Book of Jo: Parts 32 & 33
It happened again.
Start with Part 1. Or read a quick, spoiler-free synopsis.
September 25, 2016
Sunday, 12:45 pm
Dr. Rosenblatt is a tiny woman with a braid hanging down to her waist. Her hands are surprisingly large with long pianist’s fingers. It’s hard to reconcile her gentle, cerebral manner with the dizzying array of antipsychotic medications she has prescribed for my father.
My father is sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, dressed in his best work suit. An orderly must have helped to wrangle him into it. It reminds me that he used to be a trial lawyer who was known primarily for his wry sense of humor and his love of lost causes. That he won slightly more often than he lost is a testament to both his charm and relentless determination.
The charm is entirely gone. His hands are shaking and drool is pooling in the corners of his mouth. He won’t look at me or Ashley. But perhaps some tattered remnants of determination remain. I wonder if that is what has allowed him to cling so stubbornly to the delusion that Jenna is still alive.
“Are you sure it’s OK for him to attend the service?” asks Ashley for a second time.
“I don’t think he even knows who we are. He seems very medicated,” I say. I suppose the fact that he isn’t screaming and calling me an accursed she-bitch is an improvement. But seeing his empty stare is a whole new kind of pain.
“Face facts. He’s a fucking vegetable,” says the voice. I catch myself before I respond out loud. Having conversations with the voices in your head in front of a psychiatrist is definitely the fast track to involuntary commitment.
“I completely understand your concern,” says Dr. Rosenblatt, looking down at her clipboard. “When he was admitted to the unit, your father was delusional. The grief of losing his wife and then his youngest daughter served as the catalyst for a psychotic break with reality. Even today, despite extensive counseling, he believes his daughter — Jenna, right? — is still alive.”
“It’s even worse,” says Ashley. “His son died Thursday night.”
The doctor gasps and brings her hand to her mouth. “So now he’s lost his wife, his daughter and his son?”
“Yes,” I say, blinking back more useless tears.
“What’s going to happen when he doesn’t see Brad and Jenna at the funeral?” asks Ashley. “Should we tell him they’re both dead?”
“No, absolutely not,” says Dr. Rosenblatt. “That would be too much for him to process right now. Just be ready with a plausible excuse why they’re not there. You know, an urgent business trip or a missed flight. That sort of thing.”
“We’ve got that covered,” says Ashley, with a ghost of a smile. I try to smile but end up wincing from a sharp, stinging pain. The sore on my lip is a red, raw, crusty mess.
“I’m sorry to ask this again. But are you absolutely sure it’s safe for him to attend the service?” asks Ashley.
Dr. Rosenblatt takes Ashley’s hand. Ashley’s eyes well up.
“Yes. It should be fine. The clinical picture is complicated. There may be some vascular dementia superimposed over his mental health issues. But I do think it will good for him to hear people saying goodbye to his wife. It may even help him reconnect with reality.”
“What if he flips out again during the service? He was on the verge of becoming violent when we brought him in,” says Ashley. She is squeezing the doctor’s hand tightly.
“He should be OK. The antipsychotics and the mild sedative he’s taking should keep him from becoming agitated or disruptive.”
Ashley nods, and Dr. Rosenblatt drops her hand. We’re silent for a moment. It’s time to leave for the funeral. We can’t put if off any longer.
“Thank you,” I say. “What time should we bring him back?”
“Any time before six should be fine,” says Dr. Rosenblatt.
Ashley takes a tissue from her purse and wipes the drool from my father’s chin and collar. She helps him up, and we begin a long, slow walk to Ashley’s Volvo. As we move slowly, step by step, I wonder why Lon isn’t here, comforting Ashley on the day of her mother’s funeral. His absence also, strangely, gives me hope that Ashley really is as “fine” as she says. I know Lon, and there’s no way he would leave her side for even a day if she were actually, seriously ill.
“What happened to your husband?” I ask as we wrangle our father into the back seat.
“Home sick. Bad stomach flu,” she says quickly, looking away.
September 25, 2016
Sunday, 2:00 pm
If I close my eyes, it’s like I’m at a yoga class. The sounds of chanting and sitar music float down from speakers hidden in the trees. Ashley and I are standing beside the entrance to the garden, flanking our father who is seated unsteadily in a flimsy folding chair. Every few moments, Ashley wipes the drool from his mouth. People are slowly arriving.
