Chapter 15 Breakdowns
I take a taxi to Presbyterian Medical Center first. My hands have been trembling on my lap throughout the entire ride. This one is much, much more different than from the hospital where my father was at first. This one is newer and has more prettier surroundings instead of the worn out one of before. The entire atmosphere smells soft and…sweeter and fresher than the air at the previous hospital.
A nurse at the front desk directs me to the cardiac intensive care unit on the fourth floor. The elevator ride feels endless, my reflection staring back at me from the shiny grey doors. I look tired. Hollowed out, actually. But at least I'm here.
The ICU is quiet. The lighting here is soft and the talks of people are hushed. They talked cautiously unlike the other hospital my father was at. My father's room is at the end of the hall, and when I push open the door, I have to stop and catch my breath.
It's beautiful. Not in the way a hospital room should be, but compared to where he was before, it's a palace. Large windows let in natural light. There's a comfortable chair for visitors, not the hard plastic torture devices they had at the other place. The machines surrounding his bed are newer, quieter, their soft beeps almost soothing. And my father... he looks peaceful.
Though he is still pale and still too thin, still hooked up to more tubes and wires than any person should be. But his face isn't pinched with pain anymore. The lines around his eyes have smoothed out.
'Dad,' I whisper, pulling the chair close to his bed. I take his hand and it's warm, thank God. It's always warm. I take it and hold it between both of mine. 'I'm sorry I haven't visited in a few days. Things have been... complicated.' I laugh, but it comes out wet and broken. 'That's an understatement, isn't it?'
He doesn't respond. He hasn't responded in weeks. But I talk anyway, because what else can I do?
'You're in a better hospital now. The best, actually. They have specialists here, Dad. Real cardiac surgeons who know what they're doing. Not overworked people who don't care about poor people.' My voice cracks. 'You're going to get better. You have to get better.'
I sit with him for thirty minutes, telling him about my new job…the edited version, the one where I'm just a personal assistant to a successful businessman, not a whore bought and paid for. I tell him about the office, about James, about the view from the fortieth floor.
I don't tell him that my boss is a monster. That I sold myself to save him and Mom. That every night I have to let that monster use my body however he wants.
Some truths are too heavy to speak aloud, I guess.
'I love you, Dad,' I whisper finally, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. 'I'm going to make sure you're okay. I promise.'
I force myself to leave before I break down completely. The nurse at the station tells me he's stable, that the doctors are optimistic, that I should try not to worry. I nod and smile and lie and say thank you, and then I'm back in a taxi, heading to Rosewood Manor.
The facility is even more impressive than the paperwork suggested. It's not a nursing home…it's a estate. It has beautiful, manicured gardens, a pond with swans in it and an architecture that looks like it belongs in a European countryside rather than Pennsylvania.
The woman at reception greets me warmly, checking my ID and directing me to my mother's room in the west wing. The hallways are wide and bright, decorated with real art instead of generic prints. Classical music plays softly from hidden speakers.
This is where rich people put their aging parents when they can afford dignity along with care. And somehow, I've managed to give this to my mother.
At what cost, Constantine? A voice in my head whispers. At what fucking cost?
I push it away and knock softly on my mother's door before entering.
'Mom?'
She's sitting in a chair by the window, looking out at the gardens. She's wearing a soft blue cardigan I don't recognize…maybe it's probably something the staff dressed her in…and her hair has been brushed and pinned back neatly.
When she turns to look at me, I see it immediately: the clarity in her eyes. She's having a good day.
'Constantine?' Her voice is uncertain, like she's not quite sure if I'm real.
'Yes, Mom. It's me.' I cross the room and kneel beside her chair, taking her hands. They're soft, warm, free of the calluses they used to have from working double shifts at the diner. 'How are you feeling?'
'I'm...' She looks around the room, confused but not frightened. 'Where am I? This isn't... this isn't the other place.'
'No, it's not. You're at Rosewood Manor now. A better facility. With better care.'
Her brow furrows. 'How? Constantine, how can we afford this? You were struggling to pay for the other place, and this...' She gestures vaguely at the room, the furniture, the view. 'This must cost a fortune.'
My throat tightens. 'I got a job, Mom. A really good job. With a really good salary.' The lies are so strong. 'I can afford to take care of you now. You and Dad both.'
'What kind of job?' She's looking at me more closely now, her motherly instincts still sharp even through the fog of dementia. 'You look tired, baby. Are they working you too hard?'
'No, I'm fine. Just... adjusting to the new schedule.' I force a smile. 'But it's worth it. To see you here, in a place like this. To know you're being taken care of properly.'
She reaches up and touches my face, her fingers gentle. 'You've always been such a good girl. So responsible. Even when you were little, you always tried to take care of everyone.'
The words break something inside me. I have to look away, blinking back tears.
'I'm just doing what I have to do, Mom.'
'Your father would be proud of you.' She says it with such conviction, like she's forgotten he's lying unconscious in a hospital bed across town. 'He always said you were going to do great things. Change the world, he said.'
I can't hold back the sob. It tears out of my throat before I can stop it.
'Oh, sweetheart.' My mother's arms come around me, pulling me close. She smells like lavender soap and something else, something that reminds me of childhood and safety and a time before everything fell apart.
'What's wrong? Talk to me.'