“Hospital policy,” the head nurse explains.
“Do you find a high percentage of people lie about their identities in times like these?” John asks.
“Hospital policy,” the head nurse repeats.
“Here you go,” Huston says, pulling his driver’s license out from his wallet. Abigail appears at my side.
“And the alternate? Abigail Evelyn Hawkes? Is that you?” The head nurse looks to me.
“No, ma’am—I’m Grace,” I say, quickly glancing over at John. He’s staring right at me. I tighten my hands in fists and try to forget what his skin felt like on my fingertips. Jesus.
“I’m Abigail Hawkes-Rodriguez,” Abigail says, passing the woman her driver’s license.
“I’m going to need to make a quick phone call. Please excuse me.” The head nurse squeaks her way into a tiny office, taking both forms of ID and the documents with her.
“I had it handled, Grace,” Huston scolds, his face studying mine.
“I know… I know,” I answer. Always the same reprimand, always the same act of contrition.
The four of us stand in silence. No one checks the time. No one tries to eavesdrop on another conversation. I take in a breath as if I’m going to speak. Abigail whips her head around and glares at me. Behave, she lasers into my brain. The office door opens and the head nurse squeaks her way back over to us.
“Mr. Hawkes—” the head nurse begins, handing the original back to Huston. Now, I know very little about the law, but I do know that those documents should give Huston, and Abigail as the alternate, the ultimate right to do anything Dad could do. Decision-making. Finances. Medical information. The works. Why they want it is beyond me… but legally they have that right.
“I just got off the phone with the legal department. I apologize. It’s rare that the spouse isn’t given… well, I won’t bore you with the details,” the head nurse starts.
“We’re lawyers, Nurse Miller. Details are our business,” John says, attempting a bit of humor.
The head nurse ignores him and bends over to open a drawer behind the nurse’s station. John and Huston share a look of concern.
She continues, “These are yours, I suppose,” slamming the drawer shut. She hands Huston a large ziplock bag containing Dad’s wallet, his wedding ring and a set of keys. Huston takes the bag from the woman and hands it to Abigail. She looks inside the bag briefly, shakes her head and lets her arms fall to her sides.
“Thank you,” Huston says.
“And the IDs?” I demand.
“Oh… right. Right,” the head nurse absently says, taking them out of her pocket and handing them both to me. I hand them back to my two older, frustrated siblings.
“Follow me, please,” the head nurse says, turning her back on us and walking back toward Dad’s hospital room. We follow.
She walks into Dad’s hospital room. Connie is still sitting sentry by Dad’s side—clutching his hand.
“Mrs. Hawkes?” the head nurse says, stepping next to Connie, gently resting her hand on her back.
“Yes?” Connie briefly looks up at her.
I look around the room at the five of us, together for the first time since Mom’s funeral five years ago. Huston, Abigail, John and I are pressed against the glass wall of Dad’s hospital room. Leo is sitting in a chair on the opposite wall next to the large window. We’re all frantically trying to stay in control: arms held tightly across chests, clenched jaws, deep breaths.
I look at Connie as another nurse checks Dad’s monitors. She probably just saw the man she loves suffer a stroke right in front of her. The man she found after so many years of being alone. The man she thought she was going to grow old, well older, with. Then we come barreling in here like a stampede of feral, bickering bulls. It must be the last thing in the world she wants to deal with right now.
“Mrs. Hawkes… I wanted to—” the head nurse starts. The other nurse quickly exits the hospital room. The sound of Dad’s labored breathing fills the room. His eyes remain closed. The machines click and whirr on. The monitors display numbers that dance and change more often than on a roulette wheel. I recross my arms across my chest and hold tightly on to myself. John steps closer.
“Oh… Nurse… thank you so much. Did you find Ray’s wedding ring? I’ll put it in my purse… to take home,” Connie says, without looking up from Dad.
“That’s part of what I’ve come to talk to you about, Mrs. Hawkes,” the head nurse starts. And stops.
The room is silent. Jesus, lady—hurry up or I’m going to tell her, for crissakes.
