Variations on a Hospital Bed

Thomas sat down at the antiquated wooden desk. His father blew the dust off the attic-smell ridden piece, and joyfully handed the family heirloom to Thomas the day he started the eighth grade. “Not every eighth grader is a renowned poet,” his father would boast to his colleagues. Doctor Edward Latham was his name. Doctor, what a strange title for someone who grows nauseous at the very sight of hospital reception, Thomas thought. Edward taught English at Elkin Community College and was deeply proud of his son’s aspirations to become the next award-winning poet. After Thomas’s mother passed, Edward invested as much time as he could in his son’s interest—taking him to class or poetry readings in the city. Thomas immersed himself in the art, winning the “Young Poets” prize in a county-wide contest for a composition entitled Torn Hosiery. It was about a memory he held from his mother—a light, comedic piece, before she got sick.

Thomas felt the rough edges of the desk. It looked severely worn, with several scratches, pot holes, and discolorations, as if many ponderous fellows before him had sat at this very desk to compose their own verse. Under the tabletop he felt the gummy textures that had probably been solidified for decades. He glanced at the underside, somewhat hoping it had been inscribed with life’s only truths—perhaps the disparaging reality that all the worldly goals are simple, infantile, and meaningless. There was nothing more, however, than the tar-like gum spots and inappropriate etchings, most likely conceived (disappointingly) from the mind of a boy his age.

“So. What do you think, sport?” Edward said eagerly.

“Well—,” Thomas said tensely, looking a bit confused.

“Well what? This is where your old man started writing.” He patted his son’s meager back, enough to startle him.

“Well, I mean—its left-handed and everything—but that’s fine.” Thomas acted out positions in which he could sit in order to still write with his dominant hand.

A long, arduous sigh crept from within his father’s chest. “Sorry Thomas, I didn’t even think of that.” He sighed again, pathetically, looking out the window eying the neighbor transgress his cluttered yard. He was coming home to a wife and a son, a real, complete family, Edward thought. He was overcome with that homesick feeling he had grown so accustomed to.

He had considered briefly, returning to his old, friendly habit of drinking. Annabelle had demanded sobriety when she became pregnant. Edward chuckled even now, recalling his wife's constant mood swings, the contemptuous yelling during pregnancy. To his amazement, she could turn on a dime and he would find himself encapsulated by the same softness--a gentle, demure side that had attracted Edward to the point of proposal their junior year of college.

Married life was difficult at first. They both worried it was rushed due to the unplanned pregnancy, which they informed Thomas of just a few years previous. He took it surprisingly well. Thomas had always been so mature, above average, and shockingly to his teachers, well read. Edward and Thomas were in the process of writing. They sat at their respective desks on most Saturday afternoons.

"What should we entitle this, Thomas?"

"Variations on a Hospital Bed."

"Variations. I like that Thomas. It’s perfect."

They decided to compile poems about Thomas's mother, as a memoir of the months they spent beside Annabelle, watching her deteriorate before their eyes. Edward's therapist had the idea when Annabelle died and Thomas was secluding himself from his father. "Why don't you express yourselves, together, you know, talk about your feelings, write them down. After all, that is what you both enjoy," he said. With Edward's connections in publishing, he knew it would be a great motivator for his son, who longed to see his own work in print.

Edward watched idly as the young man wrote. What a joy and honor to have such a son, he thought. The loss of Annabelle had compelled father and son to staleness. Laughter was a novelty, and humor was of the outside world. Edward attempted at unmasking the boy's softer side, but made no advances. He was ridden with guilt.

"Museum of Natural History,” Thomas said without looking up.

"What?" Edward asked, confused.

"Mom used to take me there—when I was younger."

"Do—you want to go there?" he said, eager with hope of a final breakthrough with his son. Even death itself is not enough to stand in the way of our relationship, he thought.

"I'll grab my coat and we can—"

"I would prefer to go alone," Thomas mumbled.

Defeated, Edward slumped in his seat as his son passed through the front door on the lower level of the failing apartment. Edward rose and stepped quickly to the window, his last effort.

“Thomas, Thomas,” he said conclusively, “You need some money, wait there.”

He turned to jog downstairs when he froze. The yelp of the dog and squealing brakes would be embedded in his mind in the ensuing hours. Peripherally, he saw the blurred bodies gathering in the reflection of the mirror. Trembling, he put one foot after another as he crept down the stairs, his weight on the banister. He opened the door and the daylight fell on his face, everything blank until his eyes adjusted. Smoke rose from the vents of the bus. Passengers stood in a round, some on their phones. The blood pooled around Thomas’s head. A man knelt beside him, declared his demise; still, no tears. A limping dog approached Edward with apologetic eyes.

“Your son saved our dog,” the neighbor said.

“A dog? A dog. So that is it,” Edward murmured, in shock. His hands coursed through his hair as he dropped to his knees in the center of the round.

A memoir of a woman’s death sat, unmoving on the desk upstairs.

It was October. The cool winds began to carry the dry, curling leaves off the trees.