Peter searched the crowded hospital lobby for his father. Warm afternoon light streamed through the high windows, glinting off the polished marble floor, flashing through the constant eddy of people, the burble of their voices. It all reminded him of a train station in some far away land. Except no one wanted to be there, especially not him.

In the waiting area, three African women wearing hijab watched their children play on a patch of worn carpet. A frail old Asian man paced in front of an unmarked door, Bible clutched to his chest. At the information desk, a tattooed white kid in a wheelchair gabbed on the courtesy phone while he admired his propped-up leg, bristling with orthopedic hardware.

And there he was, silhouetted against the high window, sitting on a bench with a newspaper.

Peter made his way through the crowd.

His father brought the two halves of the newspaper together, lowered it, and looked up over the rims of his stylish glasses. "Hello there," he said in his smoker's baritone.

The man looked younger than he had at the funeral. His gray beard and hair were neatly trimmed, and his usually sallow skin had taken on a suspicious ruddiness. He set aside his newspaper and stood.

At seventy-one, Daniel Barshman remained a handsome figure, tall and lean. He wore the standard uniform of a university professor: penny loafers, khakis, pale-blue Oxford shirt, and a tweed jacket two elbow patches shy of cliché.

He put his left hand on Peter's shoulder and smiled, their eyes nearly level. The odor of cigarettes and cologne wafted over. "It's so good to see you."

Peter glanced at the tobacco-stained fingers clutching his shoulder. The man still wore his wedding band, plain and gray. On his bony wrist hung a cheap watch. It had a round, white face, black Roman numerals, and a red second hand. Peter recognized it immediately. He had bought it one Father's Day, eons ago.

Before Peter could see if the watch was still ticking, his father doubled over in a fit of coughing, one hand on his knee, the other balled up over his pursed lips. When it was over, he stood straight, smoothed down his jacket, and cleared his throat. "A man reaps what he sows."

They headed to the basement cafeteria, got some coffee, and found a quiet table near the back. Neither of them had an appetite. As they sipped, Peter's father glanced across the cafeteria toward a side room where the hospital's monthly blood drive was getting underway.

Then he set down his coffee.

Peter held his breath, steeling himself for whatever it was his father thought so important that he had to say it in person.

"Well, I've finally retired."

That was it?

"Voluntarily," he added.

Professor Daniel Barshman had been censured by the university for engaging in unprofessional relationships with his female grad students. Apparently, it had gone on for years. Peter had no idea. His mother kept it from him until the end, when she was dying from ovarian cancer. Such a Norwegian thing to do. That was seven months ago.

"Congratulations," said Peter, taking a sip. "Is that what you wanted to tell me?"

"No, no." He took in a preparatory breath and let it out. "I've been thinking a lot lately, travelling too. In fact, I just returned from a trip to Israel."

"Israel? What, like a pilgrimage?"

"No. I haven't gone to mass in years. You know that."

"Did you go alone?"

"Why do you ask?"

Anna had seen him with a woman, a much younger woman. "You said you had something important to tell me, so if it's not your retirement, what is it?"

Daniel Barshman's dark-brown eyes narrowed. "You think I've met someone new?"

"Have you?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

He set aside his glasses, rested his palms flat on the table, and stared down into his coffee cup. He took two deep breaths. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry for everything I put your mother through." He looked up, his eyes flooded, his face ruddy with shame. "God knows I said it to her a thousand times before she died."

Peter turned away, jaw clenched. Yet a lump of remorse swelled at the back of his throat.

Daniel Barshman reached across the table and laid his warm hand on his son's. "I think about her every day."

Peter spoke to the wall. "Jesus, Dad. Stop."

A second hand joined the first. "Do you remember those summer afternoons, back when you were little? She used to take you to the music library on campus. Then we'd meet up after I was done with lectures and you'd show me all the record albums you two had checked out."

Peter extracted his hands, wiped his eyes, and turned to face his father. "I remember." He smiled at the memory. "She made me record them all onto cassette tapes."

"I found some of those tapes the other day. They're mostly classical recordings. Grieg was always her favorite."

"The rest are in her car."

"Is that thing still running?"

Peter nodded.

"Do you remember when we drove it to Oregon and visited that Native American man?"

"Yeah, a little. That's when Mom taught me to fly fish, right?"

"Norwegians and their damn fishing." He put his glasses back on and peered across the cafeteria at the line of people waiting to donate blood. "So, the real reason I asked to meet you here, on this particular day, is that I wanted us to do something together. Something for your mom, actually."

"Like what?"

"Do you remember all the blood transfusions she needed?"

Peter would never forget those final days. The ovarian cancer had triggered something called hemolytic anemia. She needed blood transfusions around the clock. "What about them?"

"Well, that blood came from somewhere, you know. So I decided to become a donor. At first, I worried I wasn't healthy enough, but they said my red cell counts were fine, a little on the high side, actually."

"You know that's because you have emphysema, right? It's your body's response to lack of oxygen."

"I know that." He jutted his beard at the blood drive. "But they don't."

Paperwork completed, both men lay on adjacent cots. Daniel Barshman reclined with his eyes closed, arm outstretched, palm up, the dull gray wedding band a little loose on his ring finger. Peter looked away as the phlebotomist unsheathed a harpoon of a needle.

When his own turn came, he hardly felt a thing. But at the edge of his vision, he saw the claret vine curling from his arm and blossoming into the collection bag. For a moment, he wondered why God had given such brilliant color to something not meant for the light of day. Then he passed out.

_________________

Photo: Harborview Medical Center, Seattle, WA, USA, formerly King County Hospital.

Photo credit: Jean Sherrard

https://pauldorpat.com/2011/01/22/seattle-now-then-harborview-from-smith-tower/