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I was happy I wouldn’t have to make the trip alone. I’ve never told him or my father I don’t like El Paso with its dirty air and the long drive up the snakelike highway to Dad’s condo in Las Cruces.
“There it is,” David says.
I look through the windshield, see the large sign: El Paso Hospital.
“Yeah, there it is.”
David makes the turn then parks in the parking lot that spans two blocks. I climb out of the car and take a deep breath. The air is cold, dry, and I feel like a twig about to snap. I take my husband’s hand as we walk through the double doors and begin looking for Dad’s room. David’s skin is warm, moist. We stay connected, and for a few soft moments I feel young and in love. When we find the room number Dad gave me, we break apart.
My father is propped up in bed. His tanned, muscled arms contrast the stark white sheet and blanket. He is staring out the window and doesn’t hear us come in.
“Dad.”
David walks to a chair in the farthest corner, places his hand on the back.
“Hi, Melinda.” Dad’s brown eyes are wide.
I cross the space between us and hug him as my heart pounds harder.
“I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry.” I begin to cry. He starts crying, too, his lips pulled into a shape I’ve never seen before.
“I’ll stand right by you through this,” I say, feel like I’m in a movie speaking words someone wrote.
“Hey, let’s not get carried away around here,” David booms from his chair. “This is curable, you know.”
I turn, look at him. David’s expression is one I don’t recognize even though we’ve been together for twenty-two years. I pull away from my father. My husband has never been good with showing his emotions and this is just more proof.
“Hey, Dave, how’s it going?” Dad says as if he wasn’t crying a moment ago.
“Stan, how ya’ doing?”
“Not so well. I guess you heard.”
“Don’t worry, they have lots of new methods for curing cancer.”
I walk to the window across from the hospital bed and the two men slip easily to where they feel comfortable—talking about architecture and David’s work. My father retired three years ago, but before, everyone thought it funny I married an architect—the same occupation as my dad.
They begin talking about David’s latest contract and my father’s strong voice fills the room. I look out the window. Below, at the back of the hospital, is a small play area with swings, a little bit of grass. The spring before my parents divorced, most evenings, Dad and my mother took my sister Lena and me to the small park by our house. We would run to the swings, squealing, hop on. A moment later Dad would stand next to us and instruct us on how to pump our legs to make the swings go higher, then he would explain velocity.
I was so afraid I would fall, but I gripped the metal chains, pumped my legs hard because I wanted to show him I could do better than Lena, swing perfectly. That spring I felt I could touch the cool spring sky with my bare toes.
My mother always sat at a picnic table silently watching us.
“Melinda?”
I glance over to Dad.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind picking up Jan from the airport? I don’t want her to take a cab.”
“Jan’s coming here?” I point to the floor and my father nods.
After my parents divorced, Dad married Jan, but then they divorced five years later. She’s never wanted anything to do with my sister or me. I know this because when David and I moved to our new house in Grapevine, Dad stayed with us for two days on his way to Mexico. While I was unpacking dishes and David was at his office, I asked my father why we never spent a Christmas together after I turned sixteen. I was feeling brave, in the mood to fix our distant relationship.
There was a long silence, then he rubbed his face. “Jan never wanted me to have too much to do with you kids. I shouldn’t have listened to her, but…” He got up from the couch and walked back to the guest room, closed the door.
I have never figured out what he was going to say. His life has always seemed so ideal. But that day I wanted him to tell me he was sorry. Before I had always thought my father didn’t want to be close, he was a loner, as my mother had often said when she’d tried to explain him.
Silly as it sounds, his confession made his distance from me easier to think about and validated why I never liked Jan.
“Jan’s coming here?” I ask again, then smile, try to cover up my disappointment.
Three months after he and Jan were married, when I was sixteen, I visited my father for the last time. Jan backed me against the kitchen counter and explained in her breathy, Marilyn Monroe voice the many ways my father hated my mother. After, she put her index finger to her pursed lips and swore me to secrecy.
“Yeah, she thought I might have to have back surgery and she volunteered to take care of me while I was recovering. But that’s all changed.” He turns, stares out the door as if he’s looking for someone. “So will you pick her up?”
“Of course I will.”
I glance at my husband. We make eye contact and David raises his right eyebrow slightly. I turn away, tell myself the whole thing with Jan was a long time ago, she and my father are friends, and I need to get over any hard feelings.
“It would be easy for her to take a cab from the airport,” David says.
I shake my head, try to signal to him to be quiet. Like most husbands, there are times he drives me crazy.
My father’s expression turns to worry and he pulls back the blanket a little.
“It’s okay, Dad. I can pick her up.” I glance at David, narrow my eyes. “I’d love to pick her up.” And I wonder if all families play nice games, move tiny dry lies around so they don’t have to talk about what they’re really thinking.
“Thanks. I know she’ll appreciate it.” And then his gaze fills with something I’ve never seen before—maybe it’s a mixture of appreciation and fear, but I just don’t know my father well enough to be sure.
CHAPTER TWO
I watch Jan walk into the El Paso airport baggage area. She sees me, smiles, and I wave. I haven’t seen her in years, but she looks the same—slim, pretty, but a little older. She’s wearing a purple sweater and black stretch pants with a filmy lavender scarf draped around her shoulders.
“Hi,” I say.
To my surprise, she wraps her arms around my shoulders, hugs me. She is smaller than I remember—for some reason I think of her as being bigger.
“How are you?” I ask.
She brushes at her sweater and her curly red hair falls forward a little. “This is what they’re wearing in Seattle.”
She has the same breathy Marilyn Monroe whisper. She looks up and studies me for a long moment. “How’s Stanley?”
“He seems a little depressed, but I guess that’s to be expected. We have a meeting with the doctor tomorrow, so we’ll get some answers then.”
