“Respect,” Rufus says again.
I push open the blue double doors and walk through. Intensive Care is quiet except for some light chatter and beeping machines. I watched this thirty-minute documentary on Netflix a couple years ago about how much hospitals have changed since Death-Cast came into the picture. Doctors work closely with Death-Cast, obviously, receiving instant updates about their terminal patients who’ve signed off on this agreement. When the alerts come in, nurses dial back on life support for their patients, prepping them for a “comfortable death” instead with last meals, phone calls to families, funeral arrangements, getting wills in order, priests for prayers and confessions, and whatever else they can reasonably supply.
Dad has been here for almost two weeks. He was brought in right after his first embolic stroke at work. I freaked out really hard, and before I went ahead and signed off on Dad’s contact information being uploaded into the hospital’s database, I spent the night of his admittance praying his cell phone wouldn’t ring. Now, I’m finally free of the anxiety that Dr. Quintana might call to notify me my dad is going to die, and it’s good to know Dad has at least another day in him; hopefully way more than one.
I show a nurse my visitor pass and bullet straight into Dad’s room. He’s very still, as machines are breathing for him. I’m close to breaking down because my dad might wake up to a world without me, and I won’t be around to comfort him. But I don’t break. I sit down beside him, sliding my hand under his, and rest my head on our hands. The last time I cried was the first night at the hospital—when things were looking really grim as we approached midnight. I swore he was minutes away from death.
I hate to admit it, but I’m a little frustrated Dad is not awake right now. He was there when my mother brought me into this life and when she left us, and he should be here for me now. Everything is going to change for him without me: no more dinners where instead of telling me about his day he would go on remembering the trials my mother put him through before she finally agreed to marry him, and how the love they shared was worth it while it lasted; he’ll have to put away the invisible pad he would whip out whenever I said something stupid as a promise to embarrass me in front of my future children, even though I never really saw kids as part of my future; and he’ll stop being a father, or at least won’t have anyone to parent.
I release Dad’s hand, grab a pen that’s on his bedside chest of drawers, pull out our photo, and write on the back of it with an unsteady hand:
Thank you for everything, Dad.
I’ll be brave, and I’ll be okay.
I love you from here to there.
Mateo
I leave the photo on top of the chest.
Someone knocks on the door. I turn, expecting Rufus, but it’s Dad’s nurse, Elizabeth. Elizabeth has been taking care of Dad during the night shift, and she’s always so patient with me whenever I call the hospital for updates. “Mateo?” She eyes me mournfully; she must know.
“Hi, Elizabeth.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt. How are you feeling? Would you like me to call down to the cafeteria and see if they’ve put the Jell-O out yet?”
Yeah, she definitely knows.
“No, thank you.” I focus on Dad again, how vulnerable and still he is. “How’s he doing?”
“Stable. Nothing for you to worry about. He’s in good hands, Mateo.”
“I know.”
I tap my fingers on Dad’s chest of drawers, where his house keys, wallet, and clothes are. I know I have to say goodbye. Never mind that Rufus is out there waiting for me—Dad never would’ve wanted me spending my End Day in this room, even if he were awake. “You know about me, right?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth covers Dad’s skinny body with a new sheet.
“It isn’t fair. I don’t want to leave without hearing his voice.”
Elizabeth is on the opposite side of the bed, her back to the window while mine is toward the door. “Can you tell me a little bit about him? I’ve been taking care of him for a couple weeks and all I know about his personal life is he wears mismatched socks and has a great son.”
I hope Elizabeth isn’t asking this because she doesn’t think Dad will wake up to tell her himself. I don’t want Dad dying soon after I do. He once told me that stories can make someone immortal as long as someone else is willing to listen. I want him to keep me alive the same way he did my mother.
