You walk down the hospital corridor following the signs on the wall, your steps slowing as you get closer to your destination. Eventually you stop. The fluorescent lights above give off a small buzz, and there is a clear, clean, yet slightly medicated scent in the filtered air. Doctors and nurses walk around you as they come in and out of the doors marked “Intensive Care Unit,” but still you don’t budge. 

“Can I help you with something?” A nurse asks, snapping you out of your trance. You say no, apologizing for being in her way, then proceed through the doors to the reception desk. 

There is paperwork and some discussions with the doctor for you to take care of, and you are informed your siblings have already arrived. That you knew. There are a bunch of unread texts on your phone from earlier that day asking where you were, what time you planned to arrive, if you wanted to drive together. You heard your phone dinging all morning as you lay in bed alone, staring at your ceiling, unable to see the usual strange shapes when you squint at the stucco paint. 

Sadness is a given, you think, walking toward the room your father has called home the last few weeks. Everyone is supposed to feel a sense of foreboding in this ward. This is the place people go when they are in bad shape. Where no one is certain of anything yet and pray for good news. Your news wasn’t good. Dad was going to leave, sure, but not back to his 55+ living community with the young nurse he always tried to flirt with, despite her asking him not to do so with a married woman. You and Eliza had already gone to a funeral home earlier that week to inquire about preparations on his behalf, something you had both tried to talk him into doing years ago. But he was stubborn when you were both children, and he is stubborn now, always acting as if he could never die right until the moment he could no longer breathe on his own. 

Eliza is standing inside. You can see her through the window by his door. She is there looking somber, with her hand on Beth’s shoulder. Beth is seated and sobbing. You stare at your sisters, not allowing your eyes to float to the figure in the bed. You haven’t seen Beth in months. Her skin glows bronze with a California tan and she has fresh highlights in her wavy curls. She once jokingly told you if anything happened with Dad it had better happen during her school break so she’d have time to fly out. Part of you is wondering if her tears were her remembering that joke, as she spent her winter break in the cold of the east coast, instead of with her friends on the beach.

Eliza looks more like you, dark skinned, short black hair, thin and tall. People always wonder if the two of you are fraternal twins until they discover the six year age gap. Mom was so happy to have a little girl when Eliza was born. She would make you hold the baby gently in your small arms, and you’d stare down at your sister with curiosity. 

“You have to protect her, Steven,” your mother said. “You are a big brother now. That’s a lot of responsibility.”

And protect her you tried. You turned up the tv volume when Mom and Dad argued. You made up excuses for Dad when he ran out the door at night and would come home stumbling and wake the two of you with the accidental crash of a lamp. 

He shushed the lamp afterwards, whispering, “the kids” at it. 

“Daddy just forgot what time it was,” you said when Eliza glanced up at you from her bed on the opposite end of your bedroom. You didn’t want her to be scared or sad. 

“I’m sure he just got busy,” you reassured one day as she stared at the telephone. Dad was living with his new girlfriend by then, and their young Beth.

He did call the next day wanting to speak to Eliza, but you cut him off with a snap in your tone. “Liz’s not here, Dad, she’s gone to a sleepover today, I know Mom told you.”

Your father let out an exhausted sigh. “Look,” he began, “I can’t keep track of everything going on with you kids, ok? I can only do so much.”

“You promised to call yesterday because you knew she’d be gone today,” you bit back. “She waited by the phone all afternoon!”

“Don’t give me an attitude! I am your father and you will give me the respect I – “

You slammed the receiver down as you’d done so many times before, your whole body shaking in anger. 

The next day Dad showed up, bags in tow from the toy store downtown. A brand new Barbie for Eliza, and a mini indoor basketball set for you. Eliza screamed with joy and he lifted her into a hug. You stood back, admiring your gift. 

“Come on my little man,” your father said, his arms open to you. You gave him a small grin and allowed yourself to fall into his large arms. He smelled like city air, like car oil and a shower after a hard day's work. You could never deny Dad was a hard worker. His hug was as strong and secure as ever. You felt, if you could just stay in that hug, nothing could ever harm you. But then he let go, and the air of the world was sucked in between the two of you, the invisible barrier he somehow never noticed but you always knew was there.

