Fly Away

  Peter was in great form now, and he paced back and forth across the room expostulating as if he had a lecture hall full of freshmen; sometimes clasping his hands behind his back as he talked, sometimes pressing his fingertips together in front of him, sometimes gesturing broadly.

  “Second, the existence of God is assumed by the Holy Scriptures to be true. Nowhere in the Bible will you find scholarly dissertations arguing the existence of a Divine Being. Rather, His existence is presupposed, and the Scriptures record the general and special revelations of that God to man.”

  He paused, as if to give Wilhelmina time to write everything down in her notebook. His years of teaching had given him a rhythm suited to the writing speed of his students.

  “Third, the belief in the existence of God can be corroborated by rational arguments. Mind you, these don’t constitute proofs of an empirical nature because God, being a spirit, cannot be subjected to proof as can the material world. However, there are five rational arguments, and the cumulative weight of these is sufficient to sustain belief.”

  As Wilhelmina listened she found herself thinking of her father. Of the three Brewster children, Peter was the most like Father. Not in appearance, but in his facility for clear, logical thinking and in his brilliant intellect. Father loved all three of his children, of course, but he was probably proudest of Peter—a tenured professor of religious studies at Yale with a Ph.D. in both philosophy and religion.

  “The cosmological argument proceeds from the supposition of cause; everything begun must have an adequate cause. That the universe was begun necessarily leads to the conclusion that it therefore must have an adequate cause for its creation.”

  So much of what Peter was saying seemed vaguely familiar to Wilhelmina. How many times throughout the years had she seen Father pacing just like this and expostulating the arguments for the existence of God for his seminary students? How she loved her father! It wasn’t the warm, openly affectionate way Mike’s grandchildren loved him; Father was almost a God-figure to her, someone she held in awesome respect and obeyed for fear of losing his approval. He demanded a lot from his children, but he always acknowledged their achievements with recognition and praise.

  “Then there is the teleological argument, which is the argument from design, recognizing the order and intelligent purpose in the universe . . .”

  Wilhelmina could hardly bring herself to visit her father in the nursing home anymore. He was 89, and his last stroke had taken away any remaining resemblance to the father she loved and remembered. He was partially paralyzed, nearly blind, and incapable of caring for any of his own basic needs. The brilliant mind she had loved and admired was lost, locked away from her by the breakdown of blood vessels and nerves. Sometimes he knew who she was when she visited, but most of the time she was a stranger to him and he to her. His body was kept alive by the wonders of medicine, but the person, the spirit of her father, was lost to her forever. It was the same dilemma that Mike faced—why strive to prolong a life that is really a living death?

  “Then there is the ontological argument, which states that the very idea of God is the proof of His existence and—”

  “Peter.”

  “Yes . . . ?” He looked at her in surprise, almost as if he had forgotten that anyone was listening to him.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ll never remember all this. Is there much more?”

  “Well, there’s still the moral argument and the argument from congruity. But I can give you some books that explain all of this, and you can sort it out on your own.”

  He strode over to the study shelves and pulled off several large volumes of leather-bound books. “Here’s some lectures on systematic theology and a couple of Christian apologetics . . . And I’ll throw in some Kant and Hume just to round things off.” He built an impressive stack of books on the floor in front of her.

  “I really appreciate it, Peter.”

  “No problem.” He dropped into his armchair and returned to his neglected pipe.

  “Have you been up to see Father lately?” Wilhelmina asked.

  “You know, I’ve been meaning to go, but I just can’t seem to get away.”

  “We send him little cards now and then,” Janice said. She had returned to the room with a carafe of coffee in the middle of Peter’s lecture. “And a fresh flower arrangement every week or so to cheer him up.”

  “I’ve been teaching an honors tutorial on philosophical and Christian ethics, and it has really kept me tied down,” Peter said, avoiding eye contact with Wilhelmina as he scooped more tobacco into his pipe and tamped it down. “How is Father?”

  “About the same. Maybe a little worse. The doctor says his heart is all right but his mind . . . Well, he’s in another world most of the time. Very confused.” There was an awkward silence. “Do you think he would want to go on living like this if he could choose?” Wilhelmina asked quietly. “Would he want to be kept alive indefinitely, robbed of his mind and his dignity?”

  “Now you’re back to the same question we were discussing earlier and your friend with the airplane. Again, our faith teaches that it’s wrong to take life and death into our own hands.”

  “But is it wrong to refuse medical intervention if it’s simply prolonging our existence, not curing us? What’s the next step for Father . . . intravenous feedings, respirators, pacemakers, miracle drugs? They might keep his body going, but Father is already gone, Peter. He’s lost to us. Maybe God is saying, ‘Let him die,’ and we’re taking death into our own hands by keeping him alive.”

  “We have to make a clear distinction between prolonging life and facilitating death. It’s wrong to speed up the process of death just to relieve suffering or for the family’s convenience or because the medical insurance has run out. But that’s quite different from refusing artificial life support in patients for whom death is imminent and unavoidable. According to Ecclesiastes, God has appointed a time for Father to die. We can’t hasten that process just because we don’t think Father’s present existence is worth prolonging.”

