Baggage - fiction

by Julee Balko

Sylvie knew as soon as her dad handed her the bag that he was dying. But she smiled anyway and put the brown wrinkled grocery bag on top of her closet shelf. The bag contained three boxer shorts neatly folded, a pair of slacks, three pairs of navy socks, two worn tee-shirts with college sports mascots on them, and a long sleeve golf pull-over.

Her dad hated how the airlines charged extra for baggage. So, on this trip, he brought none, but instead wore five extra layers of clothing. One for each day he would be spending with her. The plane ride was uncomfortable, his thick legs did not bend easily under the additional layers, but the glee of his practicality overcame his discomfort.

“Next time,” he said, as he handed Sylvie the bag, “I’ll have these clothes here.”

 And they both smiled at each other with only their eyes giving away that the words “next time” were a lie.

Sylvie knew that the bag would gather dust. She knew she would never move it.

She looked at it every day until two months later he called to say he was in the hospital.

The trip home was a 2.5-hour plane ride. But the trip through the odd smells of the hospital halls felt much longer. Those hallways. Filled with doctors in blue, nurses in magenta, and patients, family members, and caretakers of all kinds. They all walked with a different gait. As if hospitals changed your spine and your body didn’t work as it once did.

Sylvie’s father was in room 204. She smiled because she had an affinity for even numbers. Prime numbers only came with discomfort. The door was shut. She took a deep breath and knocked quietly before she went in. His curtain was closed but she could hear the nurse telling him his temperature was still high, they were giving him extra fluids. The nurse’s voice was two-octaves sweeter than it needed to be, but Sylvie felt grateful for the sugar the nurse added to her voice. The nurse came around the curtain and gave Sylvie a knowing smile but she didn’t make eye contact. Sylvie understood. It must get tiresome watching families whither.

Sylvie sat down on the blue not-quite-leather chair and smiled at her dad.

“You’re here,” he said with enthusiasm as if they were about to do something fun. Like take in a ballgame or go to a restaurant.

“Of course, dad,” Sylvie said. She wanted to touch his hand and hold it so her hands could communicate what she couldn’t. But they weren’t a family that did such things.

“What do you want to watch? There are a lot of channels.” Her dad overselling the hospital’s TV selection like it was some fancy hotel.

“Whatever you want to watch works for me,” Sylvie said even though she knew he’d put on ESPN.

“Cubs aren’t doing as great as they could,” her dad’s tone shifted to a disappointed father as if all the sports team were his children not quite reaching their potential.

“Oh yeah,” Sylvie replied trying to sound interested even though the only time she watched sports was with her father. Their relationship was like this, built on little fibs that lasted over 45 years.

The drone of the sports talk show turned into the drone of her dad’s snoring. His mouth opened a little but his face looked at peace. How often they’d be talking when she was younger and he’d sit down in a chair and while she was telling him something he would nod off. Sylvie would just stuff the words back inside herself quietly.

Sylvie was about 14 inches away from her father’s hospital bed. But she could feel the distance. Years too complicated and yet too simple to explain lied between them. Sylvie could picture the space between the chair and the bed rail, an invisible air bridge that held their whole relationship and love. Because there was love. Even though they didn’t speak of it. Saying it felt too big for their world. A world that never quite came back to shape after Sylvie lost her mother so many years ago. They were left with Thanksgiving meals purchased from a grocery store that never tasted warm.

The doctor came in and indicated that he wanted to talk to Sylvie out in the hall.

 “Your dad’s leukemia numbers are extremely high,” the doctor said.

“We knew this was coming. I understand what’s next.” She said these words braver than she felt.

“His kidneys and liver are shutting down. We tried to drain some of the fluid. Our goal now is to keep him comfortable. Has someone talked to you about hospice.” How easily the doctor went from symptoms to services of death.

“Yes, the nurse gave me a brochure.” Sylvie had leafed through the brochure earlier and felt guilty to be looking at it so near to her father’s warm body.

“I don’t know if it’ll come to that. We don’t know the timing of these things,” the doctor said.

“The timing of these things is my father,” Sylvie thought to herself.

“Do you have any questions,” the doctor asked.

Yes, Sylvie did. But no Sylvie did not. She shook her head and the doctor walked away on to the next.

When she returned to her seat the blue leather made a small ripple sound and her father woke up and said, “What? What did I miss?” Sylvie touched his wrist lightly, the only place that seemed right to touch and said, “nothing dad. Go back to sleep. It’s ok.”

She removed her hand as sleep took him back.

The next day she received a white plastic hospital bag with his things after he had passed. It was small enough to fit into her suitcase. She knew he’d be pleased.