SMALL COMFORTS

Neal Lulofs

Would we make it? It was a recurring question, a running joke every time I pressed 5. 

“Here goes nothing,” I said with dramatic flair. The elevator doors closed with a familiar clunk. This was followed by a vertical lurch and a deep groan from the building’s bowels.

“Jesus,” my wife said, reaching out with both arms—one seizing my hand, the other grasping the inside of my mother’s arm to steady her. 

We were visiting my father at the hospital. This had been our routine more or less every day for four-and-a-half months, apart from my mother’s earlier bout with COVID-19, which kept her away for almost two weeks. Two weeks where she worried constantly about what would happen if he woke up—or worse—while she wasn’t there.

Deathwatch was how my wife and I referred to the situation, to it, his coma. 

“He knows when we’re here,” my mother said in her Dutch accent, speaking to my reflection in the smudged metal doors. 

“Yes,” Milena agreed in an assuring voice, also eying me in the doors. Even blurred, I knew that look.

Another lurch, and the doors crawled open. “We live another day,” I announced. 

At first, we had slept in the surgical intensive care unit’s waiting room. We’d quickly shower at home, then back to the SICU, where we’d watch TV, read months-old magazines, wander to the cafeteria for another coffee. Wait for some update from a neurologist or others with unpronounceable areas of specialty. 

There had been a sense of urgency, expectations that my father might wake up. 

My mother would latch onto anything remotely positive someone might have told us: He opened his eyes today when I suctioned him. Or: Look, he’s sitting in his chair facing the window. 

But when I was alone with the doctors, they used phrases like traumatic injury, prolonged unconsciousness, limited brain activity, matter of time.

Not awake. Not yet dead. 

Not-life was how I thought of his slow-motion transition.

There was also this: Milena was due to give birth in two months. Our first. The due date coincided with my twenty-sixth birthday.

A boyish-looking pastor around my age doing his weekly visitations—we’d learn later he’d lost a child to cancer—had suggested to us once that it was the circle of life what we were going through. Milena had given me that look again to stop me from saying anything. But at our apartment that night, standing naked in the bathroom, hands on her distended stomach, she was the one who said with a bite, “Circle of fucking life.”

#

A week after the accident, I made plans to meet the attorney my mother had hired at the storage lot where my father’s work truck had been towed. She wanted to take pictures for a potential lawsuit, and I wanted to see if there was anything worth salvaging: house painter’s tools of the trade like a sprayer, brushes, roller skins, perhaps some gallons of intact paint, maybe some work receipts or paperwork he’d kept in the truck. Remnants of what his life looked like that day. 

“Be prepared for what you might see,” she warned me. She wore heels and tip-toed serpentine through the lot, damp and muddy from the previous day's fall rain.

“Yes,” I said. Words to live by. 

The pick-up was set in the back corner of the fenced lot, in between a mangled Toyota and a new-looking Tesla, its front trunk lid open and bent vertically as if to shield its occupants from onlookers, a lone boy’s sneaker lying on its side in the compartment.

“Okay,” the attorney said. “Okay, there it is.” She pulled out her phone and started taking pictures.

Seeing my last name on the side of his truck was a gut punch—DeBoer Painting and Wallpapering. The inside of the enclosed cargo bed looked like abstract art: multicolored paint was splattered across the enclosure's dark flooring, side walls, and roof. A red toolbox lay on its side, its contents spilled onto hardened green paint.

The passenger door and frame had been bent into a crude “V” from the impact with the other vehicle—a large SUV that had run a red light. Fragments of glass were scattered across the seats and floor mats; they flashed when caught by the sun. The seat belt, cut by the paramedics, waved slightly with the breeze, and remnants of two deflated airbags drooped from the steering wheel and dashboard.

“Okay, Jesus,” I heard her say from the other side of the truck. “How are you doing there, Mark?”

The gray seats were sprayed with droplets of blood that looked like paint splatter. A pool of it was visible on the passenger-side door sill. It had trickled down the outside of the truck’s frame, the blood dark red and covered in dust from its exposure in the storage lot.

