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On October 30th, 1997 the phone rang in my new studio apartment.

“Hello?”

“Heather, its Ross. My father collapsed in High Park.”

“Oh God. I’m so sorry. I’ll come right over. Is he going to be okay?”

“Just stay where you are. I have to go over to St. Joes. It’s not good Heather.
He was dead for ten minutes. They broke his ribs trying to revive him.”

“Ross I’m coming over right now. Did you call your sister?”

“I said stay where you are. I’ll call you from the hospital.”

“Okay. It’ll be okay Ross. I’ll clean up the paint and wait for you.”

“Heather, it’s not okay. He was dead for ten minutes. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hear the click and hum coming from Ross’s line. I feel sick, tired, confused and lonely. I dial my mother’s house. My mother’s phone rings and rings. I phone my sister’s work.

“Sandra? It’s Heather. George’s in the hospital. It doesn’t look good. He uhm collapsed in High Park. He was dead for ten minutes before they got to him.”

“Oh God Heather. I’m so sorry.” Sandra cries.

“Sandra, I never told him I loved him. Sandra, I treated him like shit.” My voice cracks. I cry.

“Heather he knew you loved him. You made his house a home. Is he uh…still alive?”

I wipe the tears from my face with the back of my hand.

“He’s still alive. He’s at St. Joes. Ross is gone to see him. Call mom for me. I can’t talk anymore. I have to go.”

“Sandra?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

I hang the phone up and push hair back from my face. My apartment is bare except for the paint cans and a mirror. I bend down and pick up a paint tray from the floor. I catch my reflection in the mirror. I bend down on my knees and stare at my face. I talk to my reflection.

“Oh God George. I’m so sorry. You gave me everything.”

I cry. Purple paint, white paint and tears smear my face. I haven’t slept for days. My eyes are red and puffy. My hair is dirty, bushy and thick. I pull my knees close to my chest and rock myself. I wonder if I have caused his collapse.

George and I talked in the morning. We hadn’t spoken for days. I am leaving Ross. Ross is George’s son. For ten years the three of us have lived together. George asked me to come back and visit the cat. I smiled and said “My apartment isn’t too far. I’ll visit all the time.” George smiled and nodded.

I rock myself in front of the mirror and think about our conversation. The phone rings, I push my body up from the floor, walkover to the counter and pick-up the receiver.

“Aww God love ya. Blessed Virgin Mary, I can’t take anymore bad news.” My mother is on the other end of the line.

“Mom. I’m really going to miss him. I didn’t think I would.”

“I know love. Your sister told me what happened. God bless that man. He was a really good man.”

“Mom. He’s not dead yet.”

“No love he’s not. I’ll say a prayer for him. Your sister and I will do anything you want. We’ll come over and help you get the house ready. Do you need me there now? Even if it’s only to make you a meal and clean-up.”

“No mom. Thanks. I have to go now. I’ll call you if I need anything. When I get to the hospital I’ll phone you and let you know what’s happening.” Tears flow down my face.

“Mom?”

“Yes love?”

“I love you.”

I hang up the phone, put away the paint, wash my face and get dressed. Ross picks me up at my apartment; we drive to the hospital and take the elevator to the fifth floor. Ross’s family sits in the waiting room. A tiny old woman sitting in a chair rocks herself and wails. I stare at her and then at Ross’s family. A young doctor walks in and asks us if we are related to George. We all nod yes. Ross’s sister and brother walk out of the waiting room. I wait and watch the tiny woman wailing. A pregnant woman in pajamas and slippers holds the woman and rocks. The two women speak Polish. George is Polish. Ross’s sister and brother walk into the waiting room. I take Ross’s hand and walk to the intensive care ward. The electronic doors ‘swish’ as we go through them. We walk through the ward and stare at the patients. Thin tubes and hoses hook up to each patient. Beeping and blinking monitors stand above the patients. Ross let’s my hand go and walks to the nurses desk.

“I’m looking George Kaminski.” Ross’s voice is low and choked.
“Your relationship?” The short Filipino nurse looks at us.
“I’m his son and this is my wife.”