  “Do we have to talk about such grim subjects?” Janice asked. “Come on, we don’t see Wilhelmina very often. Let’s not spoil such a nice visit.”

  “You’re right, darling,” Peter said. “What do you feel like doing tonight, Mina? There’s a Yale symphony concert, I think. Janice, why don’t you call the box office at Woolsey Hall and see if they still have tickets?”

  “Oh, please don’t bother,” Wilhelmina said. “You don’t need to take me anywhere. I’m not sure I feel like a concert.”

  Janice paid no attention. Her bracelets jingled as she dialed the number. Peter evidently didn’t hear her either. He rooted through his desk drawer mumbling, “I thought I had the concert schedule in here someplace . . . Ah! Here it is. Let’s see . . . tonight they’re doing Beethoven’s Ninth with the university choir and soloists. You should enjoy that, Mina.”

  “They still have tickets,” Janice said. “Shall I reserve three?”

  Wilhelmina did not want to go. She used to feel challenged and stimulated by a good performance, but now that music was no longer a part of her life, there seemed little point in listening to it. The concert would only rekindle painful memories and remind her of her loss.

  Peter was watching her closely, waving the concert schedule in front of her. Janice held one hand over the telephone receiver, waiting. Wilhelmina sighed. “I guess we could go, if you both want to.”

  “Great! Jan, tell them to reserve three seats on the main floor. And maybe we can stop somewhere for coffee and a bite afterward.”

  Peter would pick someplace very elegant and expensive. Wilhelmina remembered the coffee she had shared with Mike in the little doughnut shop, and she wondered if her brother’s teleological and ontological arguments for the existence of God were really what Mike needed. Perhaps Father would have known what to say to Mike and how to say it, but Father couldn’t help her anymore.

  “We should walk over,” Peter sa
id. “It’s a gorgeous evening.” He pulled their jackets out of the front closet and steered everyone out the door. But Wilhelmina’s heart felt leaden and weary as she walked across the starlit campus.

  *****

  Wilhelmina sat in her car in the parking lot of the nursing home for several minutes, steeling herself. Visiting Father, witnessing his helplessness and loss of dignity, always depressed her. No wonder Peter and Janice avoided it.

  Inside, the lounge of the church-sponsored home was cheerful and pleasant, tastefully decorated to resemble a family living room. But the lingering odor of disinfectant and the flower arrangements from recent funerals spoiled the illusion. Today was visiting day, and nearly all the sofas and chairs were filled with people, chatting happily with their families and friends. These were the elderly who lived in the seniors’ complex in the east wing. Father lived in the west wing. The atmosphere in the personal care complex wasn’t nearly as cheerful.

  Wilhelmina stopped at the nurses’ station to talk to the head nurse. “Good afternoon. I was wondering how my father is doing?”

  “About the same as when you visited last week, Professor Brewster. He’s still having trouble sleeping at night. The doctor will be adjusting his medication.”

  “Has he been eating?”

  “Well, his appetite has never been very good, as you know—” A chilling cry from one of the rooms interrupted her. “Will you excuse me for a minute, please?” The nurse hurried down the polished hallway, her shoes squeaking slightly.

  The mournful shrieks followed Wilhelmina down the corridor to her father’s room. The smell of disinfectant and urine was overpowering. She hated the thought of leaving her father in a place like this, but there was no other choice.

  He sat slumped in his wheelchair, as usual, staring vacantly. How he would hate for anyone to see him like this—shriveled and weary, his face unshaved, his hair greasy and uncombed. He was loosely tied with restraints as if they expected him to suddenly decide he had better things to do and to rise from his chair and leave. She untied him as she bent to kiss his cheek.

  “Hello, Father. It’s me . . . Wilhelmina.”

  He looked up, but there was no light in his eyes, no sign that he recognized her. She could have been one of the nurses or a perfect stranger. She took his hand in both of hers, stroking it gently, talking quietly to him for several minutes until she finally ran out of things to say.

  The top of his dresser was covered with flower arrangements in various stages of demise, and cheerful get-well cards were stuck in the crack around his mirror frame. Did he even see them? Did he know who they were from? Why did she bother to come? Was it for her father’s sake or for her own?

  “Father , do you know who I am?” she asked. He didn’t respond. Suddenly it became very important to Wilhelmina that he recognize her, that she receive some sign that this shell of a man was really her father, the man she loved so deeply.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” she said. Ignoring the rules and regulations, she wheeled her father down the hall, out of the personal care wing with its shrieks and foul smells. She wanted to pretend, however briefly, that he was himself again, that they were visiting together like the dozens of other senior citizens and their families.

  The hallway and nurses’ stations were deserted. No one challenged her as she wheeled him into the lounge. All the sofas and chairs were occupied, so she pushed him over to the piano and sat down on the bench. “Shall I play for you, Father?” He seemed to be a little more alert, stimulated by the movement and chatter of people all around him. She began to play, very softly at first. But soon she forgot where she was, playing louder, stronger, as the music transported her. Beethoven. Chopin. Liszt. She never noticed that the conversations had stopped or that everyone was listening to her. Nor did she notice that her father had closed his eyes and that a single tear rolled silently down his cheek.

