them.
“I don’t remember it,” repeats Valerie.
Amadeo must have dozed, because time collapses. Beside him, the chair is empty. Valerie must have gone to check on the girls.
When his mother wakes, a sob escapes him. Her face is calm, her eyes low-lidded and glazed. She gazes around the dim room, barely lingering on her son.
“I’m sorry, Mom! I’m so sorry! When were you going to tell us?” Tears stream down his cheeks. But Yolanda’s eyelids drop shut, as if flipping a switch to turn off his voice.
All at once he remembers Angel. His ringer has been off, and he hasn’t checked it. Nine missed calls, fifteen escalating texts. Hey Dad! How’d the job go????? Where RU guys? Where the heck are you? It’s after eight! Pick up your phone!!!!!!!! God!!!! Where ARE YOU????? Please call me I’m really really worried. The last, sent nine minutes ago, 12:35 a.m., reads, If you don’t call back in ten minutes, I’m calling the police. He dials.
AND SO BEGINS the time of the caretaking. She’s going to die at home, Yolanda informs them. “No more hospitals, no more surgeries.”
“But what if they can save you?”
“They can’t save me,” Yolanda says, which is more or less what the doctors said.
“I don’t like to give prognoses, because they can so often be off,” said Dr. Konecky, “and there isn’t much evidence that they contribute to quality of life.”
Only when Amadeo pushed, did she admit, “I’d say we’re looking at two or three months.” Valerie gripped his arm.