Now here is a literal barrier, a closed door separating you from the three of them. Eliza and Beth always got along. Mom would never let Beth come over to your house, but on the few occasions when your father made the time and space, you and Eliza would sleep over at his new place on the other side of town. A large townhouse with stone steps out front and a foyer bigger than your bedroom. Beth would run over and drag Eliza upstairs to show her the latest whatever in her toy chest, and Gloria, Beth’s mother, would greet you with a hug and a kiss on each cheek after she paid the cab driver who dropped you off. 

“Steven, you look more and more like your father every time I see you,” she’d exclaim in her smooth Spanish accent. “He’s at work right now, but you know you can make yourself at home.” 

She would tell you what food she’d cooked and left in the refrigerator, and then she would run off as well, to some business meeting or nail appointment, or whatever she could get done while a teenager was around to watch the girls. You’d take advantage of the situation and treat yourself to the fun flavored yogurts they had on hand, the kind too pricey for Mom’s budget, and plop yourself in front of the television. Every once in a while you’d listen for a noise from your sisters that indicated if you should check up on them.

Eliza finally notices you standing by the window. She swings the door open and pulls you into her arms. “Stevie, I’m so glad you are here,” she says in a tight voice. You give her a squeeze back in acknowledgment. You then go over to Beth, say hello, and give her a hug from the side while she sits. 

After waiting as long as you can, you finally look over at your father. He is asleep, his chest barely rising as he breathes in through the oxygen tubes in his nose. His dark skin is pale, and he is about as thin as you are for a change. His arm, once muscular, now looks fragile, with an IV feeding him medication to keep him stable. Your mind is blank as you look at him, as blank as it was that morning at the ceiling. 

You hadn’t seen him for years before his heart attack. Every once in a while you would give him a ring, after ignoring a few of his calls until Beth got on your case to pick up the phone. You’d let him ramble on about how he hated his living community, how attractive the nurse was, how Gloria took him for all he had and the way both she and your mother were ungrateful. 

Once his rants were over he would vaguely ask how your work was going and if you were in a relationship. “It’s fine,” and “no,” were your respective answers. Then he’d say how you should get a girl and have kids because children are life’s biggest joy, and you’d mutter some agreement before saying you had to go. A few months later you would call and have the same conversation.

The phone calls always left you feeling a little numb, and numb is how you feel in that hospital room saying your goodbyes. 

“Do you think he’ll wake up one more time, just for a second?” Asks Beth, holding his hand. “Do you think he can hear us?”

“I don’t know,” you answer. 

The minutes seem to last longer in those moments of silence, interrupted with Beth’s small sobs and the slow beep of the bedside cardiac monitor. Eliza only wipes her eyes a couple of times. You know her phone calls with him were similar to the ones you had, though they would last longer because Eliza always makes more of an effort with everything, including one-sided relationships.

Eventually a nurse comes in and says you all must go. Beth’s body shakes with a final cry and she kisses Dad on the forehead, and again on his hand. 

Eliza places her hand on his cheek. “Goodbye Daddy,” she manages to choke out in a hollow voice before turning away. 

Finally it is your turn.

You stare at your father, no words coming out of your mouth. Slowly, with shaking fingers you grab his hand and hold it for a second. For an instant you think you feel him squeeze back, but you aren’t sure if that is your imagination. You let go.

In the parking garage your sisters head toward Eliza’s car while you head toward your own. “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” you say. 

“You can at least pretend to be sad,” Beth calls out. Eliza tries to shush her, but she goes on. “Heaven forbid you show you care on your fathers deathbed.”

You close your eyes and turn to them. “Eliza, please take her home.”

“You can’t even do it now,” Beth shouts, in tears again. “You can’t even properly comfort your baby sisters because of how little you care about him. You could have tried! Tried to convince him to take his heart attack seriously. To talk to him more often. He’s our father for god sakes, how could you stop caring about that?”

