track. His visits, always sparse, had become even more erratic, although the trip to his father's apartment was a matter of taking the F train to Bergen Street and then transferring to the G train. He packaged his father as a set of practical problems – dealing with the insurance company, managing a fixed income from dividends on his pension. It gave them something to talk about, and was easier than trying at that late hour to forge anything more complex.
After Paul's divorce it was even more difficult to visit his father, to witness the crushed, compacted state of his existence. He hardly moved, he never wrote or read. Paul once hunted through the apartment for a journal, a stack of letters, any evidence of an interior life, but came away empty-handed. His visits lasted for an hour or so, during which he and his father would sit together and watch television, whatever came on, and then Paul would leave, a little queasy. Without his wife he came to understand, in a way he hadn't before, that a person's life is comprised of and defined by the relationships he has – that a self-sustained existence, however worthy and pure that idea might once have sounded, is a fraudulent one. That sort of life is for monks and saints, not actual human beings.
During their last conversation, in the hospital before he slipped into the coma, Frank said nothing of regret, of final wishes, of love or fear or loss. He only made sure that Paul had called the private nurse he'd hired and told her not to show up that week at the apartment.
And now, his father unconscious, Paul continues to come, a few days a week, because there isn't anyone else who will. It does not feel voluntary. It is the kind of thing one does because it is, as they say, a good idea.
A shape sweeps in and out of the room. The nurse. Perhaps she believes she's come at a bad moment. Paul stands to go, but, as he makes his first steps toward the door, a swell of nausea upends him. He tries to ignore it, he'll feel better once he's outside, away from this place. But he staggers and has to brace himself against a chair. The onrush of illness and lightheadedness brings a thick, ponderous sensation into his limbs, a headache brutalizing the middle regions of his brain, sudden thirst burning on his tongue like frost. He sits. The room seems almost to tilt. Control leaves him: he closes his eyes, unbuckles himself from consciousness, and lets his head fall lightly upon the foot of his father's bed.
Later, when the nurse wakes him, he asks how much time has gone by. She isn't sure. Outside, the afternoon light is fading, the sky the color of oyster shell; it has been perhaps half an hour. The nurse asks if he often goes to sleep like this in the middle of the day. Feeling unsteady, he answers that this isn't the first time it has happened recently. She asks if he has headaches; he nods. Can he walk? At this he stands and follows her out of the room.
Though the nausea and pain abate, Paul doesn't feel restored to health. He trails the nurse to a different room, where she leaves him; he doesn't know how long he waits before a doctor comes. Although he and Paul are about the same age, the doctor's tone and bearing immediately establish him as the elder: his questions are brisk, exact, professional. Eventually he asks Paul if he's hit his head in the last few days.
He nods. 'Sunday.'
'How did it happen?'
'A fall. On some ice.' Paul touches the fading mark on his neck. 'Right on the pavement.'
'Did you lose consciousness?'
'Maybe a little. Briefly.'
The doctor makes a note. 'Sounds like a concussion. It's not too serious, but these multiple episodes of fainting suggest post-concussion syndrome. You seem pretty lucid, so I'm not worried about bleeding. Aspirin will take care of the pain. The drowsiness should go away. If it doesn't, you need to call someone.'
Paul thanks him.
'You're still a little light on your feet. I'd feel better, Mr Metzger, if someone came to escort you
After Paul's divorce it was even more difficult to visit his father, to witness the crushed, compacted state of his existence. He hardly moved, he never wrote or read. Paul once hunted through the apartment for a journal, a stack of letters, any evidence of an interior life, but came away empty-handed. His visits lasted for an hour or so, during which he and his father would sit together and watch television, whatever came on, and then Paul would leave, a little queasy. Without his wife he came to understand, in a way he hadn't before, that a person's life is comprised of and defined by the relationships he has – that a self-sustained existence, however worthy and pure that idea might once have sounded, is a fraudulent one. That sort of life is for monks and saints, not actual human beings.
During their last conversation, in the hospital before he slipped into the coma, Frank said nothing of regret, of final wishes, of love or fear or loss. He only made sure that Paul had called the private nurse he'd hired and told her not to show up that week at the apartment.
And now, his father unconscious, Paul continues to come, a few days a week, because there isn't anyone else who will. It does not feel voluntary. It is the kind of thing one does because it is, as they say, a good idea.
A shape sweeps in and out of the room. The nurse. Perhaps she believes she's come at a bad moment. Paul stands to go, but, as he makes his first steps toward the door, a swell of nausea upends him. He tries to ignore it, he'll feel better once he's outside, away from this place. But he staggers and has to brace himself against a chair. The onrush of illness and lightheadedness brings a thick, ponderous sensation into his limbs, a headache brutalizing the middle regions of his brain, sudden thirst burning on his tongue like frost. He sits. The room seems almost to tilt. Control leaves him: he closes his eyes, unbuckles himself from consciousness, and lets his head fall lightly upon the foot of his father's bed.
Later, when the nurse wakes him, he asks how much time has gone by. She isn't sure. Outside, the afternoon light is fading, the sky the color of oyster shell; it has been perhaps half an hour. The nurse asks if he often goes to sleep like this in the middle of the day. Feeling unsteady, he answers that this isn't the first time it has happened recently. She asks if he has headaches; he nods. Can he walk? At this he stands and follows her out of the room.
Though the nausea and pain abate, Paul doesn't feel restored to health. He trails the nurse to a different room, where she leaves him; he doesn't know how long he waits before a doctor comes. Although he and Paul are about the same age, the doctor's tone and bearing immediately establish him as the elder: his questions are brisk, exact, professional. Eventually he asks Paul if he's hit his head in the last few days.
He nods. 'Sunday.'
'How did it happen?'
'A fall. On some ice.' Paul touches the fading mark on his neck. 'Right on the pavement.'
'Did you lose consciousness?'
'Maybe a little. Briefly.'
The doctor makes a note. 'Sounds like a concussion. It's not too serious, but these multiple episodes of fainting suggest post-concussion syndrome. You seem pretty lucid, so I'm not worried about bleeding. Aspirin will take care of the pain. The drowsiness should go away. If it doesn't, you need to call someone.'
Paul thanks him.
'You're still a little light on your feet. I'd feel better, Mr Metzger, if someone came to escort you