“Dad loves creating lists. He wanted me to start a blog for his lists. He thought we’d become rich and famous, and that commenters would request special lists. He even believed he’d finally get on TV because of the lists. Appearing on TV has been a dream of his since he was a kid. I never had the heart to tell him his lists weren’t that funny, but I liked seeing how his mind worked so I was happy whenever he gave me a new one to read. He was a really great storyteller. It sometimes feels like whiplash, like I was walking on the Coney Island beach with him where he proposed to my mother the first time—”
“The first time?”
Rufus. I turn and find him standing in the doorway.
“Sorry to eavesdrop. I was checking in on you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Come in,” I say. “Elizabeth, this is Rufus, he’s my . . . he’s my Last Friend.” I hope he’s actually telling the truth, how he wanted to see how I was doing, and not that he’s here to say goodbye and suggest we go our separate ways.
Rufus leans against the wall with folded arms. “So: this proposal?”
“My mother turned him down twice. He said she liked playing hard to get. Then she found out she was pregnant with me and he got down on one knee in the bathroom and she smiled and said yes.”
I really like that moment.
I know I wasn’t there, but the memory I’ve created in my head over the years is crystal clear. I don’t know exactly what that bathroom looked like, since it was in their first, shoebox-sized apartment, but Dad always commented on how the walls were a muted gold, which I always took to mean aged yellow, and he said the floor tiles were checkered. And then there’s my mother, who comes alive for me in his stories. In this particular one she’s laughing and crying about making sure I’m not brought into this world a bastard, because of her family’s traditions. It never would’ve mattered to me in the long run. The whole bastard thing is stupid.
“Sweetie, I wish I could wake him up for you. I really do.”
Too bad life doesn’t allow us to turn its gears, like a clock, when we need more time. “Can I have ten minutes alone? I think I know how I can say bye.”
“Take your time, dude,” Rufus says. It’s surprising and generous.
“No,” I say. “Give me ten minutes and come get me.”
Rufus nods. “You got it.”
Elizabeth rests a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be out by the front desk if you need anything.”
Elizabeth and Rufus leave. The door closes behind them.
I hold Dad’s hand. “It’s time I tell you a story for once. You were always asking me—begging me, sometimes—to tell you more about my life and how my day was, and I always shut down. But me talking is all we’ve got now, and I’m crossing my fingers and toes and unmentionables that you can hear me.” I grip his hand, wishing he’d squeeze back.
“Dad, I . . .”
I was raised to be honest, but the truth can be complicated. It doesn’t matter if the truth won’t make a mess, sometimes the words don’t come out until you’re alone. Even that’s not guaranteed. Sometimes the truth is a secret you’re keeping from yourself because living a lie is easier.
I hum “Take This Waltz” by the late Leonard Cohen, one of those songs that never apply to me but help me lose myself anyway. I sing the lyrics I do remember, stumbling over some words and repeating others out of place, but it’s a song Dad loved and I hope he hears me singing it since he can’t.
RUFUS
4:46 a.m.
I’m sitting outside Mateo’s father’s room and I’m charged with telling Mateo it’s t
ime to go. Getting him out of his apartment was one thing, but I’m probably gonna have to knock the dude out and drag him out the hospital; someone would’ve had to do the same to get me away from my pops, coma or no coma.
That nurse, Elizabeth, looks at the clock and then at me before carrying a tray of stale-smelling food into another room.
Time for me to grab Mateo.
I get up from the floor and crack open the door to the room. Mateo is holding his father’s hand and singing some song I’ve never heard before. I knock on the door and Mateo jumps, straight startled.
“Sorry, man. You good?”
Mateo stands and his face is flushed, like we got into a snapping battle and I played him hard in front of mad people. “Yeah. I’m fine.” That’s a damn lie. “I should tidy up.” It takes a minute before he lets go of his father’s hand, almost like his father is holding him back, but Mateo manages to break free. He picks up a clipboard and drops it into a rack above his father’s bed. “Dad usually leaves all his cleaning for Saturdays because he hates the idea of coming home from work on weekdays to more work. On the weekends we cleaned and earned our TV marathons.” Mateo looks around and the rest of the room is pretty damn clean. I mean, I’m not eating off the floor, but that’s a hospital thing.