She nods, stares at me again.
I’m still stunned that my father is ill. When the nurse brought in all his pills this afternoon, I was amazed by the number. My father was always the one who insisted my sister and I eat whole-wheat bread when it wasn’t popular, drink skim milk when no one else in the neighborhood drank the translucent liquid.
“I can’t imagine my life without Stanley.” Jan’s voice sounds more childlike.
“A lot of people survive cancer. They have so many new treatments.” I have the urge to tell her about my intuition—the dread I felt a few days ago but managed to push back. I’m determined to stay upbeat.
She looks at me, eyes wide. “That’s all I’ll let myself think about, too.”
“Good.” I pat her arm and we walk to the baggage carousel.
When we reach my car, I place Jan’s huge suitcase in the trunk.
“It’s so cold.” She hugs herself. “I didn’t think it would be this cold here.”
“Did you bring a coat?”
She shakes her head.
“How long can you stay?”
“I’ll stay as long as Stanley needs me.”
“I brought an extra coat. You can borrow it, if you want. Or we can go buy you one tomorrow.”
“Thanks. That’s nice of you.”
We climb in the car. I turn on the heater and soon we are out of the parking lot and on the highway to the hospital. I look over and she smiles at me then runs her fingers through her hair.
“Stanley and I were going to take a driving trip to Colorado after he got better from his back surgery.” She sighs. “You know how he loves to travel.”
“I bet you still will be able to. This afternoon, at the hospital, he told me about that trip.”
“I just can’t believe Stanley has cancer.” She shakes her head and her feathery voice fills the car.
“It’s nice you came to help my father.”
She touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Stanley.”
My muscles relax a little. “I know, so am I. It just seems weird that Dad’s sick. He’s never sick.”
“It’s going to be okay.” Her eyes narrow a little and she pats my right arm again then stares straight ahead.
She still has a pretty profile. When I first met her, she told me she loved being an Earl Carroll showgirl in Hollywood. I smile at the memory. When I was young, I was fascinated that Jan was a dancer. After my parents’ divorce, my mother and I fought a lot, sometimes bitterly. I was probably looking for a friend, and I wanted so much for Jan to like me.
Maybe now we can get to know each other a little better.
“How are Bob and Verna?” she asks halfway to the hospital.
“Fine. They brought Dad to El Paso the other day.” Three years ago, when Dad retired, he planned to move to Seattle. He and Jan were going to try to live together again, but they had a major blowup, over what I don’t know. Then, suddenly, Dad moved to Las Cruces where his friends the Skillys live.
I park in the hospital parking lot and we go inside. David is sitting in the same chair where I left him, reading a Time magazine, and Dad is staring out the window.
“Hey, look who’s here.” I smile, make an effort to sound and look happy.
Dad turns, sees Jan and his expression softens.
“Hey, honey, how are you?” Dad’s voice is not as tense as it was before I left for the airport.
Jan starts to cross the space between them, but in the middle of the room she stops, begins to sob and covers her face with her hands.
“Oh, Stanley! I can’t believe this is happening.” Jan manages to go to my father and hug him.
I look at David. This is just the kind of behavior that makes him uncomfortable. He rolls his eyes.
A moment later a nurse walks in with a tray. “Mr. Howard, here’s your dinner.”
Jan, now sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, straightens, looks at her. Her face is streaked with tears and smeared black mascara rims her eyes.
“Hello,” she says. Her normal voice is deep and reminds me of a cartoon cat. We reshuffle, Jan in a chair by the bed, holding my father’s hand, David and I sitting across from them. After the nurse leaves, we dive into conversation about Jan’s flight as if it’s a heated swimming pool.
My father doesn’t eat, only takes two sips of water. Jan begins eating large forkfuls of chicken and mashed potatoes. Suddenly my husband shakes his head and I know he’s going to say something I won’t like.
“Don’t you think Stan should be eating that?” he asks Jan.
She stares at him, still chewing, spoon midair. “Well, I—I’m hungry.”
“There’s a cafeteria downstairs.”
I laugh nervously, give everyone my let’s play nice smile. My father’s ex-wife is here to take care of him. And I want to think about other things besides illness and making an ex-stepmother happy.
David and I are standing by Dad’s hospital bed, listening to Dr. Garces talk about my father’s condition. The doctor is younger than I imagined he would be. Jan isn’t here. When she heard we were meeting with Dad’s doctor, she decided to go to the gift shop to buy her grandson a present.
“Your father’s cancer has metastasized from his prostate and settled in his spine,” Dr. Garces says in a quiet voice. “I’m going to refer him to an oncologist in Las Cruces.”
David and I nod and Dad stares straight ahead, doesn’t move. I have questions that have been roaming around my mind for days—like how long it will be before my father gets better—but I can’t make the questions come out of my mouth. I guess I’m afraid if I ask a question and there’s a negative answer, the desperate look on my father’s face will deepen.
“What’s really important is we keep a positive attitude,” Dr. Garces says.
“I think so, too. I read somewhere that a positive outlook can really help any illness,” I say, then smile.
“No one can predict how the cancer will progress. If a patient and his family are positive, it has a better effect on everyone.”
I focus on my father. He looks as if someone has just turned a garden hose on him. I’m on the verge of crying, but I shake the feeling away. My tears won’t help him and that’s all I want to do.
“I think that’s right,” I say instead.
“If you have any questions, call me, anytime.” Dr. Garces shakes my father’s hand, then ours and walks out of the room.
David and I sit in our chairs. I expected the doctor to tell us my father’s cancer is very curable and he should have no problems recovering, that in a few months his life will be back to almost normal. But all he really told us was that Dad would be seeing another doctor and to keep a positive attitude.