Connie panics. “The wedding ring? There’s a problem with the wedding ring?”
“I’m sure there’s no problem,” Dennis says soothingly.
“Mr. Hawkes named his son as his power of attorney,” the head nurse blurts. Dennis beams.
“The other son,” the head nurse clarifies, motioning over her shoulder to where Huston stands.
The room is eerily quiet in those milliseconds. None of us move.
“I don’t understand,” Connie begins, her frail voice cracking. I feel so bad for Connie. Dad’s let her down, too. Made her feel second best.
“Yes, Mr. Hawkes has named Mr. Hawkes—Huston Hawkes—as his power of attorney,” the head nurse explains. All eyes now turn to the fringes.
“So… so what does this mean? What does that have to do with the wedding ring?” Dennis asks.
“All of Mr. Hawkes’ possessions are now the responsibility of the holder of the power of attorney. So, Mr. Hawkes’ wedding ring is now in his possession,” the head nurse explains, eyeing John, making sure she’s getting all the legalese correct. His face is hard, impassive. Dennis’ eyes narrow and home in on the plastic bag in Abigail’s hand. Huston steps forward, unblinking.
Huston turns around and motions for Abigail to hand him the ziplock bag. “Connie, I have no intention of keep—”
“Sons of bitches!” Connie shrieks.
chapter nine
Abigail snaps her arm back to her side. The entire room screeches to a halt. Huston slowly turns back around, now with the ziplock bag in his hands. John steps forward. As do I. Leo takes his usual place in the background.
“I’ve got it,” Huston quickly whispers as I approach the fray. I settle in next to him.
“Mrs. Hawkes, I’m sure this is not going to be a problem—” the head nurse says, trying to comfort her.
“I’m his wife!” Connie screams, her feeble voice making it sound like a broken promise. Dennis scrambles to Connie’s side. Leo sets his laptop on the floor, stands up and settles in next to Dad. He reaches out and caresses his shoulder. So gentle. Almost like a little “hang in there.” I’m sure he doesn’t think anyone is watching. I shouldn’t be—I feel like I’m violating his privacy.
“I know, Mrs. Hawkes. It’s highly unusual that the spouse—” the head nurse starts again.
“Surely, just because my father has chosen to give his power of attorney to this… this man doesn’t change anything. Surely,” Dennis says. My father? This man? If I tried to speak right now I’d resemble a human flamethrower.
“Huston is his eldest biological son,” I say. I don’t know how I feel about Dad at this moment, but I do know that no one, no one, talks to my brother like that.
“Grace,” Huston growls. I back off.
Dad lets out a deep cough into his oxygen mask. Leo lays a hand on his right shoulder. It pains me to think he can’t feel it because it’s his right side that’s paralyzed from the stroke.
“This is upsetting him! You’re upsetting him!” Connie screams.
“I think you people need to give us a moment,” Dennis says, opening his arms out like a great net, hoping to ensnare as many interlopers as possible. Dennis’ hand falls on John’s arm. I can see John’s entire body tense up.
“I’m representing the Hawkes children. Obviously I’ll be staying,” John says, eyeing Dennis’ hand. Dennis whips his hand off, smiling at John apologetically.
John looks away and sniffs.
“Fine… fine, but the rest of you…” Dennis trails off. He successfully herds the rest of us (who don’t look like we could snap his neck) out into the ICU. He closes the glass door, leaving Connie, the head nurse John, and himself inside. And Dad.
We stand on the other side of the glass wall watching every move they make. There’s comforting. There’s pointing out at us. There’s pacing. There’s Dad in the middle, his body looking limp and small. Do they think we can’t see them? I let out the smallest, most nervous of laughs, shaking my head and looking at the floor.
“That went well,” Abigail says. A nurse whizzes past. She says, “Excuse me.”
“What happened in there?” I almost whisper. Another nurse whizzes past me. I say, “Excuse me.”
“I wish we knew more,” Abigail says.
