Free One Last Thing Before I Go by Jonathan Tropper

Casey, who is standing beside the bed, looking worried. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m fine.”
    “You’re so not fine.” Casey.
    “Talk some sense into him.” Elaine.
    “You need this surgery, Silver.” Rich.
    Silver looks at Denise, who has fallen strangely silent. “I miss having sex with you. The way you would kiss me after you came.”
    “Holy shit!” Casey.
    “Jesus Christ, Silver!” Denise.
    “He can’t help it.” Rich.
    “I always figured we’d end up back together.” Silver.
    “Dad, stop!” Casey says, her eyes filling with tears.
    He doesn’t know why he’s saying these terrible things. Or why it is they’re so terrible. Something is different. On some level, he knows he’ll regret the things he’s said; he may already be regretting them somewhere, but something has changed, he doesn’t know what it is, and he’s powerless against it.
    “I’m sorry, Case. I’m sorry for everything. I was a shitty father—”
    “Just stop talking!”
    “Can’t you give him a shot?” Denise.
    “His vitals are stable. There’s no reason to sedate him.” Rich.
    “Are you hearing him?!” Denise.
    Silver looks at Casey, and now he can feel his own hot tears, running down his face. “I wasn’t there for you, and you needed me to be. I wanted to be, but seeing you just hurt so much. I would look at you, and I would just want to be back there, and I couldn’t be back there, so it just got easier to stay away.”
    “Silver, please . . .”
    “And now you’re all grown up, and my little girl is gone.”
    “I’m still here.”
    “And now you’re pregnant.”
    Casey closes her eyes, mortified. “Fuck, Dad.”
    She called me Dad, he thinks.
    “What?” Denise.
    There is a moment of stunned, blessed silence, and then the room explodes.
    * * *
    For a while there is a good deal of crying and yelling, worthless questions and regrettable responses that lead to more yelling. Then, during an accidental lull, Ruben clears his throat in a way that immediately commands attention; you spend enough time up on the pulpit, you develop these tricks. Within moments, he has ushered everyone out of the room and into the hall. He closes the door and pulls the chair over to Silver’s bed, then fixes his son with a grave smile, rubbing his small black yarmulke back and forth across his head in a motion so familiar it instantly brings a lump to Silver’s dry throat. Then he nods a few times, to Silver, to God himself, maybe.
    “So,” he says, offering up a strained smile. “At least there’s no drama.”
    “It’s all my fault.”
    “You share some measure of responsibility, yes. But I’d hardly say it’s all your fault.”
    “Everything I’ve ever had, everything I touch . . .” Silver can’t finish the thought. Something about talking to his father is making him emotional.
    “They have shrinks upstairs, you know.”
    “Shit, Dad.”
    “I’m just saying. You’re struggling with a major decision to make here, it might help to talk it out with someone.”
    “I’m not struggling. I’ve already made the decision.”
    “OK then. I’m struggling with your decision.”
    “Then maybe you should talk to someone.”
    He smiles. Then he looks at his son, really looks at him, the way people almost never look at each other, with naked love and concern, the way a real father looks at his child. Silver sees the burst capillaries tracking across his father’s eyes, the folds of tired skin hanging off his jaw, and he can sense the deep weariness in him. Fifty years in the God business. He has seen some shit. And now this.
    “Do you want to die?” Ruben asks, not challenging, just wanting to know.
    “No. Not really.”
    “So what then?”
    He doesn’t want to answer, but he hears the words come anyway. “I’m just not sure I want to live.”
    Ruben closes his eyes as he absorbs this, then pats his son’s leg as he stands. “Fair enough,” he says. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He moves slowly