The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 52: "I Haven't Seen Him Yet"

The next morning Leslie leaves me a message during my meeting. "He's in intensive care." My phone lost its charge and I didn't realize it until after lunch. When I arrive, she's waiting outside the door to the intensive care ward. I rarely see her this worried, pacing back and forth, her face drawn and eyes blinking as if she could cry with frustration at any moment.

"How's Dad?"

"I haven't seen him yet."

"Why not?"

"They say he's not ready to see anyone."

"What does that mean? We can look at him through a window. Why's that a problem?"

"They keep telling me it'll be soon—"

"I know what we can do."

"What?" Leslie sounds hopeful as if I have a solution she's missed.

"We'll walk in and see for ourselves."

"Don't think I haven't thought of it."

A nurse approaches the door. She nods to acknowledge us. Pushing a button on the intercom, she waits a moment and then asks someone to let her in. The door unlocks with a click.

"So much for that idea."

Before the door closes, a doctor comes out. "Mr. and Mrs. Aherne?"

"I'm Mark Aherne. This is my sister Leslie."

The doctor shakes our hands. "I'm Dr. Vargas. Your father is my patient this afternoon."

"Is his regular doctor here?" Leslie asks.

"He'll be here as soon as we get in touch with him. In the meantime, you can come in for a short visit. He's on a ventilator, but his difficulty breathing is making him anxious."

The doctor holds the door open for us. In the room on our left is a glass wall through which we see a single bed and an array of medical machines. When the doctor leads us into this room, I notice a tall, young doctor leaning against the wall. He looks at me closely when our eyes meet. A nurse is watching the monitors.

"George." The doctor leans close to Dad's ear. "Your children are here." Dad slowly turns toward us. His glasses have been removed. He's covered with a sheet all the way to his neck. From under the sheet, several wires are attached to monitors chirping beside the window. Two slender air tubes are in his nose. The ventilator swishes up and down. He doesn't appear agitated, but the sparkle in his eyes is gone. He smiles. At least he recognizes us.

Leslie and I stand on opposite sides of the bed. He grips our hands as if holding us will prevent him from disappearing into the mattress.

"Dad." Leslie rubs his shoulder. "How are you doing?"

"I'm having trouble..." a shallow breath "...getting enough air..." another breath "...but this tube is helping." I'll bet he adds this last phrase because he doesn't want the staff to think he doesn't appreciate their help.

"Don't talk if it tires you," I say, rubbing the back of his hand with my thumb.

Dad closes his eyes, concentrates, and takes a deep breath. He coughs. The monitors react with various sounds. The nurse scans the graphs and numbers. I wonder if the young intern in the corner is here to observe. Studying how to cope with a patient's grieving family?

The nurse leans over Dad and adjusts the tubes dislodged by his coughing. "That's better. Try to take slow, deeper breaths."

"I'm trying." He makes the effort to draw in a deep breath. "How's Rachel?"