My mother’s friends are all slender women in their sixties and seventies, decked out in fashionably comfortable, yoga-inspired clothes. A few are wearing the brightly colored head scarves synonymous with chemotherapy. Many are obvious connoisseurs of funeral services. They freely compliment the outdoor setting, the buffet table, and the non-traditional music. They ask probing questions about the psychic who will be leading the brief service.
The psychic was Jenna’s idea. She’d suggested it in the rushed aftermath of my mother’s death. At the time, Ashley and I were firmly against it. But, after she died, we decided that incorporating the psychic into Mom’s memorial service would be a way of honoring Mom and Jenna at the same time. Besides, it’s been decades since Mom attended mass.
A girl dressed from head to toe in black clutching a bright pink phone appears to my right. It’s Cyndra, the funeral director’s nineteen-year-old daughter. She asks us if we need anything while simultaneously sending several texts. I shake my head, but Ashley stops me. She sends her to the buffet table to get a sandwich for our father.
“That’s a good idea, Ash,” I say. Our father does look skinny and drawn. It seems unlikely that he’s been eating much at the hospital.
When Cyndra returns with the sandwich, Ashley places it in our father’s hands. He sniffs it and takes a small bite, chewing it over and over again. But no matter how much he chews, he cannot swallow. Saliva and moist globs of food slide down his chin and onto his suit. Ashley and I kneel down to wipe him off.
“Excuse me?”
I don’t have to look up. I know it’s Cedar. I turn and see her standing next to a tall light-haired man. I realize it’s the tall man from the bar who spilled his drink. I wonder if Silas knows — or even if she’s still seeing Silas.
“Your mother was such a wonderful person. I just wanted to pay my respects,” she says.
“She’s showing off for her new man,” says the voice, with a hiss. “It’s a demonstration of how compassionate she can be.”
I ignore the voice and focus on Cedar’s outfit. She’s dressed in vintage 1950s mourning: a black cocktail dress with a full skirt and long sleeves. A small hat with a short veil is perched on her head. Her date, the man from the bar, is hipster chic in a dark, somber suit and skinny tie.
“Jo, this is Marcus,” says Cedar, indicating her companion.
“Nice to meet you,” he says with a slight German accent. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I’m going to shoot the next person who says that!” says the voice. I nod in agreement. Thank God I’ll be seeing a psychiatrist soon.
Cedar turns towards Marcus. “Can you get me some water?” she asks.
“Sure,” he says, heading for the buffet, where one table is piled high with tiny bottles of spring water. While Ashley is greeting our mother’s Reiki master — a short, thin man with a scraggly mustache — Cedar pulls me aside.
“You know this doesn’t change anything, right?” she says. “You need professional help, not just well-meaning friends. We’ve talked about it, and we just can’t relate.”
“How nice it would be to punch her. Listen to the snap of her nose breaking. Watch the blood trickle down her face,” coos the voice. I clench my fists and will them to stay at my sides. I count to five and exhale slowly.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Mom would be glad that you came. Why don’t you find a seat?” I say.
As Cedar and Marcus drift off towards the buffet, I see Ashley talking with a tall, coffee-colored woman. Her hair is a deep reddish caramel. Her skin in a light brown nougat. Her elegant dress is pale toffee.
“Jo, meet Jasmine Windsong. Mom’s psychic,” says Ashley.
“I prefer the term spiritual adviser,” says Jasmine. She smiles, revealing a row of white, perfect teeth.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak at Mom’s service.”
“No, thank you for asking me. Your mother was delightful. I can feel her presence now. She loves you both very much.”
“She’s a fake,” says the voice in a whisper so soft it’s almost indistinguishable from my normal thoughts.
Ashley smiles and looks down at my father. There are food stains and wet patches on his suit jacket. His mouth looks strangely asymmetrical. The right side is drooping downwards while the left side is half of a taut grin. His right eye is drooping, too.
Oh my God. My father is having a stroke.
Book of Jo is a homeless novella that is going to crash on Medium for a few months. I will release new parts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, until the whole story has been posted. Enjoy!
Read Part 1.
Read Part 2.
Read Parts 3 & 4.
Read Parts 5 & 6.
Read Parts 7 & 8.
Read Parts 9 & 10.
Read Part 11.
Read Parts 12 & 13.
Read Parts 14 & 15.
Read Parts 16 & 17.
Read Parts 18 & 19.
Read Parts 20 & 21.
Read Parts 22 & 23.
Read Parts 24 & 25.
Read Parts 26, 27, & 28.
Read Part 29.
Read Parts 30 & 31.
Read Parts 34 & 35.
