Lost in Thought
Kayla Boswell
The room was dull; its walls painted a gross beige color. There was a TV on the left side of the room that never stopped humming, always droning on against the ticking of the clock that was two minutes too slow. Faces passed by the single window on the far side of the room, a panel of stained glass hanging from the top that reflected blue and yellow light that splayed the floor when the sun touched it. A bed sat in the middle of the small room, never lonely, but the two chairs that waited beside it tended to be. Nurses shuffled in and out throughout the day, their steps moving up and down the halls of the unit as they jumped room to room, client to client. The whole place reeked of sadness and the strong smell of urine, as if it had soaked into every inch of the carpet. It was quiet, separate from the occasional mutter or cough or scream—the air was a mixture of dust and decay.
​
The old man lay in his bed, stiff and sprawled out atop the mattress, one hand crossed over the other while his eyes glazed over the screen in front of him. A football game played on the television, but he didn’t seem to be watching, really, only looking. The old man’s mouth held a perpetual frown, his face scrunched and eyebrows drawn taut. The top of his head was hidden underneath his baseball cap, the front of it casting a shadow across his face that settled into his eyes, making them dark. Or maybe they were already dark to begin with.
​
His son sat uncomfortably in the chair that rested at the man’s bedside, shifting every few minutes from one leg to the next, the chair creaking when he moved to the right. The man glanced at his father, then at the clock that ticked alongside the game, then back to his father who lay still and unmoving apart from the small up and down of the comforter as he breathed.
​
“Do you want anything? More of your smoothie, maybe?” A hint of hope tinged the son’s voice, in hopes of earning a small task that might make him useful.
​
“Nah.” His father coughed, the answer coming out in a groan. The man shifted again in his seat and crossed his legs, wrapping both hands around his kneecap. Nodding in response, he hesitantly looked towards the television again, feeling stiff. A sudden scream sounded from across the hall, jolting the man upright.
​
“She’s always doin’ that,” the older man grumbled, remaining still. “Wakes me up in the middle of the night just to scream and complain ‘bout nothin’ at all. I think she does it just to mess with me. Got no manners at all.” His permanent frown didn’t budge as he made a point to lift his head ever so slightly and glare at the door, like he was pretending to shoot fire with his eyes at the woman in the room on the other side. His son stared at him, shaking his head slowly.
​
“I don’t… I don’t think she’s trying to bother you, Dad.” He winced, trying to tune out the sound still seeping through the walls. “How long does she usually go on for? I mean… how long till she calms down?”
​
“Too long, if you ask me. But no one asks me anything here. I complain to Cheryl about it all the damn time and she just tells me to settle down and to be nice. God forbid a man try to get some rest in this place.” He rolled his eyes, not well but enough to prove his point, then went back to looking at his TV. The son breathed a sigh of relief as the voice through the door began to settle, stopping a moment later.
​
The quiet was back. The game was on mute, the television still making its humming sound. The clock continued to tick, tick, tick, though time didn’t really seem to be passing. The man stared at the floor beside his father’s bed, examining it. The pair of fish slippers he’d gotten his father for Christmas last year sat perfectly perpendicular to the side of the bed, ready to be slipped into. Crumbs scattered the space on the ground around them, leftover bits from meals he’d eaten in his room that week instead of eating down the hall – he hated eating in the dining room, the people irritated him. A quick knock sounded at the door before it swung open and a middle-aged woman in scrubs entered.
​
“Hi there! How we doin’ this morning?” The smallest of smiles crept onto the old man’s face.
​
“Never been better, Cheryl.” His voice was dull and monotone, sarcasm tainting it. A breathy chuckle escaped him, amused with himself, as the small grin still fought with his frown.
​
“Cheery as always.” She turned towards the man in the chair who was smiling between the two of them, amused.
​
“Hey Cheryl. He been on his best behavior?” The man grinned at his father.
​
“He’s a tough one, that’s for sure. Aaalways got somethin’ to complain about, don’t ya Mister?” She and the man turned towards the bed, receiving another weak eye roll in response as the old man moved his folded hands from his chest and crossed his arms. His frown had cemented again, but his eyes twinkled with mischief.
​​
“Alright. Help me up, would you?” It was less of a question and more of a demand from the old man. He tried pushing himself up on the headboard, but did so weakly, his shrunken arms shaking under the pressure of his dead weight. Cheryl moved towards the bed, placing her hands on the comforter, pulling it back from his body.
​
She stood there a moment, and the man still struggled to sit completely upright, but she remained still, allowing him space. His son stood up, reaching towards his father to help him, but the nurse stopped his arm in place. Under her breath, she muttered, “Let him do this.” The man stepped back, watching his father shake, his wrinkled face scrunched in frustration as he worked to press his body against the head of the bed. The son’s heart ached for him.