It was my aunt’s blood. 

He had told my mother he was going out that night to quote a potential new job. He’d showered and shaved after work and put on fresh clothes. No one in my family seemed to know that my father and aunt were out together that night or why. 

“I’ve got what I need,” the attorney said. “You?”

I pictured my father sitting in the driver’s seat that night, upright in the middle of the intersection, motionless as if waiting for the light to turn green. My aunt beside him. Dead.

“Yes,” I told her.

#

They had moved my father from the SICU to a semi-private room on the fifth floor six weeks after the accident. His condition was still considered serious, but there was talk of moving him to an assisted living facility soon or possibly home for hospice care. My mother hated both options, arguing that’s where they sent people to die.

The hospital’s fifth floor seemed to be for the patients they didn’t quite know what to do with. Long-timers coping with strokes, aneurysms, comas, and disorders of other varieties.

The TV in his room was on, always. The nurses had told my mother he might be able to hear it. “There’s so much we don’t know, but there’s no harm,” they’d said. 

They had the first part right.

He had wires taped to him beneath his gown. To help him breathe, a tracheostomy tube protruded from the base of his neck. It was connected to a ventilator that rhythmically pushed air in and out of his lungs, his chest artificially rising and receding, wisps of his moist breath floating toward the ceiling. A half-filled catheter bag hung discretely at the side of his bed, while monitors above conveyed proof of existence: jagged lines and flashing numbers announcing blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels, a pulse. 

He was on display, his condition evident to all of us. It had been overwhelming in the early days, but I had become oblivious to the ubiquitous medical machinations. They were indecipherable from the constant droning that emanated from the television. All part of the surreal, not-life setting, 

“Milena and Mark are here,” my mother told him. She leaned over and stroked his hair. “You should see how big she is getting.” Then she broke into Dutch under the notion that somehow their native language would stimulate his inert brain. “Je wordt opa.” You’re going to be a grandfather.

Despite the uncomfortable circumstances of my father’s accident, my mother believed it was best to ignore it. She told me there’d be time to sort things out once he was awake. 

This was our immigrant family’s remedy, handed down over generations, for a multitude of hardships, pain, and self-inflicted fuckups. Apply as needed. 

In high school, I once found my father and aunt lying together on the living room couch. She had one leg straddled across his thigh and her arms wrapped around him. My uncle was slumped in the chair by the front window, asleep, two empty cans of Old Style on the table next to him.

“Get off my dad,” I said instinctively.

They both laughed without moving. My uncle cracked open his eyes.

My mother was in the kitchen making dinner. “You tell them, Mark,” she called out, a lid slamming onto a pot.

End of discussion. Let’s eat.

#

Milena and I left my mother in my father’s room. It was Tuesday, which meant we had Lamaze class. Conveniently located in a multipurpose room off the hospital’s lobby.

Circle of fucking life.

Milena wore the white maternity top I had bought for her in the early weeks of her pregnancy. It had a yellow Baby on Board graphic made to look like a cautionary road sign. A dozen women and their birth partners were on padded yoga mats or blankets. Milena sat between my legs, leaning back into my chest. Beside her was a folder containing printouts of materials emailed to us each week, the folder gradually expanding in thickness, as was its owner.

The instructor, short, athletic, in pink jogger pants and matching top, paced across the front of the room discussing the different stages of labor, describing what happens in each, pointing out that she’d done this three times, and we could, too.

The object of Lamaze, as far as I could tell, was to respond to discomfort by focusing on something else, almost as if pretending the pain wasn’t real, to convince the mother she could get through it naturally without medication. 

“Natural childbirth is an oxymoron if you think about it,” I suggested to Milena after our first class, which included videos of live births. “What’s natural about having a slimy creature escape from your crotch screaming?”

“Mark,” she said.

We all cope in different ways.

That first class had covered strange terms like Kegel, Braxton Hicks, effacement, effleurage. Yet another foreign language for me to learn.

