A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers Page B

he know? Did he tell you? What did he say about all this?
    We ask Les if he ’ ll come for dinner sometime. He says yes, of course. Just call, whenever.
    I did not know that the last time I saw my father would be the last time I would see my father. He was in intensive care. I had come up from college to visit, but because it had been so soon after his diagnosis, I didn ’ t make much of it. He was expected to undergo some tests and treatment, get his strength back, and return home in a few days. I had come to the hospital with my mother, Beth, and Toph. The door to my father ’ s room was closed. We pushed it open, heavy, and inside he was smoking. In intensive care. The windows were closed and the haze was thick, the stench unbelievable, and in the midst of it all was my father, looking happy to see us.
    No one talked much. We stayed for maybe ten minutes, huddled on the far side of the room, attempting as best we could to stay away from the smoke. Toph was hiding behind me. Two green lights on the machine next to my father blinked, alternately, on, off, on, off. A red light stayed steady, red.
    My father was reclining on the bed, propped against two pillows. His legs were crossed casually, and he had his hands clasped behind his head. He was grinning like he had won the biggest award there ever was.
    After a night in the emergency room and after a day in intensive care, she is in a good room, a huge room with huge windows.
    “ This is the death room, ” Beth says. “ Look, they give you all this space, room for relatives, room to sleep... ”
    There is another bed in the room, a big couch that folds out, and we are all in the bed, fully dressed. I forgot to change my pants before we left the house, and the stain from the spill is brown, with black edges. It is late. Mom is asleep. Toph is asleep. The foldout bed is not comfortable. The metal bars under the mattress dig.
    A light above her bed is kept on, creating a much-too-dramatic amber halo around her head. A machine behind her bed looks like an accordion, but is light blue. It is vertical and stretches and compresses, making a sucking sound. There is that sound, and the sound of her breathing, and the humming from other machines, and the humming from the heater, and Toph ’ s breathing, close and constant. Mom ’ s breaths are desperate, irregular.
    “ Toph snores, ” Beth says.
    “ I know, ” I say.
    “ Are kids supposed to snore? ” “ I don ’ t know. ”
    “ Listen to her breathing. It ’ s so uneven. It takes so long for every breath. ”
    “ It ’ s terrifying. ”
    “ Yeah. It ’ s like twenty seconds sometimes. ”
    “ It ’ s fucking nuts. ”
    “ Toph kicks in his sleep. ”
    “ I know. ”
    “ Look at him. Out cold. ”
    “ I know. ”
    “ He needs a haircut. ”
    “ Yeah. ”
    “ Nice room. ”
    “ Yeah. ”
    “ No TV, though. ”
    “ Yeah, that ’ s weird. ”
    After most of the guests left, Kirsten and I had gone into my parents ’ bathroom. The bed would squeak, and we didn ’ t really want to sleep there anyway, the way it smelled, like my father, the pillows and walls soaked in it, the gray smell of smoke. The only reason any of us ever went in there was either to steal change from his dresser or to go through their window to get onto the roof— you had to go through their window to get to the roof. Everyone in the house was asleep, downstairs and in the various bedrooms, and we were in my parents ’ walk-in closet. We brought blankets and a pillow into the carpeted area between the wardrobe and the shower, and spread the blanket on the ground, in front of the mirrored sliding closet doors.
    “ This is weird, ” Kirsten said. Kirsten and I met in college, had dated for many months, and for a long time we were tentative—we liked each other a great deal but I expected someone so normal and sweet-looking to find me out soon enough—until one weekend she came home with me, and we went to the lake, and I told her