on a weekday afternoon fourteen years ago. There were no cars in the driveway, and no one responded when I called hello. But when I went upstairs to change into clean clothes, I heard noise coming from Gracie’s room. I walked down the hall, trying to place the noise as music, or girls laughing. Through a crack in the door I saw my fifteen-year-old daughter standing naked by her window. I watched a boy’s hand reach out and grab Gracie by the wrist. She disappeared from my view and then there were giggles, high and low. I stood frozen for what felt like an hour, and all I could see were their feet, twisted up at the end of the bed. I knew I should bust into the room and throw this kid out on his ass. I wanted to. My baby was only fifteen and this was my goddamn house. Gracie needed my protection. She needed to know that she was too young for this. But the sounds they were making were so loud, and when my feet could move I found myself headed in the opposite direction. I slammed out of the house and got into my truck and sped down the street. All I wanted to do was get away. I never told Kelly. I never talked to Gracie. I never wanted to think about it again and I did a pretty good job until just recently. I detest the inky black feeling deep in my gut that comes when I think about Gracie standing by the window, that comes when I think of Gracie now, pregnant, that comes when I think of Eddie. It’s as if I’m rotting from the inside out.
LAST NIGHT when Kelly told me to leave, I wandered the halls of the hospital looking for Eddie’s wife. I thought that if she was on duty, and if I could just catch a glimpse of her in her white nurse’s uniform looking professional and capable and well, I would feel better. I walked from one area of the hospital to the other with a purposeful stride, knowing from experience that few people stopped me when I looked like I knew what I was doing. I scanned the nurses’ stations and glanced into open rooms, but had no luck. I still don’t know her maiden name. I actually looked at the mail in her mailbox one afternoon, hoping some of it would be addressed to her professional name, but every piece said Mrs. or Mr. Ortiz.
Today I feel worn out, and I’m worried about Kelly. This fall must have upset her more than she let on if she spent the night at her mother’s side. Kelly is not usually one to hover. When the girls were babies, she always insisted we let them cry themselves out. That was awful for me, as there was no sound worse than Gracie or Lila screaming, but Kelly was so convinced it was best for the girls that she wouldn’t let the crying bother her. It is as if my wife is able to convince herself when and what to feel. That’s how I know her mother’s broken hip has gotten to her. Sitting by a sleeping woman’s bedside isn’t Kelly’s way. That kind of behavior has no practical effect, and she is always practical. I blame myself. I know I have been disappointing her on every level lately. She wants to talk about Gracie being pregnant, and I don’t. It’s as simple as that. I am not mad at Gracie. She is an adult and she has made a choice and I have to respect that. I’m glad I don’t see as much of Joel as I used to, since Vince is no longer assigning him to spy on me. But other than that, I have no feelings on the subject. I just know that I don’t want to talk about it.
The door to Catharine’s room opens, and I look up. Ryan is wheeling toward me. “The nurses asked me to leave,” he says. “I was saying prayers with Mother and they asked me to leave.”
“They probably need to prep her,” I say, not sure exactly what that means but knowing I have heard the term “prep her” on medical television shows.
“Right,” he says. He gets the same crease between his eyebrows that Kelly does when she is worried. “I wish I trusted doctors.”