​
It continued to ache as he watched his father grab hold of the nurse as she swung his legs gently over the side of the bed, resting his feet softly on the ground. Bending down, she slid his left foot into a slipper, then the right as the old man’s hands gripped her shoulders. He breathed heavily on the edge of the bed, depleted. Cheryl gave him a second, letting him settle a moment before she asked, “You ready?” as the old man grunted and shook his head, an affirmative action. Slowly, so slowly, the nurse grabbed the man by the waist, his hand still set firmly on her shoulders as she pulled him up so that he was standing.
​
The son watched the nurse hold the old man’s back with firmness but also with care, gripping his hand as he shuffled in his slippers to the private bathroom that was attached to the room. The son observed his father, tilting his head. He looked so much shorter that way, hunched over and gripping onto her like that. His father had always been tall—as a young boy he used to sit atop his shoulders, feeling so high up that he thought he could reach the clouds. They seemed so close from up there. But as he looked at his father in this moment… he could have never touched the clouds with him like this.
​
He waited in his chair by the bed, shifting to the right, crossing his legs. It made the chair creak. Trying to distract himself from the image of his father, he looked back towards the television. The game had ended, news coverage now playing instead. The man frantically reached for the remote, looking to change the channel. His old man didn’t say much these days, but he was always ready to argue with just about anyone over politics. Especially his son.
​
The man flipped to a cartoon instead—the old man was a grump, but he sure loved his cartoons. They used to sit and watch cartoons on Saturday mornings together before the rest of the family got up, before the rest of the world was awake, just eating cereal and talking and watching TV. The man smiled—they had some of their best conversations on those Saturday mornings.
​
As soon as he changed the channel, the sound of shuffling started again and the two of them began to emerge from the bathroom. As they turned the corner, the son locked eyes with his old man and red bloomed in his father’s face. He averted his eyes, embarrassed to be seen as inferior, and looked down at Cheryl’s arm as they slowly made their way back to the bed. Feeling helpless, the man spoke from the chair, standing up.
​
“Could- could I help ma’am? If that’s okay with you.” He gestured towards his old man. “And if that’s okay with you, too, Dad.” He wrung his hands, and his mind worked, unable to understand why helping his father made him so nervous. He felt like a little kid. The nurse nodded along with the old man, though his eyes still couldn’t meet his son’s. He blushed, holding out his hands as his boy grabbed hold of them.
​
“Alright Sir, you buzz for me if you need anything, ‘kay?” Cheryl smiled gently as she met the son’s eyes with a look of reassurance, then turned into the hall, the door clicking as it closed behind her. Both men looked towards the shut door a moment, staring at a phantom Cheryl, having already forgotten how to be alone together in those 20 minutes. The man cleared his throat, looking back at his father.
​
“Ready to lay back down, Dad?” The old man nodded, reaching up and wrapping his arms around his son’s neck, holding on tightly to him as the man grabbed his father’s right leg, pulling it onto the bed. It was lighter than he expected it to be. It felt like bones under his old man’s tattered sweatpants—no skin, just bones. He grabbed the left leg, moving it up onto the mattress alongside the right leg. Arms still wrapped around him, he asked, “Do you want to sit up like this and watch TV or lay down to rest for a while? Whatever you want we can do.”
​
“I’m real tired. I think I wanna just rest for a little bit. Help me lay down, boy.” His son nodded and carefully slid his father’s body down the bed. He slowly removed the old man’s arms from his neck and placed an extra pillow gently underneath his head so that his neck wouldn’t strain if he changed his mind and wanted to watch cartoons, instead. When he pulled his hand away and looked back down at his old man, two eyes looked back up at him.
​
Looking down at him, the man took a moment to really look at his father’s features. They looked so different than they used to. His face was sunken, in part from his wrinkles and from his weight loss since getting sick, so different than his sharp, full face when he was younger. There were brown age spots all over him that hadn’t been there before, and his grey mustache was outgrown and unkempt—it still had crumbs in it from the sandwich he’d eaten for lunch. Dried smoothie stuck to his chin, and the glasses that he’d had for the past 50 years still clung to his face. The man felt a twinge in his chest as he was struck with a memory.
​
---
He'd been seven years old when he caught the flu and had to be sent home early from school. He remembered walking outside and being disappointed to see his father’s truck waiting for him instead of his mother’s car—his father was awkward with horrid bedside manner, and he was awfully sick and just wanted his mommy. The car was warm when he got inside, his father explaining that he didn’t want to be there either, that the boy’s mother had gotten caught up and couldn’t pick him up, so this was the only option.
​
An hour later the boy was groaning on the bathroom floor and vomiting up the rest of his school lunch into the toilet. His father stood there awkwardly, lurking in the doorway and watched as the kid started to dry-heave on his now-empty stomach, tears running down his face as his head clung to the seat of the toilet.