“That hospital room went from a quilting bee to the World Wrestling Federation’s SmackDown in two seconds flat,” Leo chimes in, moving and re-situating himself to get out of the way of a passing gurney.
“Is it wrong that I… kind of love that Dad gave us his power of attorney?” Abigail adds.
“Even though we don’t know why,” I whisper, stepping aside and away from the gurney.
“No, we don’t,” Huston answers, giving Leo a quick comforting smile. He watches the gurney pass, squeezing his body into the doorjamb of a supply closet.
“What happens now?” Leo asks, as Abigail guides our little powwow into a small pocket of space by the double doors. Huston looks into Dad’s hospital room. John has the file open and is producing document after document.
“You know… you don’t have to,” I whisper, choking on my words.
“What do you mean? You mean, we should just—” Abigail starts, her voice a building whisper.
“Yeah, we could just… walk away,” I say. A nurse in pink scrubs looks over at us. I take a deep breath.
“Well, that’s what you’re good at,” Abigail spits.
“Like father, like daughter,” I parry. Abigail’s face flushes as she zeroes in on me.
Huston seems not to notice. “This is probably a shock for her. Her reaction is normal,” he says, trying to work out the logic behind Dad’s choice. He looks at Abigail.
“Have you spoken to him since… ?” Leo asks.
“No,” Huston quickly answers.
“Just because he gave you the power of attorney doesn’t mean you have to take it,” I press.
“Just drop it,” Abigail says.
“Am I the only one who remembers that he left? That he ran back to his rich mommy in Ojai while we survived on food stamps? No child support, no support of any kind. I mean, I understand that marriages don’t work out, but to leave your kids like that… and not even make sure they’re taken care of?” My voice is a rasping whisper. The nurses stare at us again as we move out of the way of a pack of doctors headed over to another glass room.
“We all remember,” Huston finally says.
“He knew Mom had it handled,” Abigail offers.
“Did she?” I blurt, without even thinking. “She never remarried, she never…” I trail off, not knowing where I’m going.
“Moved on,” Leo finishes.
“It just seemed like we were drowning, and Dad—” I start again, looking back into the hospital room.
“Didn’t care,” Leo finishes.
We’re quiet. I feel like a volcano… about to…
“I know I walked away from you, but trying to forget you guys was like swallowing poison every morning,” I whisper, finally trying to come clean.
Abigail smiles. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“Swallowing poison,” Leo trills, the back of his hand at his forehead as if he’s in dire need of a fainting couch. I have to laugh at myself. We fall into silence.
“Doesn’t that give you some insight, then?” Abigail asks, her face open and vulnerable. We all want answers.
“Maybe,” I say, meaning it.
“But when you sign on to be a parent, don’t you make a pact with your children to be held to a higher standard? I mean, Grace is our sister, not our father,” Leo says, his mind a blur of equations and theory. I nod… wanting it to be true. Abigail lets out a weary sigh.
“Held to a higher standard,” I repeat.
“Like Mom,” we all say at almost the same time.
We’re all quiet.
“Jinx,” Leo mumbles. We all try to offer him a smile.
“Dad wanted us here,” Abigail says, trying to get back on point.
“I know, but does that mean that he just gets us?” I ask, struggling to keep the pouty preteen snark out of my voice.
“Who would it help to walk away now?” Huston asks. Why do all of Huston’s questions sound like statements? How does he do that? Abigail opens her mouth to say something, but… nothing. Her face reddens and her eyes dart around the ICU.
“Does he automatically get another chance after he’s already had a lifetime of them?” I ask, putting my mathematical brain to work.
Huston, Abigail and Leo look at me. Pointedly.
I continue, “I know, consider the source. I’m sorry,” I say.
“You’re sorry for what?” Abigail leads. Leo represses the smallest smile.
“This should be good,” Huston says, crossing his arms across his chest, a smile curling across his face.
“Saying sorry—” Leo begins.
Abigail cuts him off, “Or just admitting she’s wrong.”
“Was always hard for me,” I finish in a humiliated whisper.
They wait.
