Page 105 of Error Handling
When I see the account’s balance, I nearly fall off my chair. Why is my mom always harping about the bills and their retirement? There are no worries when it comes to paying the bills. The funds are there. I’ll have to make sure my dad has the money in an interest-accruing account.
I pay the bills through online bill pay, tidy up the office, and then head upstairs to see if Dad is awake.
My parents’ bedroom door is ajar, and the television is blaring FoxNews. A sliver of the bed shows through the opening. I can see my dad leaning against a pile of pillows. My mom has always gone overboard on the decorative pillows.
After I tap on the door, my dad welcomes me in. The room hasn’t changed in thirty years. Brick red paint still covers the walls. The gaudy flowered comforter remains on the bed, and the off-white Berber carpet looks ready for an upgrade. No wonder my dad’s business account is busting at the seams. He’s never paid himself enough to spruce up the place.
My dad is skinnier than the last time I saw him.Skinnydoesn’t cover it. He looks downright frail. The sight shocks me. I really have been gone a long time.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Chris.” Dad waves me over.
I hug him, careful not to apply pressure. I can feel his bones through his threadbare flannel shirt. My dad was always a large guy, wide at the waist, and insulated with a hefty amount of muscle and fat. Where did it all go?
When I lean in, I accidentally bump the oxygen tube. My dad readjusts the cannula as the tank hisses.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Oh. A little sore. I look like I got in a bar fight.”
The bruise below my dad’s right eye is already turning green and yellow.
“No more trips to the Canteen for you,” I say, referring to the only bar in downtown Blackville.
“Sixty-eight years and I never broke a bone.” He lifts his arm and admires the cast that hooks around his fingers and travels up to his elbow. “I told the nurses I got bucked off a horse. It sounds more interesting than falling in the shower.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”
I sit on the edge of the navy recliner next to the bed. I want to be as close to my father as possible, and I also don’t want my jeans to be covered in cat hair when I stand up. The amount of matted hair on the upholstery means my mom’s eighteen-year-old cat, Velveeta, spends a lot of time sleeping here.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine, Dad.”
“Nurse Heidi said I look handsome.”
“Of course. I mean, you look a little banged up and you’ve lost a lot of weight. Mom’s called me a few times telling me you won’t eat.”
Dad picks up the remote and turns down the volume on the television. “She tries, but I’m just not hungry like I used to be. She fixes me a nice spread, smells good, but I take a few bites and I’m full.”
“Have you tried protein shakes?”
“They always pump me full of those at the hospital. It’s like drinking chalk.”
“How about a milkshake from McDonalds?”
“I might go for that.”
I follow the veins in my dad’s hands. They’re raised and purple, the skin between them like crêpe paper.
“How about I go get you one for dinner?”
“I think your mom is fixing dumplings.”
“Which go perfect with milkshakes.”
“I suppose.”