“Transition is the hardest part,” the instructor told us. “Your cervix is reaching full dilation. Contractions are coming rapidly. You may be nauseous. You may have hot and cold flashes. Your arms or legs may begin to tremble. You may feel pressure in your lower back or rectum.”

 I put my lips next to Milena’s ear. “Sounds like our first date,” I whispered.

“Partners, you can do something during this intense time. It’s called counterpressure,” the instructor said. “The coccyx or tailbone is flexible, and the baby’s head tends to push against it during labor. Not fun. During contractions, you can apply steady pressure with the heel of your hand on the lower back. It’s magical, even if the relief is temporary.” 

She had us practice the maneuver, Milena on all fours, me pressing below the small of her back. “That kind of hurts,” she said into the mat.

 “Didn’t you read the materials? There’s no such thing as pain.”

#

After class, we returned to my father’s room. 

His roommate at the time was a man in his early twenties. A motorcycle accident had left him in a coma for several weeks, but after he’d awakened, they moved him to the fifth floor.  

My mother took it as a sign, seeing that someone in a coma had woken up. She told his parents how lucky they were.

But it was evident to anyone that he was still somewhere in not-life. He didn’t recognize his parents, couldn’t speak, couldn’t feed himself, couldn’t walk. 

He could, however, get an erection, which is how Milena and I found him that evening. He had kicked his sheets off to the side, his hospital gown bunched above his waist, with his penis at full attention.

“Show off,” I said. I pulled the privacy curtain around his bed. “No peaking,” I told Milena. She was at my father’s side, my mother’s arm hooked inside hers.

 “We’ll see you again soon,” I heard Milena say. She touched my father’s arm, her brown skin a contrast against his. 

She had first met my parents at a July Fourth party shortly after we started dating in college. A foot taller, my father looked down on her. “Tell me where you’re from,” he had said.

“Portland.”

“No, I mean, where is your family from?”

She tilted her head. 

I exhaled. “He means your skin. Where is your family from with that brown skin? Ignore him.” 

“My mother is from Peru if that’s what you mean,” she said, taken aback.

My father nodded as if he had uncovered a hidden truth. 

As we left the hospital room, my mother, bundled in her coat, stopped in the doorway. “I liked it better when we could spend the night,” she said. “I hate the thought of him here all alone.”

“The nurses check on him,” Milena told her. 

The lamp above the bed was the only light in the room, my father motionless under its yellow glow, arms pulled to his chest, tiny clouds of breath floating from his tracheostomy.

#

“Is your mother going to be okay?” Milena asked. “After, I mean.”

“After the deathwatch?” 

“Well, yes. How are their financials? There’s the house. The medical bills must be enormous by now. And if they move him to an assisted living facility, does insurance cover that? She only works part-time. And there’s no saying the lawsuit will pan out.” 

We were speaking from different rooms. Milena was in the bathroom, removing her makeup and rubbing an assortment of nightly creams on her skin. I was lying in bed, mindlessly looking at my phone. 

“Good questions,” I called out. “Hell if I know.”

“When’s the last time you spoke with the attorney?”

“Been a while,” I said. “Guess I need to reach out.”

She collapsed into bed next to me. She was wearing a spaghetti strap tank top that left the bottom two-thirds of her stomach exposed. Her skin was stretched tight, her navel turned inside out. A dark pregnancy line disappeared into her underwear. I marveled at how her body seemed to change daily.

“Don’t you think you should have a conversation with her about everything?” she said.

I put my phone on the nightstand and turned off the light. “You know my family. We don’t have conversations.” 

“I know,” she said. “Let’s hope our son is more Hispanic than Dutch.”

“Might not be able to shut him up if that’s the case.”

Milena lay on her side, her back to me. She grasped my hand and placed it on her stomach. “Someone’s awake.” 

It was still hard to fathom that a human being was inside her. I felt a foot pass across my palm. Did the baby recognize my touch?  

