Free A to Z of You and Me by James Hannah Page A

Busy, busy. I’ve been thinking she’s avoiding me because I was short with her. She’s very businesslike.
    But I’m starting to realize it’s not me on their minds. The signals beyond my doorway, out there in the corridor, they’re starting to become clear.
    The breathing from Old Faithful next door has become more labored. It’s lost its body. Sounds like a kazoo, exhaustedly huffed.
    Hzzzzzzzzz, hzzzzzzzzz, hzzzzzzzzz.
    It’s constant, but weary. Weary clown.
    Is that a rattle? Is that what they call a death rattle?
    Hzzzzzzzzz.
    Death rattle, deathbed—all these words accumulated from somewhere. Sometime. All the experiences from all the bedside farewells across the centuries. All point here, to these sounds, these feelings, these signals in here now.
    Sheila has a respectful professionalism about her. She keeps conversation to a minimum, and her serious face only looks in on me from time to time to deliver medicine or adjust the blinds. Her amiable meanderings have straightened out into a purposeful efficiency. It makes it all so quiet, like a subdued Sunday. I’m only aware of the swish of her trousers and an occasional ankle click to mark her advance on a target.
    Hzzzzzzzzz.
    Old Faithful’s husband was camped out in the visitors’ waiting room all last night. Square-looking unfashionable Japanese man, roughly of retirement age, but still dressed in a crumpled work shirt and tie. He wanders aimlessly, waiting, eking out the time. The kind of walk you see people pacing out on train platforms when there’s no train. Waiting, waiting. The walk of the dead.
    Hzzzzzzzzz.
    He walks past my doorway once more, glances in. I try to catch his eye to give a reassuring smile. I don’t know why. There’s nothing I can do to reassure him. Perhaps I mean: This is going to happen, and you’ll be all right .
    He returns my smile with a nod. Good, that’s good.
    He moves on.
    I look out of the window once more, to the magnolia tree. There’s no robin so far today. But look at it. I could gaze at it forever, in late bloom as it is. I like them when they’re a little tighter, getting ready to reveal themselves. Better suited to a Japanese garden maybe, all clean lines. But beautiful, beautiful.
    Hzzzzzzzzz.
    â€œAll the nurses here are very nice ladies.” I look up. Mr. Old Faithful has stopped on his way back past my doorway.
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œAll the nurses here are very nice ladies.” He ventures in.
    â€œYes, yes,” I say. “The best.”
    â€œThey have looked after my daughter and me very well. They have a good understanding of the stresses. They are very supportive.”
    I nod and smile.
    â€œAre you being looked after well?” he asks.
    â€œYes, yes. They are very good here. Can’t do enough for you. Whatever you ask for.”
    â€œYes,” he says. “Yes.”
    Then his face collapses almost comically, his nostrils flare, and his mouth tightens.
    I don’t know what to do.
    â€œSorry, sorry,” he says. He looks to leave, but he’s nowhere to go, so he stays where he is, forced to compose himself. “Sorry, sorry. It’s hard. I’m here, you know, with my daughter, and we’re just watching her mother slip away. I don’t know what I’m going to do. A father is a very poor substitute for a mother.”
    â€œThat’s really sad,” I say. “I’m really sorry.”
    â€œI’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says. “You understand.”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œThis cancer is a very awful disease,” he says. “It’s evil. It’s hard to believe that there’s no more they can do. We thought she was getting better. She had been given the all clear. So we allowed ourselves to hope. She started to regain weight. She started to look a bit more like she used to look. But the cancer came back. You can’t ever drop your guard. I