  When she finally ran out of music, the spontaneous applause startled her. She nodded slightly in acknowledgment. Then Wilhelmina raised her hands to the keyboard again. Softly, almost like a lullaby, she played her father’s favorite hymn, “Abide with Me.” The words drifted through her mind as she played:

  Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day.

  Earth joys grow dim; its glories pass away;

  Change and decay in all around I see;

  O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

  She had spoken to her father without words, telling him all that her heart longed to say, reaching out to touch him through her music. She closed the lid to the keyboard and rose to take him back to his room. But he was looking at her intently, moving his mouth as if struggling to speak. She knelt beside him and took his hand. His voice was barely a whisper.

  “My Mina . . .”

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, October 3, 1987

  Mike knocked on his son’s screen door, then let himself in. “Anybody home?”

  “Come on in, Dad,” Cheryl called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready. Steve ran down to the store for some more beer. He’ll be back in a minute.”

  The modest, three-bedroom house had a comfortable, lived-in look with worn carpeting and plaid slipcovers on the furniture. Mike kicked off his work boots and made himself at home. G.I. Joe and his troops had their headquarters under the coffee table with Mickey as their commander-in-chief. Peter, dressed in army fatigues, helped Luke Skywalker command the rebel forces from their base beside the TV.

  “Hey, this place looks like occupied France during World War II,” Mike said. He carefully threaded his way through the battle zone in his stocking feet. He knew from experience the pain of stepping on a dead soldier or discarded weapon lying hidden in the gold shag carpet. A row of assorted dolls, bears, and other creatures watched the battle from the sofa, where Lori served tea. She offered Mike a tiny cup and saucer.

  “Want some tea, Grandpa?”

  “I’d love some.” He slurped the pretend tea noisily. “Say, who’s winning the war down there?”

  “I am,” Mickey said. “I have a better air force.”

  “You do not!” Pete shouted. “I have the Millennium Falcon!”

  The battle raged fiercely for several minutes, with missiles flying and bombs exploding, until Steve came in with a six-pack under his arm.

  “Supper’s ready,” Cheryl called from the kitchen.

  Everyone took their places around the crowded dining room table. The heavy, greasy smell of fried chicken filled the air. Mike usually loved the smell, but tonight, for some reason, he didn’t find it appealing. His stomach felt queasy, and he hoped he could manage to eat at least some of Cheryl’s dinner so he wouldn’t insult her. He took only a small portion of mashed potatoes and peas, then chose a small drumstick from the platter of chicken.

  “Come on, Dad, you’re allowed more than one piece of chicken around here. Take some more.” Steve held the platter out to him.

  “This is plenty for now.”

  “You’re getting downright thin, you know it? Don’t you think you’re carrying this diet business a little too far?”

  “You’re just jealous. Look at the beer belly on you.”

  Steve patted his T-shirt where it bulged out above his belt. “Yeah, I know, I know. But I really don’t think you should try to lose any more weight, Dad. You don’t look so good.”

  “Just saving room for dessert. I’ve got my eye on that apple pie over there.” Mike felt worse by the minute. He toyed with his food without eating much, but everyone was too busy with his own plate to notice.

  “Mom, Peter is taking all the gravy,” Lori said.

  “Peter, no more until you finish your peas.”

  “Isn’t there any more white meat?” Mickey asked. “I hate dark meat.”

  “Quit complaining and eat what’s already on your plate.” Steve stood and walked out to the refrigerator. “Want a beer, Dad?”

  Mike’s stomach did a quick flop, as if he’d hit an updraft. “No thanks, I?
??ll pass.” He picked up his drumstick, but just as it reached his mouth a wave of nausea hit him and he knew he was going to be sick. He pushed his chair away from the table and bolted for the bathroom.

  Afterward he felt weak and shaky. He shoved aside the shampoo bottles and toy boats and sat on the edge of the bathtub with his head down, hoping the dizziness would pass. He was angry at himself for having to leave the table. Steve would probably start asking questions again. A moment later someone knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Dad? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, Steve. I’m fine. Go finish your dinner. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Steve opened the door. “You’re not all right. Look at you! You’re all green around the gills. What’s going on, Dad? Level with me, will you?”

  “Just a touch of the flu, I guess.”

  “That’s what you said the other day at the hangar when the same thing happened.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s probably something going around. Either that or I’m poisoning myself with my own cooking. My dogs eat the leftovers and they haven’t been feeling too great either.” He tried to chuckle, but he saw by Steve’s frown that he wasn’t buying the story.

  “Have you seen the doctor for a checkup lately?”

  “What is this, the third degree? As a matter of fact, I have been to the doctor’s. Couple of weeks ago.” He hoped this news would pacify Steve.

  “And . . . ?”

  “And what?”

  “Do I have to drag it out of you? What did he say?”

  Mike didn’t want to lie to his son, but he didn’t want to tell him the truth either. “Well, I’m still here, aren’t I? You know how doctors are. He’d have slapped me in the hospital by now if I wasn’t A-OK. Now come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Steve didn’t move. “Are you sure you checked out all right?”