Dad has been here for almost two weeks. He was brought in right after his first embolic stroke at work. I freaked out really hard, and before I went ahead and signed off on Dad’s contact information being uploaded into the hospital’s database, I spent the night of his admittance praying his cell phone wouldn’t ring. Now, I’m finally free of the anxiety that Dr. Quintana might call to notify me my dad is going to die, and it’s good to know Dad has at least another day in him; hopefully way more than one.

I show a nurse my visitor pass and bullet straight into Dad’s room. He’s very still, as machines are breathing for him. I’m close to breaking down because my dad might wake up to a world without me, and I won’t be around to comfort him. But I don’t break. I sit down beside him, sliding my hand under his, and rest my head on our hands. The last time I cried was the first night at the hospital—when things were looking really grim as we approached midnight. I swore he was minutes away from death.

I hate to admit it, but I’m a little frustrated Dad is not awake right now. He was there when my mother brought me into this life and when she left us, and he should be here for me now. Everything is going to change for him without me: no more dinners where instead of telling me about his day he would go on remembering the trials my mother put him through before she finally agreed to marry him, and how the love they shared was worth it while it lasted; he’ll have to put away the invisible pad he would whip out whenever I said something stupid as a promise to embarrass me in front of my future children, even though I never really saw kids as part of my future; and he’ll stop being a father, or at least won’t have anyone to parent.

I release Dad’s hand, grab a pen that’s on his bedside chest of drawers, pull out our photo, and write on the back of it with an unsteady hand:

Thank you for everything, Dad.

I’ll be brave, and I’ll be okay.

I love you from here to there.

Mateo

I leave the photo on top of the chest.

Someone knocks on the door. I turn, expecting Rufus, but it’s Dad’s nurse, Elizabeth. Elizabeth has been taking care of Dad during the night shift, and she’s always so patient with me whenever I call the hospital for updates. “Mateo?” She eyes me mournfully; she must know.

“Hi, Elizabeth.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt. How are you feeling? Would you like me to call down to the cafeteria and see if they’ve put the Jell-O out yet?”

Yeah, she definitely knows.

“No, thank you.” I focus on Dad again, how vulnerable and still he is. “How’s he doing?”

“Stable. Nothing for you to worry about. He’s in good hands, Mateo.”

“I know.”

I tap my fingers on Dad’s chest of drawers, where his house keys, wallet, and clothes are. I know I have to say goodbye. Never mind that Rufus is out there waiting for me—Dad never would’ve wanted me spending my End Day in this room, even if he were awake. “You know about me, right?”

“Yes.” Elizabeth covers Dad’s skinny body with a new sheet.

“It isn’t fair. I don’t want to leave without hearing his voice.”

Elizabeth is on the opposite side of the bed, her back to the window while mine is toward the door. “Can you tell me a little bit about him? I’ve been taking care of him for a couple weeks and all I know about his personal life is he wears mismatched socks and has a great son.”

I hope Elizabeth isn’t asking this because she doesn’t think Dad will wake up to tell her himself. I don’t want Dad dying soon after I do. He once told me that stories can make someone immortal as long as someone else is willing to listen. I want him to keep me alive the same way he did my mother.

“Dad loves creating lists. He wanted me to start a blog for his lists. He thought we’d become rich and famous, and that commenters would request special lists. He even believed he’d finally get on TV because of the lists. Appearing on TV has been a dream of his since he was a kid. I never had the heart to tell him his lists weren’t that funny, but I liked seeing how his mind worked so I was happy whenever he gave me a new one to read. He was a really great storyteller. It sometimes feels like whiplash, like I was walking on the Coney Island beach with him where he proposed to my mother the first time—”

“The first time?”

Rufus. I turn and find him standing in the doorway.

“Sorry to eavesdrop. I was checking in on you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Come in,” I say. “Elizabeth, this is Rufus, he’s my . . . he’s my Last Friend.” I hope he’s actually telling the truth, how he wanted to see how I was doing, and not that he’s here to say goodbye and suggest we go our separate ways.

Rufus leans against the wall with folded arms. “So: this proposal?”

“My mother turned him down twice. He said she liked playing hard to get. Then she found out she was pregnant with me and he got down on one knee in the bathroom and she smiled and said yes.”

I really like that moment.

I know I wasn’t there, but the memory I’ve created in my head over the years is crystal clear. I don’t know exactly what that bathroom looked like, since it was in their first, shoebox-sized apartment, but Dad always commented on how the walls were a muted gold, which I always took to mean aged yellow, and he said the floor tiles were checkered. And then there’s my mother, who comes alive for me in his stories. In this particular one she’s laughing and crying about making sure I’m not brought into this world a bastard, because of her family’s traditions. It never would’ve mattered to me in the long run. The whole bastard thing is stupid.

“Sweetie, I wish I could wake him up for you. I really do.”

Too bad life doesn’t allow us to turn its gears, like a clock, when we need more time. “Can I have ten minutes alone? I think I know how I can say bye.”

“Take your time, dude,” Rufus says. It’s surprising and generous.

“No,” I say. “Give me ten minutes and come get me.”

Rufus nods. “You got it.”

Elizabeth rests a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be out by the front desk if you need anything.”

Elizabeth and Rufus leave. The door closes behind them.

I hold Dad’s hand. “It’s time I tell you a story for once. You were always asking me—begging me, sometimes—to tell you more about my life and how my day was, and I always shut down. But me talking is all we’ve got now, and I’m crossing my fingers and toes and unmentionables that you can hear me.” I grip his hand, wishing he’d squeeze back.

“Dad, I . . .”

I was raised to be honest, but the truth can be complicated. It doesn’t matter if the truth won’t make a mess, sometimes the words don’t come out until you’re alone. Even that’s not guaranteed. Sometimes the truth is a secret you’re keeping from yourself because living a lie is easier.

I hum “Take This Waltz” by the late Leonard Cohen, one of those songs that never apply to me but help me lose myself anyway. I sing the lyrics I do remember, stumbling over some words and repeating others out of place, but it’s a song Dad loved and I hope he hears me singing it since he can’t.