​
“I’m not cut out for this…” the man had muttered under his breath. The smell made him gag. Then, raising his voice, “C’mon champ. I think you got it all out. How ‘bout you lie on down on the couch.” The man picked up his little boy and walked him over to the couch to set him down gently. He left and came back quickly with the boy’s favorite fuzzy blanket, wrapping the kid in it.
​
“Do you want to sit up and watch something or just lay down? All up to you, kiddo.” He said, sitting next to the boy as he placed himself on the edge of the couch.
​
“I’m tired, Daddy. I think I just wanna sleep.” His father had nodded, tousling his son’s hair as he pulled the blanket tighter around the boy’s shoulders.
​“Of course. Your mother will be home soon. Let me um… let me know if you, ya know, need anything.”
​
“Thanks, Daddy. I love you.” He’d remembered his father’s usual frown turning upwards for a moment, a smile seeping through his typical tough exterior. He remembered looking up at him, looking into the coolness of his dark green eyes, and knowing that his dad loved him.
​
---
​
Looking down at him now, the boy saw those same eyes now staring up at him. Deep and green, a shadow cast over them from the baseball cap that still sat atop his head. They looked duller now, like there was less life in them, cloudy almost. The son’s eyes pricked with tears as he and his father looked at each other—it felt like this was the first time he was seeing his dad in years. Really seeing him. And the feeling he had in the bottom of his stomach right now was exactly why he didn’t look at his dad anymore. He didn’t want to see him like this, he couldn’t. Not in this room, in this bed, in this way.
​
The man was about to pull away when a shaking and shriveled hand, came up to the side of his, the old man grabbing the nape of his son’s neck tightly. Green eyes sparkled, tinted with moisture. His cracked lips, covered by his overgrown moustache pursed, a tactic to stop any tears from escaping. With a roughness in his voice, like gravel, the old man spoke.
​
“You’re my boy, ya know that? Thanks for comin’ here… I miss ya when you’re gone.” A pause, a deciding whether to say more. With a quick clearing of his throat, he repeated himself. “You’re my boy.” His son stared at him, mystified by the realness of his words. He scanned his old man’s face again, feeling like a child.
​
Reluctantly, a wrinkled hand lifted from his son’s neck and patted him on the back, the man still perched on the side of the mattress. Shyness lingered in the air. The man, unable to find words in reply, reached down and grabbed his father’s hand firmly, giving it a tight squeeze. The old man squeezed back.
​
Silence followed in the moments after as the men sat quietly, the younger of the two finally standing up with a nod and letting go of the older man’s hand with a second, lighter squeeze. Sitting back in his chair, the man sniffed and crossed his legs again as the old man soon dozed off to sleep, TV droning and clock ticking.
​
---
​
The old man lay in his bed, stirring with the sound of a creaking chair. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light as he started with the peripheral sight of a man in the chair next to his bed. He twisted his neck sideways to get a better look.
​
“You’re up! Have a good nap, Dad?” The voice was deep. Eyebrows crinkling, the old man squinted at the man with a familiar face. He couldn’t place where he’d seen the man before. His eyes glazed over as he stared at him. The visitor in the creaky chair began to frown, noting the confusion on the old man’s face.
​
“When did you get here?” The old man’s voice was sincere. He eyed the “visitor” nametag on the man’s chest. The stranger sighed, defeat splaying on his face.
​
“Dad, I’ve been here all day.” The answer came out in a tired breath. Confusion still painted in his expression, the old man shrugged as he turned to the television, ignoring the man in the chair. His eyes were void and glued to the screen, lost in thought. “Dad?” No answer. There was a quiver in his lip as the visitor stood, grabbing his bag from the floor in a quick motion. “Well, it’s probably time I get going. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
​
The old man turned towards the visitor again, his eyes foggy. He looked through the man standing at the foot of the bed when he said “Bye, bye now.”
​
“Bye, Dad.” It barely escaped as a whisper, the man’s throat coated with emotion as he walked towards the door. He ripped the sticker off his chest and threw it in a trash can just outside the room.
​
The old man watched the stranger leave, the room feeling empty, the chairs feeling lonely. Moments passed as the old man, in a daze, stared straight ahead at the cartoons that played on the screen in front of his bed. He smiled to himself briefly, catching hold of a memory. His son used to love watching cartoons on Saturday mornings before the rest of the family got up. They would sit, curled up on either side of the couch, eating sugary cereals that the boy could only eat when his father was in charge. During the commercial breaks they would sit and talk—they could never talk like that anywhere else, at any other time. The old man frowned at the television. He missed those Saturdays; he missed his son. And, as he lay there, the old man wondered why his son never cared to visit anymore.
​​
​