The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 51: "Would You Like Me to Say a Prayer?"

I'm stalled in traffic at the construction site on 128 at Totten Pond Road. The highway has been a mess here since I worked nearby in the 90s. The Hoover Dam may have been built in three years, but this highway project – an exit ramp and bridge – is ten years old and still not completed. What are they doing? A single dump truck shuttles back and forth behind the barriers, its cargo covered with snow. For all anyone knows, it could be hauling snow from one end of the site to the other.

I make up time in Lexington. I've parked my car when Leslie pulls up. She rolls down her window. "I thought I was ahead of you. How come you got here before me?"

"I commuted on 128 for ten years. You memorize the traffic flow. I hope they have him settled in a room."

"The poor guy. He won't know which end is up." She pauses. "Mark, I hate to do this, but an emergency came up at work – a co-worker called – and I have to take care of it."

"Don't worry. I'll hold down the fort."

"I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll stay with him through dinner."

I wait outside the Admissions Office, checking every fifteen minutes with the receptionist to check if the system has posted his room assignment. I'm a pest, I know. She can't do anything to speed up the process.

I sit and watch humanity ebb and flow. Most people look bored, relieved, frightened, or lost. A middle-aged woman walks through the lobby, trying, but failing, to hide her tears. I want to run after her and comfort her, but realize she'd look at me as if I'm berserk or a predator and scream for help. But that would get her mind off her problems for a while.

I notice someone waving in my direction. Looking closer, I realize it's the receptionist waving to me. Dad's in his room.

On his floor, I can see into his room across from the nurses' station. An aide holds him under his arm as Dad shuffles crabwise across the floor to his bed. I'm shocked by his unsteadiness. His bare legs appear to be nothing more than two bones covered with skin. He'll be too weak to return to his apartment after even three or four weeks in rehab. His johnny is opened in the back. He's not wearing boxers and his buttocks are flat, almost non-existent. I look away. No father should be exposed like this to his son.

I walk closer but stay out of sight behind a cart with clean laundry. Dad struggles into bed, ignoring the aide's help as if tired of people fussing over him. He falls back against his pillows, looking like he hasn't an ounce of energy left. "Ah, that's better. I'm all set for the rest of the afternoon."

"Get well soon." The aide leaves and passes me in the hall.

Before I can enter his room, a middle-aged woman with a large purse confronts me. I suspect she's been lying in wait for me. "Are you next-of-kin to Mr. Aherne?" When I say I am, she continues, "I'm the social worker assigned to your father. What arrangements have you made for him when he leaves here?"

"My sister and I are looking into assisted living—"

"Too late for that." She's abrupt and hard-edged. "He needs more than assisted living. They can't provide the care he'll need."

I attempt to speak but she isn't interested in what I have to say.

"We can't discharge him from the hospital if he isn't returning to a safe environment. We'll have to arrange for a nursing facility if you or your sister can't care for him in your home."

"One place we're considering has a nursing home on the grounds. When he needs that level of care, we won't have to move him to a different—"

"What place is that?"