Little Gale Gumbo by Erika Marks

just hate having to do that.”
    Â 
    Matthew peered through the narrow glass insert on the ICU floor of Portland’s Maine Medical Center and barely recognized the pale, unmoving man on the other side.
    â€œWhen can I see him, Doctor?”
    â€œTomorrow.” The doctor, fair-haired and slight, stood beside Matthew, holding Ben’s patient folder in his hand. “We’ve sedated him to prevent any further damage to the brain, and we may need to keep him under sedation for several more days. Mr. Haskell, did your father suffer from high blood pressure?”
    â€œWhat difference does that make?”
    â€œA great deal of difference, actually. High blood pressure is one of the main risk factors for stroke.”
    â€œDoctor, my dad was in great shape. He still shoveled off his own roof every winter, for Christ’s sake.”
    â€œFitness only goes so far, I’m afraid. When people age, their blood vessels weaken and become brittle. Sometimes when there’s stress, be it any kind of emotional or physical exertion, it can raise a person’s blood pressure, increasing the volume of blood in already fragile vessels.”
    Matthew frowned impatiently. “So what the hell does all that mean?”
    â€œImagine a dry-rotted rubber hose,” said the doctor, “and you’ve turned the spigot on high.”
    An image of Charles Bergeron standing behind his unsuspecting father flashed through Matthew’s head. He swallowed, sickened.
    â€œIs he going to be all right, Doctor?”
    â€œWe’re confident he’ll regain consciousness.”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m asking.”
    The doctor smiled patiently. “It’s difficult to assess the level of neurological damage of someone who has suffered a stroke, Mr. Haskell. It takes time.”
    Time.
    Matthew nodded dully, his gaze sweeping the room through the glass. Except for the view of Portland Harbor and all its twinkling lights, it could have been the set of a science-fiction movie, so many machines and tubes, monitors with flashing lights. Then the reality, a cold hand on his spine; his father was alive only by the grace of a pleated blue tube, his lungs expanding because of an electrical current coming through a hole in the wall.
    Matthew pressed his palm against the glass, his fingers weightless, numb.
    I’m here, Pop. I’m here .
    Â 
    Josie swore she felt it when Matthew stepped off the ferry.
    She’d been in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner, a sorry little meal of tuna sandwiches and canned soup, but it had sufficed. And besides, neither she nor Wayne had much of an appetite.
    She frowned at the clock on the stove. Nine fifteen. She’d considered making up an excuse to take the car just so she could coast down Ocean Avenue to have a look at the landing, maybe see Matthew step off the boat, pretend to be running an errand. She still wondered why he’d chosen to stay on the island when Ben was on the mainland, but a part of her—a big part, too big, really—liked to think it was because Matthew wanted to be near them too, wanted things to be as they were in the old days.
    She heard the patio door slide open, glanced over to find Wayne stepping in from the deck, looking drained. He crossed the kitchen to leave his empty mug in the sink. Josie smiled at him when he passed and he briefly touched her shoulder.
    She tried to remember the last time they’d made love, but couldn’t.
    When he scooped his car keys off the table, she asked, “Where are you going?”
    â€œThe mower needs gas,” he said.
    â€œNow? It’s almost nine thirty.”
    â€œI know. Clem’s is open till ten.” He offered her a weary smile, tugging down his Windbreaker from its hook and shrugging into it. “I won’t be long.”
    Josie nodded, saying nothing as he crossed to plant a light kiss on her temple, knowing better than to press him. It had been