One Person For Me

"Is he breathing? He's not breathing? Look at him!" My mother shook the startled nurse.

My father was calmly lying down on the green cot. The redness on his face seemed to have mitigated. His fingers were barely moving. He breathed softer and softer until it all disappeared. The single crease on his forehead smoothed out and his eyelids remained still. He looked like a child.

I stared at my mother who was on her knees bawling. She held on to the nurse's leg, smothering her snots on the nurse's slacks. The young nurse stood there like a statuette, as if it was her first time watching a person die. Her face was a nauseatingly white color and she continued to push her hair behind her ears.

"Do something! Please! Please! Save him!" My mother hysterically screamed.

Her hands were frenziedly shaking when she cupped her cheeks. She closed her eyes tightly while she continued crying stridently. I watched her breathe heavily as her shoulders shook rhythmically with her breath. My tears traveled down my inflamed cheeks. I rested my palms on my stomach to calm it down from my sniffling. I felt my ears rapidly heat up and strands of my hair stick to the sides of my moist face. I glanced at Sean to see his reaction. His eyes were glued onto our father's face. But they weren't the least bit watery. He just stood there like that nurse. He looked cool as always. Sean was wearing his usual authentic baseball cap slightly angled on his head, an oversized Stussy sweater paired with basketball shorts. He hid his hands inside his pockets still wearing his infamous stoned look on our father.

Suddenly, the nurse scurried out of the room as the doctor entered. The doctor seemed around my father's age. He wore thick framed glasses that slid down his bulbous nose. I expected him to be wearing a stethoscope or have lots of clipboards with writing on them. But he brought nothing. He cleared his throat to signal my mother of his presence.

"Ma'am, you must leave this room. Please take your kids with you." He nearly whispered.

My mother paused from her crying. She slowly got up from the floor and glared at the doctor.

"You're the doctor?" She returned to her normal voice.

"Yes I - "

"Are you sure? You call yourself a fucking doctor?" My mother interrupted.

"Miss,"

"We paid you to cure him. Isn't that what doctors are supposed to do? It's not like he had a deadly disease. You killed him. I want my money back. The money we spent here to pay a dumb quack like you and that nurse who stood there doing absolutely nothing."

"I.."

"Hello! There's a person dying! How about saving him? Ever thought of that?" My mother shook her arms in the air practically forcing her voice out.

The nurse came back into the room.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Parks." This time she confidently spoke, in a quite high-pitched voice.

"Yeah, what? What do you have to say? Sorry? You know what, it's kind of late." My mother snapped.

The nurse stepped closer to my mother.

"I understand your sorrow for your husband but please apologize to the doctor for your inappropriate behavior." She responded serenely.

My mother's eyes opened wider as her lips tightened. Before anybody could stop her, her right arm reached forward. She slapped the nurse's face with all her strength. The sound of the slap pierced through everyone's ears in the room.

The nurse's cheek immediately changed color. My mother's fingerprints were brightly tattooed on her skin.

"Bitch." My mother muttered under her breath.

She stomped out of the room, her patent black Chanel stilettos angrily clicking against the floor. The room was still. The doctor took a deep breath and walked to my father's cot. He took my father's hands and placed them under the white bed sheet. He brought the bed sheet over my father's head. My brother and I dumbly watched our father's face wane.

The nurse began to cry. I didn't know whether it was because of my mother or father. Or maybe it really was the first time she watched someone die. Indeed, it was my first time taking their final breath. But it didn't hurt me too hard. Actually, I was kind of relieved my father passed on.

For ten years he worked at an exceptional pace to resolve our minor financial crisis. After that, he got sick. He would stay in bed everyday for almost the entire year. My mother refused to sleep on the same bed with him. When I was six years old, my father ran a business in New York City. It was a relatively large boutique located in Fashion Avenue. Whatever happened to it, I really don't know. But, one night he came in the house with his face bright red and his shirt completely unbuttoned. That entire night, my parents fought raucously, my mother screaming out random names of girls.

My mother always tried to keep the family together. She was the only mediator in the household. She would do practically anything to achieve the perfect mom, perfect family name. Everybody in our family knew we were far from perfect. Everybody else assumed we were perfect. That's how my mother was. Simply, she was as fake as her fake pair of Louboutins. She was all about style - her stylish clothes, appearance, words, house and of course family. Her entire life revolved around style. Today was the first time my mother vulnerably broke down in public. Sean and I watched, amazed at her unexpected meltdown and her inability to cry stylishly.

‘Live with style and die with style', my mother one told me. Even on a grim day like today, she wore a chic satin blue mini dress with lacy black tights. Today it didn't work. Her magic finally wore off. Style wasn't enough to rescue her from agony. I felt a cold hand touch mine. I looked up and it was the young nurse. She held my hand tightly, muffling her crying.

"I am so, so sorry" She spoke softly.

Up close, there were many small pimples speckled on her face. The formation of her pimples resembled the Finger Lakes. Her eyes were a brilliant blue color and her wispy blonde bangs slightly covered her eyebrows. Her lips trembled as she spoke. I tried to say something but I didn't know what to say to her.

"It must be hard to lose your father like this. But we would never, ever intentionally kill him. We did the best we can. Please explain to your mother for us. I'm so sorry. You look so young...." She croaked.

The nurse was a nice person. She must have really been remorseful for me. She firmly squeezed my hand once and let go. The doctor began pushing the cot. The automatic glass doors slowly opened as I saw the backs of the nurse and doctor. They were taking my father somewhere.

Will I miss my father? He was the only working member in the family. Honestly, I wasn't sure why my mother was crying so hard. It was only yesterday morning she got furious at him for misplacing a receipt from Nordstrom's.

Everyday my parents mentioned divorce, but they've never had the confidence to do it. My mother's image would utterly rupture and my father couldn't possibly survive without anybody looking over him. They were jammed in a dilemma that most couples would resolve quickly. Divorce wasn't allowed for us. The Parks were the model family. The Parks never fought every night, never spoke of divorce, never spoke vulgar words and possessed only the ideal abilities. That was how impressive we were. Positively speaking, we kept our family living under the same house. Under the same house we each took care of our own lives and flawlessly accomplished our roles. My father brought the money. My mother took care of the family. My brother and I attended school. Our autistic sister was taken care of, or rather hidden at my grandmother's house. Yet, even with each of us doing our roles, we never went beyond our tumultuous daily lives. My parents weren't aware of the way Sean and I felt. Outside we were forced to wear masks and deceive the public into many things. Sometimes, they were things that I didn't even know about.