I talked to him, even though I wasn’t sure if he heard me. Quite a bit, if I remember correctly—making up for all the intervening years when I’d been too wrapped up in my own struggles to visit him. I told him about the explosion in Kandahar, and the trauma I experienced in the aftermath. I told him about Sandra—my most recent girlfriend—and our breakup. I told him that I was planning to begin another residency. And I thanked him, once again, for simply being there—as my real family, even if I’d taken him for granted at times—both before and after the death of my parents.
One of the nurses informed me that since his arrival, the only words he’d spoken were my name and Pensacola, which was how they were finally able to track me down. They told me that he’d been able to open his eyes and had tried to speak on occasion, only to rasp out unintelligible sounds. Still other times, he’d stared at them in bewilderment, as though he hadn’t known where or even who he was.
I was upset and worried, but also confused. Why was he here, in Easley, South Carolina? How had he gotten here? In all the time I’d known him, he’d never traveled as far west as Raleigh, and he’d come to Alexandria only once. After the war, and until just a few days earlier, I was fairly certain he hadn’t left the county in years. But Easley was a long way from New Bern. Six or seven hours on the interstate, maybe more, depending on traffic. At the time, my grandfather was ninety-one years old; where had he been going?
I would have suspected Alzheimer’s, except for the fact that in his letters, he’d seemed as lucid and thoughtful as ever. He’d always been good at that—writing letters to me—and while I answered a few of them, I usually ended up phoning him after receiving one of his missives. It was easier for me, and I can be lazy about some things, like putting pen to paper; I’m not proud of it, but that’s who I am. On the phone he was as clearheaded as ever. Older, of course, and maybe taking a bit longer to find the word he wanted, but certainly nothing that would indicate dementia severe enough to prompt a journey to a place he’d never mentioned before.
But staring at him as he lay unconscious made me wonder whether I was wrong about all of it. In the late-afternoon light, his skin took on a grayish pallor; by the evening, his breathing sounded painful. Though visiting hours were over, the staff at the hospital didn’t kick me out. I’m not sure why—perhaps because I was a physician, or because they could tell how much I cared for him. As nightfall came and went, I continued to sit with him, holding his hand and talking to him the entire time.
By morning, I was exhausted. One of the nurses brought me coffee, reminding me despite my exhaustion that there are good people everywhere. My grandfather’s physician came by on his rounds; I could tell by his expression after checking my grandfather that he was thinking the same thing I was: The kind, old man was entering the final stages of his life. Maybe hours left, maybe a day, but not much more than that.
It was around noon on that last day that my grandfather shifted slightly in his bed, his eyes fluttering halfway open. As he attempted to focus, I noticed the same confusion the nurses had described, and I leaned closer to his bed, squeezing his hand.
“Hey, Grandpa, I’m here. Can you hear me?”
He turned his head, only a little, but as much as he could.
“It’s me, Trevor. You’re in the hospital.”
He blinked slowly. “Tre…vor.”
“Yeah, Grandpa, it’s me. I came as soon as I heard. Where were you going?”
I felt him squeeze my hand.
“Help…care…and…”
“Of course,” I said. “They’re taking good care of you.”
“If…you…can…”
Each word croaked out between ragged breaths.
“Collapsed…”
“Yes, Grandpa. You had a stroke.” As I said it, I wondered if he’d been more ill than I suspected; in that same instant, I recalled that his wife had had epilepsy.
“Sick.”
“You’ll be okay,” I lied. “And we’ll go take care of the bees and take the boat out, okay? Just you and me. It’ll be like old times.”
“Like…Rose…”
I squeezed his hand again, hating his confusion, hating that he didn’t know what had happened to him. “Your beautiful bride.”
“Find…family…”
I didn’t have the heart to remind him that his wife and daughter had long since passed away, that I was the only family he had left.