Choices
The small cup of steaming broth sat on the edge of my swing-in bedside table and just far enough out of reach that I could smell it but had no hope of getting it. Straining, I tried one more time to swipe at it with a bony arm, only to upset its delicate balance and send some of the thin liquid slopping over the side of the white ceramic bowl.
I frowned; I didn't like asking for help, even if it was right in front of me. Even if I wouldn't call it “help”.
“Amy,” I wheezed, gesturing in her direction, and my youngest daughter turned, straight brown hair bobbing as she spun on one kitten heel. She was halfway into her thirties now but I still thought of her as my baby girl, my sweet little one who could do no wrong.
With an exasperated sigh she stepped in, swatted the bowl closer to my grasping hand and went back to her oh-so-important cell phone conversation.
I knew what it was about, of course – me. Greg, my middle son, was on the line and they were discussing just what they were going to do with dear old dad now that the recession had well and truly hit and they had no more money to keep me in a home. The home was nice enough, if you didn't mind the overly aggressive nurses, the ones would were as fake as those chests you see on women these days and the ones who just didn't care. They were actually my favorite, the ones who had just given up, given in to the drudgery of their job. Days of cleaning up other people's shit seemed an apt metaphor for life.
But now the money had run out. The three of them – Amy, Greg and Dan – had taken turns paying for my care in the years since I'd declined, each grumbling about the expense but doing what they thought was right. It was funny, in a sad little way – I'd never see the one that paid for the home that year, only the other two at the obligatory Christmas and Easter visits. It was as though whoever was paying had divested themselves of any responsibility for me beyond my immediate care – their money had been spent, and their presence in my life was something they were unwilling to shell out.
I couldn't fault them, not really. Their mom had been the one at home, the one who really looked after them. For me it was always another job, another opportunity, another way to make money and stay away. I was their best teacher in this – just send money and hope that was enough, hope that they'd still love you. They did, but more out of societal obligation than any real feeling.
There wasn't much for me to do but sip my broth and listen, something Amy assumed was beyond my capabilities. They'd know if they bothered to ask; my eyesight was failing by my hearing was perfect, and even at a whisper I had no problems hearing my youngest daughter in the small room.
“I know Greg, but it's not like Tom and I are flush with cash!” I knew that she'd fallen on hard times, but they'd obviously been harder than I thought.
“Their rates are going up here, Greg – ask Dan about it. Even together, I doubt the three of us can find the money. One of us is going to have to take him.” There was a pause and I could hear muted mumblings on the other end of the line.
“I don't like it either!” She exclaimed, then quickly glanced at me and moved a few feet farther from the bed. “I know you don't want him, but your house is bigger than ours. Look, let's all meet next week at my place and we'll hash this out. Bring the kids and I'll get Dan to do the same. No sense in having it be an entirely wasted day.”
There were a few more volleys, a few more exchanges of words that I didn't hear, but they really didn't matter. It wasn't as though this was a surprise – more of a relief, in some respects. Palming the pill bottle I'd filched when the nurse wasn't looking, I popped the top and downed the twenty or so inside along with one large gulp of broth.
I'd stayed with Amy's mom not because we loved each other anymore but because I knew what it was like to be a possession tossed around between homes, between parents that looked at you as a bargaining chip, a lever to hurt each other or a way to prove a point. What I'd wanted hadn't mattered; friends, schools, growth had been put on hold while I was quietly passed around and everyone told me how I was lucky because my parents “loved me so much”.
I had an hour or so before the pills took hold; a blissful sleep followed by a cessation of function, something I'd been frankly dreaming about for years.
Amy snapped her phone shut and turned to me, a too-bright smile playing across her face. “I'll be back next week, dad. We'll get this all figured out.” She leaned in and gave me a quick peck on the cheek and then disappeared out the doorway, phone already out and dialing a new number.
She hadn't asked how I was, which was no surprise. She hadn't noticed what I'd done, which was no wonder.
Choice is a powerful thing, one I was forced to give up long ago at the hands of a system that saw numbers more than names, and it was something I'd be damned if I'd give up again.
The kids would be free to do as they wanted, knowing they'd all done “the right thing”, and I'd go out knowing I went the only way that mattered: by my own choice.
- D
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