The Last Breath

Fannie motions for me to come to the door. “Your lovely daughter Gia is here. We were just getting acquainted.”

His eyes flash to the window. “Where is she?”

I don’t move. I barely breathe. Last month our convoy was almost ambushed by four armed bandits, and I sped the Rover away without breaking a sweat. Now I’m about to hurl my coffee onto the burgundy Rooms To Go carpet.

“Gia’s right here. Come on inside and say hi.”

He shakes his head. “Hold it right here, fellas.”

Dad doesn’t wait for the silver-haired guard to stop the wheelchair. He grips the chair’s metal arms and tries to push himself upright, but his feet are still propped onto the metal flaps and his scrawny body can’t get more than four or five inches of air. After a few clumsy tries, he sinks back into the chair, his face ashy-orange beneath his whiskers. “Somebody get me out of this goddamn chair.”

The second guard, a stocky man with a bottom lip bulging with tobacco, plants his feet and palms his billystick. “Sir, my orders are to escort you into the house and tether your ankle monitor before allowing you out of that chair.”

My father flops one slippered foot onto the ground. “I aim to walk.”

For the first time I notice Jimmy standing guard at the bottom of the porch. He gives my father a disciplined smile and climbs the ramp, his equipment chinking at his belt. “Afternoon, Mr. Andrews. You remember me?”

Dad glares up at him. “Of course I remember you, Jimmy. But right now I’m trying to walk through my own goddamn door, so our little reunion’ll have to wait until I get inside.”

Jimmy’s mustache doesn’t even twitch. He motions his silver-haired colleague aside and stomps on the wheelchair’s brake. Fannie rushes to help, tucking the foot supports out of the way and planting my father’s feet onto the cold concrete. Together, the two heave him out of the chair.