Matt Lennox - The Carpenter

By early December, six inches of snow had come to stay. Lee came into the hospital through the visitors’ entrance and went directly into a smoking area encased in glass. He nodded to an old man in a wheelchair who was smoking through a tracheotomy. Lacklustre Christmas garlands hung from the walls. Lee lit a cigarette.

Two hospital volunteers were sitting at a desk near the elevators. They were both old, a woman and a man, she with white-blue hair and he with liver spots on his bald head.

— I’m here to see Irene King, said Lee.

They peered at him. The woman painstakingly consulted a list of patients in a three-ring binder. She said: She’s in room 3B. Amiens Wing.

— I know where she’s at. I’ve been here a few times since she got here.

They gave him a visitor’s pass. He felt them watching after he’d passed by. He hadn’t been in any state of mind to pull together his observations in the short time he’d spent here following Bud’s death, but he felt a revulsion towards the hospital, he suspected because of its institutional nature.

It was in the hospital that he’d been interviewed about the accident by the police and by an investigator from the Ministry of Labour. His parole officer, Wade Larkin, had come for the interviews. It hadn’t taken long to clear Lee of any culpability but that hadn’t left him any more at ease. Clifton was in more trouble, and as his part in the investigation wore on, work had ceased.

Lee took the elevator up to the third floor. Up here were a number of other terminally ill persons. Irene shared her room with an old woman named Mrs. Petrelli, who was dying from pancreatic cancer. She did not speak English and she became talkative only when her son came to visit in the early afternoons. The remainder of the time, she watched the TV in the corner of the room, soap operas or news broadcasts. Irene reported that Mrs. Petrelli had had night terrors on two occasions, had screamed until the nurse came. Mrs. Petrelli’s son said his mother was bombed in Italy as a teenager in the Second World War. Most of her family was killed.

Irene was sitting up in bed wearing a nasal tube, her supper tray on a bed table in front of her. The meal was chicken and peas and it reminded Lee of the meals in prison. He sat down beside her. Under the bed, just at the edge of sight, was a catheter pouch full of urine.

— Did Barry or Donna visit today? said Lee.

— Barry said he would come by.

The television chattered. Mrs. Petrelli moaned.

— You shouldn’t have to share a room, said Lee.

— It’s okay, son. Unless she has her nightmares.

— You should have your own room. Goddammit.

— Lee, now.

He held up his finger.

— Wait, Ma.

Lee went out of the room and found the duty station, where a nurse wearing a cardigan over her scrubs was bent over a clipboard. Lee leaned on the edge of the desk. The nurse asked in a flat voice if she could help him.

— I want my mother to have her own room.

— To whom are you referring, sir?

— Irene King.

— Is there a problem?

— She shares a room with a lady who doesn’t even speak English. My mother is real sick. She should be in a more comfortable way. She shouldn’t have to worry about sharing the TV with nobody or getting woke up in the night.

— I hate to say but it’s not so quick a process. Bed space is always an issue.

— Well, what can you do about that?

— I can recommend a hospice or in-home care.

— Something I’d have to pay for, in other words.

— That’s correct. But I assure you, sir, the comfort of all patients here is very important to us.

— She should have her own room.

— It would be nice if this hospital was twice the size it is, I agree.

Irene had been in the hospital since the last few days of November. Lee had gotten a call from Donna, relayed upstairs through Mr. Yoon. Later he’d heard the whole story from Pete, how Pete had come home late one night from work and found his grandmother on her knees in the bathroom. She was trying to cough quietly. There were bright spots of blood in the sink and in the toilet and on the floor.

Dr. Vijay called it hemoptysis. Some of the cancerous blood vessels had burst in her lungs. The doctor did not think it was necessarily severe, and said it would likely subside on its own. But they needed to discuss a more aggressive treatment, he said. In the meantime, she was to be kept in the hospital.

When Lee went back to the room, he saw that Barry had arrived. Barry had stopped to speak some words with Mrs. Petrelli, standing by her bed and holding one of her skinny hands.

— Si chiamano figlio mio? Egli ha sposato un ebreo.

— God bless you, said Barry, patting her hand.

— Barry, said Lee.

— Hey, Brother Lee.

They went to Irene’s bed. She was looking out the window and her breathing sounded like dirt caught in the gears of a machine. Barry was about to speak but Lee spoke first: We’re looking at getting you your own room, Ma.

— Lee, said Barry.

— That’s what we’re going to do.

— Well, said Barry.

They stayed for awhile. Barry talked about his sons, about Donna, about the Christmas outreach programs Galilee Pentecostal had organized. Meals for the infirm, a gift drive for the empty-handed. Lee sat with his face planted on his fist. He watched how Barry was solicitous in the telling. He badly wanted a cigarette.

— It makes me proud, said Barry.

Irene and Barry were both looking at him.

— Say what?

— I was saying it makes me proud, Lee. How you’ve been keeping your faith since the tragedy. You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.

— You done well, son, said Irene.

— I think maybe it’s time for a prayer, said Barry. He turned to Mrs. Petrelli and asked would she join them in prayer.

— Chiamare l’infermiera. Io sono affamati.

Barry took Mrs. Petrelli’s hand and he took Irene’s hand and he held them. Irene reached her other hand out to Lee and he took it in both of his own. Irene squeezed her eyes shut. Mrs. Petrelli gaped. Barry lowered his head.

— The burdens that are put on us, there’s nothing that’s not intended to strengthen us in Your service.

— Dear Jesus, said Irene.

— The body gets weak but the soul gets stronger.

There were tears collecting at the sides of Irene’s shuttered eyes. She whispered: Oh dear Jesus.

Lee watched his mother, wondering what these words were doing for her. He thought about the Bible, he thought about some of the verses he’d learned, or at least some of what he’d heard chaplains saying-hope in hard times, deliverance in the face of death. They spoke of God as the high tower, God as shelter from the wicked, God as the shield, God as the sword, God as the one who would escort you up from your earthly pain to heaven, where you would be pain-free for the rest of eternity. All you had to do was have faith. But faith in what? In these words? Was his mother squeezing her eyes shut from the words alone? Because all Lee could hear were the words, and they’d never sounded so hollow.

— Amen, said Barry.

— Egli ha sposato un ebreo, said Mrs. Petrelli.

Ten minutes later Lee stood to go. He kissed his mother’s forehead and smoothed back what remained of her hair. He went out and looked at the duty station, but the nurse was gone. Barry caught up with him at the elevator.

— Brother Lee, thank you for coming. It means so much to her.

— It would mean more if we got her into her own room.

— Honestly, I was a little surprised when I heard you say it. I thought we agreed on the arrangements.

— I agreed till I saw the room lately.

— Bed space is a major issue here, Lee.