(1) — Originally published in Seven Hills Review, 2005
Mike Loring cleared his throat. "John Loring, please."
The nurse behind the counter went on reading, her painted eyes straight out of
a 1960s Maybelline ad. "Visiting hours..." She glanced up. "Sorry, Reverend." She squinted at the inside
wall of the counter. "606. Halfway down the corridor."
Past the philodendron, caladium, and rubber plants, down the creaking linoleum
to Room 606. Mike pushed the door open. Inside, the orange blossom air freshener was tinged with sweat,
iodine, and a stench he couldn't identify. The walls and sheets were dead white, the blankets and chair
the color of undiluted bleach. T-shaped frames, one on each side of the bed, dangled plastic bags and
tubes, all feeding into the creature below them. A high-pitched whine punctuated by contorted breathing
came from the cranked-up bed. Beneath the softly throbbing tubes, an old man lay on his side, his eyes
closed. His hair, what there was of it, his eyebrows and eyelashes were all as white as the wall, his
yellow skin translucent as candle wax, his body small, like a stunted and withered child who had bypassed
maturity and moved directly to old age.
Mike stood beside the bed and spoke his father's name, "John Loring."
The whine ceased. The plastic bags rustled. The old man quivered, and his eyes
opened. The outer edges of the irises were olive green. Nearer the pupils the color faded to white,
but the pupils themselves were black slits. Eyes Mike hadn't seen for almost thirty years.
The yellow hand squeezed the call button pinned to the pillow. "No visitors,"
the old man said in a papery voice. "I told them."
TOM'S TALES