The nurse points to the blue curtained area that is diagonal to the nurses’ station. Ross and I walk over to the bed. George’s chest moves up and down in a forced motion. His face and hands are bloated. His neck is purple and bruised. George’s monitor bleeps and blinks, Ross cries, I stand back and watch. Ross gently puts his hand on his fathers’ shoulder and says ‘Good-bye’. I watch as Ross walks over to the young Doctor.

“My father would have never wanted this. My father is eighty-one years old. He never wanted to be hooked-up to this shit. He never spent anytime in a hospital.”

The doctor smiles. I feel like hitting the doctor.

“Your father is a strong man. The heart attack wasn’t that bad. We’ll find out more about any neurological damage tomorrow.”

Ross’s head bends down and he walks away. I am left with George and the young Doctor. I walk over to George and look for his hand under the white and blue sheets. I bend down and whisper into George’s ear. I tell George I love him, that I always loved him, and that I’m sorry that I didn’t have the courage to tell him until now. I take a small plastic cat out of my coat pocket and fold it into his hand. I whisper in his ear again and tell him that’s time for him to go. I promise him that I’ll watch over Ross and the cat. That Helen, his wife, is waiting for him. I let go of George’s hand and walk over to the smiling Doctor.

“Does the family have a choice about recitation?”
“As I told your husband the heart attack wasn’t ….”
“The man was dead for ten minutes. This isn’t what he wants. Does the family have a choice?”
“We won’t know about the neurological damage until tomorrow.”
“Does the family have a choice?”
The Doctor stops smiling “Yes.”

I turn and walk away from the Doctor, out through the swishing door, past the beeps, bleeps, hoses and tubes. I go home to George’s house. The tests show that George has severe neurological damage. The family request that he be taken off life support. George dies on October 31st 1997. Ross and I are the last ones to see his dead body. I feel numb.

Over the next couple of days the funeral arrangements are made, the flowers ordered, the house cleaned and the news broken. I feel numb and angry. I don’t sleep. I wander around the house looking at George’s things. When George was alive, I wished he was dead. George never bathed; he fried pork and onions 7:00am every morning, he watched the T.V. too long, too loud and he rarely left the house. I cleaned up, washed up and cooked for George Kaminski. I felt he was the cause of my separation with Ross. Ross and I wanted to move but George was eighty-one. Now Ross and I are alone. I am moving out.

The night before the visitation I throw a heavy box of coins on the floor. I yell at Ross, I cry and I scream. After ten years, I realize I know nothing about George Kaminski.

I sleep and wake to the next day. I wander around the house and stare at Ross.

Ross goes through George’s things and finds a phone list. On the phone list the name Wanda is printed. Ross phones his sister and asks if he should call Wanda too let her know. They decide not to call Wanda. For ten years we lived here and never heard of a woman named Wanda.

The day of the visitation arrives. Flowers surround the closed casket. I am surprised by the amount of flowers. We put together two picture boards of George’s life. The photographs are of his days in the army, his family and friends. I stand with the family and talk about George. People ask me if the house is quiet without him. I tell them, “Yes, it’s very quiet”. It’s still early and only a few people have arrived. A woman walks into the funeral parlour and cries. I walk over to the crying woman and introduce myself. She takes my hand and tells me her name is Wanda. Wanda’s face and hands are smooth and refined. Her hair is dyed blonde and swept in a bun.

“When I saw the obituary I screamed.” Wanda shakes her head and cries.
“George was such a good man. Every two weeks we got together. That man always took care of me. Thirteen years ago when I was going through some problems he stayed with me for three days.” Wanda shakes her head and cries again.

I smile and think about all the times I wished he would go out. I wanted Ross alone. I smile again. George was probably waiting for us to go out. He wanted Wanda alone.

The day after the funeral I help Ross go through the bills in George’s room. I find the phone list with Wanda’s number on it. I smile. The paper is yellow and brittle. On the paper is George’s Doctor’s number, Wanda’s number, his daughters’ number and at the very bottom is my new apartment number. Beside the phone list is a card. I gave George the card a few years back. I sit on George’s bed and read the card; ‘Dear George, Thank-you for always being patient and kind. You have always made me feel a part of your family. Love always, Heather’.

 

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