Truth in Advertising Page 0,48
name of it, a harbor of some kind. There’s a sandy spit of land across the water and an old lighthouse. It looks like a painting. It looks so beautiful.
On Sundays, in the winter, my mother and I would sometimes drive, just she and I, to New Hampshire, early, after breakfast, to watch the dog sled races. Bitterly cold. So much snow. A huge field, a blanketed farm, maybe a cornfield. People lined a track and waited for the dogs to come out into the open from the woods. Eight or nine times around the course they’d go. Beautiful Siberian huskies. Thick coats, Fresca-blue-green eyes, mouths open, plumes of steam, the condensation of their labored breath. “Isn’t this something?” she’d say, her eyes wide, a good clean feeling of joy and purpose, of being in the right place at the right time, at being away from a place of menial chores and quotidian tasks, being far from that man who shared her bed, who would never make this trip, who thought it foolish and said so. Of course it was something. It was the best thing. How could anything be better? I was alone with her, standing next to her, in our boots and hats, and later we’d walk to the shack at the edge of the field, near where people parked their cars, and get warm by the wood stove, drink a hot chocolate, eat a plain donut. When the dogs came around, out of the woods, people cheered and clapped, the sound of their hands muffled by gloves.
• • •
I’m surprised to find Margaret on duty. She says her kids are out of the house and that she likes to take a shift for one of the younger married girls. She says she’ll be home by 3:00 P.M., anyway, and that she and her husband have a nice dinner and open presents then.
“Any improvement?” I ask.
“Still the same,” she says. “These things can take time, especially with older folks.”
I sip my coffee. I read the newspaper. I occasionally look up at my father. It’s really no different than waiting for a flight in an airport, if the airport has dying people in it and beeping machines and no planes.
The paper says that inflation is down and unemployment is holding steady.
The paper says that there is good news for life expectancy, up from 77.2 years to 77.4 years (lower for blacks and Hispanics, slightly higher for white women). The story says that last year, 2,417,797 people died in the U.S.
The paper says that yesterday’s Dow Jones Industrial Average closed at 10,240.29, up 0.21 percent on a volume of two million shares, and that prices closed higher on the Nikkei in Tokyo. I have no idea what this means. I don’t understand how the stock market works.
The paper says there’s a chance of more snow Sunday night and that western Massachusetts reservoirs are at their highest point in over a decade.
I use the bathroom, wash my hands, scan my face in the mirror. Do I look like him? Hard to tell without a tube in my nose. His skin is ashen, his lips dry and cracked in places. He was a handsome man, with jet-black hair and a ruddy complexion, a man who worked outdoors in all kinds of weather. He took odd jobs, especially painting, between shifts at the police department. Will this be me someday? Will I look like this? Will anyone be in the room?
My cell phone rings. It’s Phoebe.
I say, “Merry Christmas from Meh-he-co.”
Phoebe says, “How’s your father? Ian called me.”
“He’s great. We just played paddle tennis. I kicked his ass.”
“That’s not funny. Okay, it’s a little funny.”
“He’s not good.”
“Where are you now?”
“The hospital. But I might as well be on a park bench for all the good it’s doing.”
“I want you to do me a favor, okay?”
“Phoeb. I’m fine.”
“I want you to do me a favor. There’s a bus from Hyannis to Boston. I want you to get on it and I’ll come pick you up. You can have dinner with my family tonight.”
Phoeb, I can’t. These are the words I want to say. But they don’t quite make it out because the idea of staying in this room another minute, of going back to the hotel for what is sure to be Leftover Knockwurst Night, is too much. And for what? Why am I here? What would happen if he did regain consciousness? What if he wakes up and he’s pissed? What if he