Milena rolled over to face me, kissing my forehead, neck, and lips. She removed her underwear, then mine. I couldn’t see her in the dark, but her breathing was heavy and warm as she climbed on top of me, the baby curled between us.

#

For Easter, my mother planned a potluck dinner at the hospital with an entire cast of relatives and friends. 

 “We’re all supposed to pretend this is normal?” I said to Milena when the idea first arose.

“This is normal for us, isn’t it?” she said. “Besides, it’s what your mother wants.”

When we arrived at the hospital on Easter Sunday, my father sat in a contraption that functioned like a reclining chair on wheels. He was usually strapped into the device for a few hours daily to help prevent bed sores. 

After a brief visit, we made our way to a large conference room, which my mother had received permission to use for the dinner. Some friends and neighbors had arrived earlier and set the long rectangular table with paper tablecloths, each with images of small rabbits carrying baskets filled with colored eggs. Matching paper plates and napkins were stacked on a credenza, which featured a bright arrangement of flowers containing a card from some of the hospital staff. Hot plates were set up to warm some dishes, while others went back and forth to use the microwaves in the staff break room.

“Won’t be long now,” my mother’s neighbor told us. Was he referring to the pending birth or the status of the unconscious guy down the hall? “You’re huge,” he noted astutely before wandering away.

“Why do people—men especially—think it’s okay to comment on my size?” Milena said. “To my face! Do they think I’m not aware?”

“Let me mansplain it to you,” I began. 

She put her hand over my mouth. “You’re cuter when you don’t speak.”

My mother spotted us. “No sign of your uncle,” she said.

“He hasn’t been here once in six months,” I reminded her. “If he ever decides to visit, it would probably be to put a pillow over Dad’s face.” My mother looked hurt, and I instantly regretted the crass comment. 

“You have a cruel side to you,” she told me. “Like your father.” Then she announced to the room: “Okay, everyone. Let’s eat.”

“This is nice,” Milena’s mother said to mine, serving mashed potatoes and turkey slices onto her plate. “It’s good to be together in times like these.”

“Yes,” my mother said. “The only one missing is my husband.”

My aunt appeared to be missing, too, but I knew better than to toss that out there.

“I’ll be right back,” my mother announced.

“Shit,” I said. “She’s gone to get my father.”

Milena squeezed my arm. “She wouldn’t, would she?”

A few minutes later, the conference room door began to swing open. I saw the thick black wheels of the wheelchair, the stainless-steel frame clattering against the door. I opened my mouth to protest but stopped before making a complete fool of myself: my mother was pushing a serving cart carrying a large coffee maker and a white cake shaped like a lamb. 

“Almost forgot the best part,” she said.

The door swung closed behind her but immediately bounced open again. 

“Looks like the right room,” a man said. “What’s for dinner?”

It was my uncle.

“You came,” my mother said, her voice catching.

He put an arm around her. “For you,” he said. “That’s all.”

#

A charmer. That’s how my mother thought of my father. That’s how she explained his flirtatious behavior. The charm was inherent in what had attracted her to him, all of eighteen when they started dating. It was simply part of who he was in the same way she was shy and, I supposed she’d say, her son was a wise guy. To be sure, in college, working summers with my father, I’d seen him act that way with some of his house-painting clients, most of whom were women. “Part of the job,” he explained to me.

The evening following my aunt’s memorial service, on his way to being drunk, my uncle told my mother he wasn’t sure which caused him more pain: the likelihood that his wife had cheated on him or that his brother had betrayed him. 

“There’s no comfort in the truth, is there?” I heard her say.

In the weeks that followed, my uncle made it clear he wanted nothing to do with any lawsuit, his bitterness boiling at the surface. Blood money was how he referred to it.

He was older than my father, but their roles had reversed at some point. My father often hired him on jobs when my uncle, a bricklayer mostly, was out of work. He’d loaned him money one year, and they’d argued a few months later at Christmas when my father saw their new television. My uncle pulled out his wallet and threw some bills across the dinner table. A five-dollar bill had twirled like a helicopter seed and landed on my mashed potatoes. When I picked it up, my uncle told me, “Careful, your father won’t ever let you forget where that came from.”

