Finally, Dad’s eyes opened, and a thin smile spread across his face. “I feel better, boy. I told you it was just indigestion. Go tell your mama to come back in the house and quit overreacting.”

            Those words sounded good, but Dad’s voice was too soft, too peaceful to be his normal voice. I knew, no matter what I wanted to believe, that Dad was not all right.

            “I think I should still put your pants on you.”

            “Dammit, boy! Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m fine.

            “I think we should do what Mom said.”

            “Always the mama's boy. I’m surprised she doesn’t shit for you. I said I’m all right.” Dad stood to prove his point, and I reached out to help steady him, but he slapped my hands away. “See, dammit?” Dad proudly proclaimed and planted his hands on his hips for emphasis.

            From this strong and regal pose, Dad bent double and grabbed his chest and left arm. My hands, sweating and shaking, helped Dad up and back into the bed.

            “You all right?”

            “Damn I hurt,” he said underneath his breath.

            I wasn’t waiting any longer. I picked up Dad’s trousers and pulled them up a little past his knees. Then I stood Dad up, balanced him with one hand and with the other hand I pulled up one pant leg at a time and then fastened the wide leather belt that Dad had whipped me with many times. I wasn’t sure if Dad was going to die, and I thought about what Mom usually said after one of my parents’ numerous arguments: Your daddy’s too mean to die.

            Dad sat on the edge of the bed, and I picked up his shirt from the floor and slipped it over his head, mussing his gray and thinning hair. I braced Dad against me and led him out of the house. Mom met us at the door and took Dad’s other arm and eased him into the front seat of the station wagon – after her difficulties with the truck’s stick shift, she wasn’t taking it again. A new clinic had just opened down the street from our house, and I figured it would take us ten minutes to get there, and I hoped Dad had ten minutes left.

            The sky was lightening with the rising sun when we pulled into the clinic’s parking lot, and Mom and I, each under one of Dad’s arms, walked him into the clinic. Upon entering, a nurse bringing a chart from the back, screamed: “That man’s having a heart attack!”

            The nurse and a gang of other clinic workers grabbed Dad from us and wheeled him through double-doors. Mom and I had our arms around each other while we sat in the waiting room.

            Dad could hear people talking above him and machines loudly beeping, but he didn’t think they could save him. A hard life of smoking, drinking, working, and many wives had finally caught up to him. He strained to see the people who were trying to save him, but he couldn’t force his eyes open. The sounds, all of a sudden, were muted as if they traveled through water, and Dad could see the people, the machines, and even himself. However, he was looking down. A middle-aged man beat and pounded on his chest while nurses checked gauges and read outs. The pain he had experienced was gone; his body felt light, no burden left. Dad could have told them he was dead.

            Dad focused on his face, lacking color and laying motionless under him. He’d aged ok, he thought, nothing extraordinary. Wrinkles lined his high-forehead and his nose, which had been broken in basic training, jutted out from his face and leaned to the left; none of these attributes enhanced his looks, but still the same, Dad did not think himself ugly, not even as an old dead man.

            Dad, convinced he was gone and not knowing how long he’d get to stay near this world, searched for his family. He found us in the waiting room sitting side by side holding hands, and Mom, whom had divorced him once, cried. And as she cried she stroked my hand, and I had a still face without tears, hardened in concentration. “Your daddy’s gonna be all right,” Mom said. Dad heard those words and wished he could tell her the truth. 

            Dad wondered what his son thought. Was the boy sad at losing me? Why didn’t he shed a tear? Dad, upon hearing about his dad’s death, had waited a week to cry. He wondered if his son would do the same, but he feared that his son’s tears would never come. Dad knew I liked Mom better than him. She took up for me, protected me from Dad’s wrath, and that wrath wedged the two generations of Jones men apart, just like it had Dad and Grandfather.

            I knew Dad wouldn’t die, and I believed Mom was overreacting. Her tears and promises were a bit much. Yet, I was surprised to see this behavior from her. I had witnessed my parents’ many fights, broken dishes, butcher knives pulled, police at the house taking Dad away. I remembered even the many times Mom threatened to leave and take me with her, and each time that happened I was ready to go and leave Dad’s rants and criticism behind.  

            Although I didn’t believe Dad would die, I allowed myself to ponder life without him. No more cursing, for Mom only let foul language cross her lips when provoked but Dad cursed as naturally as breathing, and usually at me. No more insults about my weight – You’ll be four hundred goddamn pounds if you don’t stop eating. And the yelling. I imagined how quiet the house and my life would be without Dad.

            Guilt, shame, and a little bit of glee took control of me for thinking such things while Dad was in the backroom fighting for his life. No son would wish for his dad’s death. And though I saw positive potential coming from Dad’s absence, I did not wish for him to die. I hoped that Dad, once this ordeal was behind him, would be a changed man, a better man. 


            Dad opened his eyes, and a bright light glared into them, obscuring all the people standing above him. Though blinded, Dad heard them speaking – Close call, Glad to have you back – and he knew that he had been dead. At that time, I didn’t know about Dad’s near-death experience, but after waiting for an hour, the nurse who had screamed upon our entry brought me to see Dad. “When we got him stabilized, he asked for you.” Later I knew the full gravity of “stabilized.” At that moment, I wasn’t that shocked that he asked to see me. After all, my parents’ relationship was often contentious, but now with twenty-five years worth of perspective, I understand how much of an honor it was for me to be the first person Dad requested to see when he returned to life.