“Did you get your goodbye in?”
Mateo nods. “Sort of.” He walks toward the bathroom. “I’m going to make sure it’s clean in there.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“I should make sure they have clean cups ready for when he wakes up.”
“They’re gonna take care of him.”
“He might need a warmer sheet. He can’t tell us if he’s cold.”
I walk over and hold Mateo by the shoulders, trying to still him ’cause he’s shaking. “He doesn’t want you here, okay?” Mateo’s eyebrows squeeze together and his eyes get red. Sad-red, not pissed-red. “I didn’t mean it like that. I say stupid things. He doesn’t want you wasting away here. Look, you got a chance to say goodbye—I didn’t get that with my fam. I took too much time trying to figure out what I was gonna say. I’m happy for you, but mad jealous, too. And if that isn’t enough to get you out, I need you. I need a friend by my side.”
Mateo looks around the room again, no doubt convincing himself he definitely does need to scrub the toilet this very second, or to make sure every single cup in this hospital is spotless so his father can’t end up with a bad one, but I squeeze his shoulders and wake him out of all that. He heads over to the bed and kisses his father’s forehead. “Goodbye, Dad.”
Mateo walks backward, dragging his feet, and waves bye to his sleeping father. My heart is pounding, and I’m only a witness to this moment. Mateo must be about to explode. I place a hand on his shoulder and he flinches. “Sorry,” he says at the doorway. “I really hope he wakes up today, just in time, you know.”
I’m not betting on it, but I nod anyway.
We leave the room, and Mateo peeks in one last time before closing the door behind us.
MATEO
4:58 a.m.
I stop at the corner of the hospital.
It’s not too late to run back to Dad’s room and just live out my day there. But that’s not fair, to put others in the hospital at risk of me, the ticking time bomb. I can’t believe I’m back outside in a world that will kill me, accompanied by a Last Friend whose fate is screwed too.
There’s no way this courage will hold.
“You good?” Rufus asks.
I nod. I really want to listen to some music right now, especially after singing in Dad’s room. I cringe because Rufus caught me singing, but it’s all right, it’s all right. He didn’t say anything, so maybe he didn’t hear that much. The awkwardness of it all makes me even more antsy to listen to music, to hide away with something that has always been very solitary for me. Another of Dad’s favorites is “Come What May,” which my mother sang to him and womb-me during a shower they took together before her water broke. The line about loving someone until the end of time is haunting. The same could be said for my other favorite song, “One Song,” from Rent. I’m extra wired, wanting to play it, especially as a Decker, since it’s about wasted opportunities, empty lives, and time dying. My favorite lyric is “One song before I go . . .”
“Sorry if I pressured you to leave,” Rufus adds. “You asked me to get you out of there, but I’m not sure you meant it.”
“I’m glad you did,” I admit. My dad would want this.
I look both ways before crossing the street. There are no cars, but there’s a man on the corner up ahead tearing through trash bags, furiously, as if there’s a garbage truck approaching to steal them all away. It’s possible he’s searching for something he accidentally threw out, but judging by the split leg of his jeans and the grime on his rust-colored vest, it’s safe to guess he’s homeless. The man retrieves a half-eaten orange, tucks it into his armpit, and continues going through the trash bags. He turns toward us as we approach the corner.
“Got a dollar? Any change?”
I keep my head low, same as Rufus, and walk past the man. He doesn’t call after us or say anything else.
“I want to give him some money,” I tell Rufus, even though it makes me really nervous to do so alone. I go through my pockets and find eighteen dollars. “Do you have some cash to give him, too?”
“Not to be a dick, but why?”
“Because he needs it,” I say. “He’s digging through trash for food.”
“There’s a chance he’s not even homeless. I’ve been duped before,” he says.
