The acrid scent of medications, loose bowels, and disinfectant engulfed us as Jeanne, my mother-in-law, opened the front door of the stately grey colonial in Connecticut where she and Bob, her husband had lived for twenty-five years. Deep lines framed her violet eyes. Beneath them lay circles dark from lack of sleep. Although it was a sunny June day, the air in the house was stifling and stale.

“Mom, it’s a thousand degrees in here. Can we open some windows?” Tim asked.

Jeanne pulled him in to a hug.

“Your dad gets so cold now. He’s having a rest. He’ll be up soon. Let’s go inside.”

Tim and I, along with our three children, followed Jeanne into the large kitchen and family room that normally opened on to the terrace and great yard beyond. On that day, however, the drapes were drawn so that the room was bathed in dim light. Large pillboxes with compartments lined the kitchen counter along with half-drunk mugs of tepid tea. We tried to ignore the sleeping form slumped in the hospital bed next to the windows—incongruous with memories of other family gatherings.

Tom, our twelve-year-old son, grabbed my arm, panic in his eyes. Tom connected on a cellular level with his grandfather. When Tom was a toddler, Bob read him his favorite books about trucks and whales. Bob watched Finding Nemo with Tom again and again. As Tom grew up, Bob always fostered his deep curiosity and interests in anything from coin collecting to astronomy to fishing to history. Perhaps, Bob, with his expansive mind and probing intellect, saw something of himself in Tom.

“Mom, what is that smell? Can I go outside?”

“Thomas,” I hissed, “You may go outside but give it a few minutes.”

“I can’t, Mom. Please . . .”

I couldn’t protect Tom from the wasted shell of his beloved grandfather. I glanced at Jeanne.

“Tom is going to take the dog for a run in the yard.”

“Wally would love that, Tom.” Jeanne said, holding my gaze.

Tom skedaddled out the door with the goofy, golden lab bounding behind him, and James, his younger brother, running to catch up. Tim and his two brothers prepared a classic barbeque. The scent of sizzling meat breezed in—a holocaust to the gods. Tom, James and their cousins ran around the yard with the dog, shouting and laughing. Katie, our oldest, sat with Jeanne in the kitchen; their backs turned away from the family room. They chatted, with Katie filling Jeanne in on life in high school like any other family gathering.

“Papa, what do you want to eat? Ribs? A burger?” One of Tim’s brothers, Paul, called to Bob.

Bob stirred and tried to sit up. Jeanne strode to his side and pressed the button to raise the bed.

“Bob, do you want anything to eat?” Jeanne asked again.

Bob shook his head and whispered, “Thirsty.” Jeanne held a cup of water and placed the straw on his parched lips.

“Not now, Paul. Maybe in a little while.” Jeanne said.

Paul’s shoulders slumped as he returned to the grill.

I walked to the bed and sat on its edge. I took Bob’s yellowed hand in mine. His blue veins seemed to glow through his paper-like skin. I ran my hand across his broad forehead, brushing the white tufts of what remained of his hair to the side. Bob looked up at me with rheumy eyes, seeing far beyond these walls.

“Home,” he rasped, “Tell Jeanne, I’m going home to Babylon. I want to go home.”

“I’ll tell her. You can go home, Bob.” I whispered, swallowing the lump in my throat. He closed his eyes and squeezed my hand. I kissed his cool forehead, stood and wiped my eyes.

As the shadows lengthened, one by one, sons, wives, and grandchildren passed by the bed and did the same—leaving a kiss, a whisper, a benediction.

By Christine Corrigan

From: United States

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