Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford Page A

state-of-the-art facility.’
    â€˜This is her home,’ Henry shot back, standing up from his easy chair. ‘She wants to be here. She doesn’t want to die in someplace unfamiliar – no matter how nice it is.’
    â€˜ You want her to be here. You can’t live without her – without controlling everything!’ Marty was practically in tears. ‘They’ll take care of her medicine, Pops, they have nurses …’
    Henry was angry, but he didn’t want to make the situation worse by getting into another pointless shouting match, especially with Ethel sleeping in the next room.
    The home hospice service had brought in everything to make her last few months more comfortable – a hospital bed and enough morphine, atropine, and Ativan to keep her relaxed and free from pain. They called each day, and a home health worker popped by as needed, but never as often as Henry had hoped.
    â€˜Henry …’ Both he and Marty froze at the sound of Ethel’sweak voice. Neither had heard her speak in at least a week.
    Henry went to their bedroom. Their bedroom. He still called it that, even though he’d been sleeping on the couch for the last six months, or occasionally in a recliner next to Ethel’s bed. But only on the nights when she grew restless or scared.
    â€˜I’m here. Shussh-shhhhh. I’m here …’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his wife’s frail hand, leaning in close to try to hold her attention.
    â€˜Henry …’
    He looked at Ethel, who was staring wide-eyed out their bedroom window. ‘It’s OK – I’m here.’ As he said it, he straightened out her nightgown and pulled her covers back up around her arms.
    â€˜Take me home, Henry,’ Ethel pleaded, gripping his hand. ‘I’m so sick of this place, take me home …’
    Henry looked up at his son, who was standing in the doorway, speechless.
    After that day, the arguing had ceased. But so had their conversations.
    â€˜Pops, I think we need to talk.’
    Marty’s voice woke Henry from his melancholy. He walked up the steps, partway, until he stood looking at his son, eye to eye. ‘Shouldn’t we go inside and sit down and talk about what’s on your mind?’ he asked.
    â€˜I’d rather talk out here.’
    Henry noticed his son staring at his clothes, covered with dust from watching the renovation at the hotel. ‘Are you OK? What’d you hit, a line drive and slide into third base?’
    â€˜You have your long story, I have mine.’ Henry sat down next to his son, watching the long, dark shadow of Beacon Hillfall behind the trees, stretching the width of the avenue. The streetlamps above them flickered and hummed to life.
    â€˜Pops, we haven’t talked about much of anything since Mom died, you know?’
    Henry nodded stoically, bracing himself for an onslaught of criticism.
    â€˜I’ve busted my tail on my grades, I’ve tried to be the son you want me to be.’
    Henry listened, feeling remorseful. Maybe I spent too much time taking care of Ethel – maybe I left him out, he thought. If I did, it wasn’t intentional. ‘You don’t need to apologize for anything. I’m immensely proud of you,’ he said.
    â€˜I know you are, Pops. I see it – I know you are. Which is why I’ve been dodging talking to you about this. One, because there was so much going on with Mom, and two, well, because I just didn’t know how you’d react.’
    Henry furrowed his brow; now he was worried. His mind checked off all the things his son could possibly tell him under these circumstances: He’s on drugs. He’s been kicked out of school. He’s wrecked his car, joined a gang, committed a crime, going to jail, he’s gay …
    â€˜Dad, I’m engaged.’
    â€˜To a girl?’
    Henry asked the question in all seriousness. Marty laughed.