“I’m sorry,” I say, through gritted teeth.
“For what?” Huston leads.
“For freaking out and running away,” I finish.
“And who does that remind us of?” Abigail leads once again.
“Dad,” I answer, like a child getting caught for pulling someone’s pigtails.
“Now, that wasn’t so hard,” Huston says, clapping his hand on my shoulder.
We all stand in silence, looking back into the hospital room, looking at the bustling nurses, looking at our watches. Looking everywhere but at each other. An orderly wheels an elderly man past us and out the double doors. We’re in everyone’s way. We’re not supposed to be here. No one wants us here.
“Huston, how did you find out about all this?” I ask, trying to pull the focus away from me. Leo looks from Abigail to Huston and back to Abigail. Huston settles into his stance.
“Dad’s lawyer called me last night. Connie called him about medical insurance and then told him what happened,” Huston says.
“Why does Dad have a lawyer?” Leo asks.
“Do you remember Nana Marina? Dad’s ‘rich mommy,’ as you so colorfully put it? She had that big, blue house—the house that Dad—well, Dad and Connie—are living in now. I guess when Nana Marina died and Dad inherited the house, he hired this guy to handle her estate. He must’ve then rehired him to handle his own estate planning, well… a year ago when he drew these up,” Huston says, holding up the file folder.
My entire body is tight. I’m holding back every single instinct I’m having. It’s like some new version of Pilates that’s centered on repressing all your emotions for a count of ten, while focusing on your pelvic floor.
“Didn’t we spend a summer at that house?” Abigail asks absently.
“The summer Mom and Dad went to New York,” Huston says.
“So he could make it in the jazz scene,” Leo adds, his voice dripping with sarcasm, the words jazz scene in giant air quotes.
“I was… what, fifteen?” Abigail asks.
“It was the summer before Dad left, so I was sixteen, you were fourteen,” Huston says, looking at Abigail. She nods. We all nod. The summer before Dad left. We move again as the double doors swing open, letting in another worried family.
The summer before Dad left.
I look away from them and turn back to Dad’s hospital room. Connie, De
nnis and the head nurse are conferring. The head nurse is going over Dad’s chart as Connie clutches at Dad’s hand and Dennis simpers at his bedside. John is respectful of their space, but I can see him inch closer.
“But, you could sign the power of attorney over to Connie, right?” I ask, treading lightly.
“No,” Huston answers. Clear. Concise. Definite.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Grace, enough. It’s not your name on that document,” Huston says.
“Huston—” I start.
“It must be nice to never have to make a decision.” Huston’s voice is low and downright ominous.
“Huston,” Leo eases.
Huston cuts him off. “This is my decision and, as always, you can resent me for making it, but at the same time, you’re all looking to me for direction. Same as always.” Leo recoils. Huston’s eyes dart over to Leo with remorse.
“No one asked you to make this decision,” I argue.
“He did!!” Huston yells, pointing into Dad’s hospital room. The entire ICU turns to our little corner.
“Okay… okay… I’m sorry,” I say. Huston rests his hands on his hips, hanging his head. He regains control quickly.
“Two apologies in one day—call the Guinness Book of World Records,” Huston sighs, attempting a smile.
“I called them once. Thought I could get the record for—you know how you stack a bunch of quarters on your elbow and then you flip them, flip them over and catch them?” Leo says, excitedly miming the whole business.
We are all quiet.
“It was a bananas number of quarters you had to flip, so I just stuck to collecting lost or left-behind grocery lists,” he says, as if this were completely normal.
We are quiet, lost in our own little worlds. And then we truly process what batshit-crazy thing Leo just said.
“What?” We all ask one after another. Leo doesn’t miss a beat.
“Whenever I go to the store, I always look for lost or left-behind grocery lists. There have been some great ones.”
“Great ones?” Abigail laughs.
“What constitutes a ‘great one’?” I ask.
“I like trying to figure out what people are making, what kind of lives they have… who they’re cooking for. I’m incredibly jealous of people who buy kale,” Leo explains.