You feel the heat rushing to your face as you try to keep your voice steady. “I am not going to explain myself to you anymore, Beth,” you tell her. 

“But maybe this time-“

“There wasn’t going to be a “maybe this time, Beth!” It is Eliza who shouts. 

Beth’s eyes grow wide with shock at her tone, and for a moment you see her the way you did when she was little. When you and Eliza would spend the night at Beth’s home and the two of them would ask you to give Dad a call at work one more time before bed so they could say goodnight.

“Maybe this time he’ll answer,” Beth would say. Or when Eliza was graduating high school. “Maybe this time he’ll come.” Beth was full of an endless stream of maybes for her father, maybes and hopes he can somehow still fulfill, even if she agreed he’d been on life support long enough.

Eliza’s voice is curt and defensive, using an older sibling voice both you and Beth are unaccustomed to hearing. “Dad is who he has always been. He was never going to change. Now stop yelling and get in the car.” Beth seems too taken aback to speak again, and with one more glance from you to Eliza, she bites her lip and trudges to Eliza’s car.

Eliza then looks at you, deep into your eyes which you realize are beginning to sting. She places a hand on each of your shoulders and gives them a squeeze.

  “Go home,” she says, nodding to you with a familiar look. The look of comfort you always tried to give her when you knew she was heartbroken by another one of your parents' disappointments. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” She gives your arms one more firm grasp, then follows after her sister.

Once seated in your car you start the engine, but you do not take the vehicle out of park. You watch Eliza and Beth drive away as you grip the steering wheel tighter and tighter, until your fingers hurt, and a flood of tears start to pour down your face. You let out a yell and slam your hands on the wheel over and over, before allowing your head to collapse down and succumb to your cries. You lean back and stare at the top of your car, finally understanding the grief you feel, and the guilt. Because it isn’t the coming death of your father that bothers you, but the fact that Beth is correct: You don’t care. 

You want to care. So badly do you wish you cared. You tried that morning. You tried while staring at him, barely alive in that bed. You never wanted him to die. You never wished him ill. You never wished him anything. You were used to not having him around. 

Beth will go back to California with a hole in her heart she is unsure how to fill, but the hole in your heart began to close a long time ago. Back when he missed your basketball games. Back when he missed your high school graduation. Back when you helped Eliza save for her first car because Dad said he’d purchase one for her birthday, only to ghost you both for a year and a half. He reappeared one afternoon, commenting on how proud he was that you and Eliza had worked things out together, as if that was his plan all along. 

That hole in your heart was scarred by now, ragged from the amount of times it was torn open, only to be sewn shut again so its emptiness couldn’t cause so much pain.  

But Beth had been wrong too, because you were sad. You were grieving, and you would still be grieving at the funeral. Grieving a relationship you were unsure how to define. Grieving that gap of air that filled the space between you and your father whenever he released you from his arms. 

Your phone is ringing. It’s your mother. 

“Hey, hon,” she begins, “Liz told me to call. You ok?”

You let out a deep sigh. “I’m not sure,” you say. 

“That’s understandable.”

You are both silent before you ask, “Will you be coming to the funeral?”

Mom hesitates. “I don’t know yet. I’m sorry, hon.” Then she adds, “Will Gloria be there?”

“I don’t know.” 

You sniffle and wipe your face. You both stay on the line in silence for another few minutes. 

“Steven,” she says, “I know your father and I had our differences.” She pauses, seeming to search for the right words. “You know he loved you kids, right?”

You stare at the top of your car, noticing the flecks of fluff in the fabric, the differences in the shades of gray. 

“This is my boy, Steven,” Dad would say when he introduced you to any of his friends. “A chip off the old block,” they would reply. And whether you were eight years old or eighteen, Dad would let out a hearty laugh and give you a fond clap on the back. 

You look at your hands, and for a moment you think they are your fathers. You feel a pit in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say, “I know,” and hang up the phone.