My mother and aunt intervened, and the next day we all went to a movie—my father insisting on paying—like nothing had happened.

#

When I was eleven, I found my father at home one day after school. He was wearing his white painter’s shirt but had changed into dark slacks. I could tell my mother had been crying. 

“Let’s go hit a few,” my father said. He took me to the local Little League field, where I played baseball. He was usually too busy with work to attend my games, but once, he and my mother went to my awards banquet. I had been given a small trophy, as had everyone in the league. On the drive home, he noted with puzzlement how Americans thought their children were all special. That day at the field, this man from the Netherlands did his best to throw me batting practice. A grounder I had hit jumped at him at the last minute and whacked him dead center on the knee. He hopped in a circle and swore in Dutch, wincing and smiling. Afterwards, we went to the Dairy Queen.

“I have something to tell you,” he said. 

I figured something terrible was coming; we had never practiced baseball and gone out for ice cream on a school day before.

“Your grandfather is dead,” he told me. Before I was born, his father had drowned. This was my mother’s dad.

Did I know what death was at that age? He waited for me to be upset, but I’d only met the man once.

My father wiped his mouth with a balled-up napkin. “Finish your ice cream.”

#

The Easter gathering over, we returned to my father’s room. A respiratory therapist had him on his side. She beat rapidly against his back with a cupped hand to loosen the mucus in his lungs, turning him and repeating the procedure on the other side. Then, she used a machine to suction him, shoving a thin, clear hose deep into his tracheostomy tube. He lifted off his pillow slightly as if in pain.

After the therapist had left, my father’s eyes were open, which often happened after any physical stimulation. We encircled him, Milena, my mother, and me, pressing against the bed’s metal railings, the privacy curtain pulled around us. My mother leaned over and dabbed Vaseline onto his lips, one of her tears landing on his cheek. He blinked. It was like he was looking right at her. 

#

That evening, I backed our car into my mother’s driveway to make unloading easier. “Stay for some cake,” she said once inside. “Plenty left.”

While she stepped into the bathroom, the landline telephone rang. My father kept the line because that was the number he used in his old Yellow Pages ads and featured on his work trucks over the years. I answered, the phone’s long, stretched-out cord gathered around my feet. 

“Hello,” a woman said. At first, I thought it was my mother’s attorney. “Is this the Dutch painter? My neighbor gave me your number.” 

I hesitated. My voice seemed to stick in my throat.

The woman breathed slowly into the phone. In and out. Then again, in and out. The sound hissed in the phone’s earpiece. 

Milena was behind me now—how long had she been standing there?—her hands on my shoulders, her bloated belly pressing into my back. 

 The woman’s heavy breaths rose and fell in perfect rhythm. They mimicked my father’s inhalations, controlled by the hospital ventilator. 

Or was it Milena’s breathing I heard? I could feel her now, a whisper on the nape of my neck. 

“He’s dead,” I heard myself say.

The breathing stopped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. How could I have known?” She let out a billowy, heavy sigh. “It’s just that I need my kitchen painted right away,” she explained, disappointment in her voice. 

I heard nails clicking on a tile floor—perhaps a dog hoping for her attention—and the faint sound of a child’s voice, laughter. 

“I understand,” I said.

Milena pressed her swollen midsection against me. The baby shifted at the pressure. A knee or hip rolled across the small of my back, a foot kicking out. 

#    #    #

Neal Lulofs’ stories have appeared in Ascent, Other Voices, Willow Review, and others. An excerpt from a novel in process was a finalist for the Sycamore Review's 2023 Wabash Prize for Fiction. Other excerpts have appeared in Euphemism and the 2023 Central Oregon Writers Guild anthology.

Lulofs is a graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. Born and raised in Illinois, he resides in Bend, Oregon. Visit neallulofs.com.