I stop. “I’ve been lied to before too.” I’ve also made the mistake of ignoring others asking for help, and it’s not fair. “I’m not saying we should give him our life savings, just a few bucks.”
“When were you duped?”
“I was in fifth grade, walking to school. This guy asked for a dollar, and when I pulled out my five singles for lunch money, he punched me in the face and took it all.” I’m embarrassed to admit that I was pretty inconsolable at school, crying so hard until Dad left work to visit me in the nurse’s office to see how I was doing. He even walked me to school for two weeks afterward and begged me to be more careful with strangers, especially when money is involved. “I just don’t think I should be the judge of who actually needs my help or not, like they should do a dance or sing me a song to prove they’re worthy. Asking for help when you need it should be enough. And what’s a dollar? We’ll make a dollar again.”
We won’t actually make another dollar, but if Rufus was smart (or paranoid) like I was, he should have more than enough money in his bank account as well. I can’t read Rufus’s face, but he parks his bike, hits down on the kickstand. “Let’s do this then.” He reaches into his pocket and finds twenty dollars in cash. He walks ahead of me and I tail after him, my heart pounding, a little nervous this man might attack us. Rufus stops a foot away from the man and gestures to me, right when the man turns around and looks me square in the eye.
Rufus wants me to speak up.
“Sir, here’s all we have on us.” I take the twenty from Rufus and hold out the cash.
“Don’t play with me.” He looks around, like I’m setting him up. Accepting help shouldn’t make someone suspicious.
“Not at all, sir.” I step closer to him. Rufus stays by my side. “I know it’s not a lot, and I’m sorry.”
“This is . . .” The man comes at me and I swear I’m going to die of a heart attack, it’s like my feet are cemented to a racetrack as a dozen cars speed toward me in colorful blurs, but he doesn’t hit me. The man hugs me, the orange that was in his armpit dropping at our feet. It takes me a minute to find my nerves and muscles, but I hug him too, and everything about him, from his height to his thin body, reminds me of Dad. “Thank you. Thank you,” he says. He releases me, and I don’t know if his eyes are red because he’s possibly without a bed and really tired, or if he’s tearing up, but I don’t pry because he doesn’t have to prove himself to
me. I wish I always had that attitude.
The man nods at Rufus and stuffs the cash in his pocket. He doesn’t ask for anything else; he doesn’t hit me. He walks off, his shoulders a little straighter. I wish I’d gotten his name before he left, or at least introduced myself.
“Good call,” Rufus says. “Hopefully karma takes care of you later for that one.”
“This isn’t about karma. I’m not trying to rack up I’m-a-Good-Person points.” You shouldn’t donate to charity, help the elderly cross the street, or rescue puppies in the hopes you’ll be repaid later. I may not be able to cure cancer or end world hunger, but small kindnesses go a long way. Not that I’m saying any of this to Rufus, since all my classmates used to mock me for saying things like that, and no one should feel bad for trying to be good. “I think we made his day by not pretending he’s invisible. Thanks for seeing him with me.”
“I hope we helped the right person,” Rufus says.
Much like Rufus can’t expect me to be instantly brave, I can’t expect him to be instantly generous.
I’m relieved Rufus didn’t mention anything about us dying. It cheapens everything, doesn’t it, if this man thinks we’re only giving him everything we have on us because we may not have any use for it ten minutes from now.
Maybe he’ll go on to trust others because he met us tonight. He definitely helped me out with that.
DELILAH GREY
5:00 a.m.
Death-Cast called Delilah Grey at 2:52 a.m. to tell her she’s going to die today, but she’s sure it’s not true. Delilah isn’t in some denial stage of grief. This has to be a cruel prank from her ex, a Death-Cast employee trying to scare her since she called off their yearlong engagement last night.
Toying with someone like this is incredibly illegal. This degree of fraud can have him thrown in jail for a minimum of twenty years and blacklisted from working pretty much anywhere ever again. Screwing around on the job at Death-Cast is, well, killer.