Falling Out Of Bed

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.