I’m Floating in a Best Western Pool

⠀⠀⠀I’m floating in a Best Western pool in Northern California while Amy is dying. When the car broke down on I-5 with only 48,000 miles on it—I knew we wouldn’t make it. There is a mural with a duck about three feet tall and skylights so dirty I can’t tell if it’s overcast today.

⠀⠀⠀The view of Mount Shasta is very beautiful, and I can only understand it as a postcard. I remember when Amy and her children came to Haystack Rock to visit us during a storm. I thought all seven of us would be blown off the cliff into the grey waves below.

⠀⠀⠀On the 18th, I was brushing my teeth in a crowded bathroom when I understood I’d never hear her voice again. Her lungs no longer have the strength. I have no memory for voices but during that moment a memory crystallized into an amber print and for now I can hear her asking a question and laughing.

⠀⠀⠀I put on my glasses and the mural duck is a fish. I remember this MC Escher painting my 2nd grade teacher had me copy which shows a duck morphing into a fish. I think her goal was to inspire wonder about art and geometry. It mostly made me question how things fit together.

⠀⠀⠀The man in the jacuzzi tells me about how he lost his grandmother two months ago. She went on a hunger strike and started hallucinating wildly. He’d never known his father, so during the hallucinations he learned about how she’d raised his father and three uncles. As he stood in her hospital room, she told him, “Get out of the flowerpots.” She was trying to care for the flowers.

⠀⠀⠀I forget to tell the man about how my grandpa’s sister changed a medical law to allow patients to refuse nutrition. There’s a whole documentary about it. In the end she actually chooses not to die.

⠀⠀⠀My sister joins me in the pool, and we start doing flips like we’re little kids again. I’d never done a backflip and she goad me into two of them. We play for hours.

⠀⠀⠀Against my best judgment, I’d left my phone on my sister’s towel. When she takes it, the phone cracks against the concrete and spiderwebs lace over the glass. I don’t feel anything. I was going to get a new phone anyway.

⠀⠀⠀I’m wet with chlorine, laying on the bed until my turn in the shower when Grandpa comes back from Burger King. He has a present for me and my grandma. He pulls acorns out of his pockets and insists they’re chestnuts.

⠀⠀⠀I feel like I’m floating. My shift in the library passes without anyone at the Tech Help Desk. Classmates are discussing edits to April’s latest draft and my family is napping in a Best Western two feet away from me. Aunt Amy is unconscious in a hospital bed in Berkley.

⠀⠀⠀Earlier Uncle Todd said, “Every hour that passes, she’s closer to the end.” I misremember the end of that statement, but each hour is kinetic: drawing us toward and away and by the end it will be over. The fuel pump for our car is being shipped over from Redding. We may leave this evening if it works out that way. I don’t know if Todd wants us there.

⠀⠀⠀The cracks in my screen keep reminding me that what I’m holding is fragile and artificial. I have homework which consists of me living in usual circumstances so I can only look at it from across the room. My homework is in the blue-white peaks of Mount Shasta.

⠀⠀⠀I think if I open my Chromebook, I can continue my grad school research on UC Berkeley. Nana gets a phone call and my stomach drops.

⠀⠀⠀”It’s an 877 number.”

⠀⠀⠀A scam calls.

⠀⠀⠀I can’t get up for food. I’m too tired. I think guess I’ll die now because it’s a stupid meme and I hate myself for thinking it. Right now, I’m immortal. How exciting to live forever?

⠀⠀⠀I diffuse a four-way argument about politics and aging and responsibility and grief and by the time the car returns we have another decision. When my grandma begins sobbing, we reverse the decision and cram into the car. My grandpa’s hands are shaking as he tries to input UCSF Parnassus into his phone. My sister reaches around the driver’s seat and does it for him.

⠀⠀⠀By 10:00 PM I’m in Amy’s attic-turned-office, sleeping in a low bed with my sister beside me.

⠀⠀⠀The hospital is situated on a beautiful mess of San Francisco hills. We take a shortcut through a park and since it’s a beautiful near-spring day small family walk around in the sun. The walls inside UCSF Parnassus seem too small and there are too many people filling the lobbies as we cram and coordinate our way to Amy’s floor.

⠀⠀⠀Amy’s face is skeletal, but she is still breathing. I watch the machine pump her chest mechanically. My grandma says, “Amy, it looks like you’re in a computer store with all the screens behind you,” and the doctor smiles to himself.

⠀⠀⠀I go back three times to tell her goodbye, to tell her about myself, to tell her about the car, about the pink trees blooming in February, her legacy, love—how she’s loved, and her kids will be loved. I tell her about pictures on the wall her loved ones have plastered up. It’s a collage of writing and family photos and a poster: “Martini in Hand, Toes in the Sand”. I say, “bet you’d like a drink right about now?” And goodbye, again. See you tomorrow. I focus on the pictures of her as I stand between the sliding doors. She’s holding her kids, her husband, her friends. I feel like I’m in the way and apologize to the doctor.

⠀⠀⠀Hours later I stand in her shower and think about her and Todd standing here. I think about what it means for a man to lose his wife.

⠀⠀⠀Amy will receive “comfort care” today. When we arrive in the conference room, kid Michael Jackson is playing on the polycom speaker. It’s so upbeat. I question if this is appropriate. The next song mentions death in the chorus, and I have the same question.

⠀⠀⠀Mike gives me a hug and tells me that he’s been friends with Todd since they were teens, so of course he knew my mom. I tell him I’m sorry. Not about Amy, but about knowing my mom.

⠀⠀⠀Heidi brought bagels. I eat a bagel and cry.

⠀⠀⠀I feel like I’m at Patrick’s service, eating guilty food through tears and in full display of near strangers.

⠀⠀⠀At 11:30 AM, Amy’s respirator is shut off. I draw red sunflowers all over the conference whiteboard. Mike compliments my artistry.

⠀⠀⠀A doctor comes into the conference room to tell us our room wasn’t reserved, and we scramble out, apologizing. We loiter in the hall near the ICU bay. I have no social framework for how to behave. I stand around like an animal.

⠀⠀⠀Todd’s face is red with tears, but Mike makes him laugh and I feel feathers settle in my heart.

⠀⠀⠀That night I lie in the attic. I can hear Hailey trying to convince her dad to eat a banana. He refuses quietly, multiple times. Poor Todd. I feel like a voyeur listening to their grief unfiltered.

⠀⠀⠀Hailey asks him if he’ll watch a movie with her. She puts it on anyway. I doze off, half-listening to a Spanish drama.

⠀⠀⠀After a few commercial breaks, Hailey gasps. “No!”

⠀⠀⠀My sister runs downstairs and asks if she’s okay.

⠀⠀⠀Hailey’s voice is high and weak. “My favorite character just died!”

⠀⠀⠀Amy’s service is full of food and impressive people. A kid teaches all of us under-30s how to play Blackjack. I speak with someone who knows professors at UC Berkeley, would I like to meet them? Shamrock cookies are brought out for dessert to honor Amy’s St. Patty’s birthday, and we marvel at how her friends found them in February. It’s almost 11:00 PM when we start saying our goodbyes. I’m leaving with Hailey and Todd, so I spot him on a bar stool in the kitchen corner and look around for Amy. I expect her to walk to the door with us.

⠀⠀⠀I feel gullible.

⠀⠀⠀Maybe she does join us.

Matthew Watson is a queer artist/poet whose work centers on beauty amid ugly and painful experiences. He graduates from SOU in the spring, glad to be a part of this creative cohort.