The Second Will Chapter 03
Three years.
One thousand and ninety-five days.
Waking up at six every morning.
Rolling Father over, washing him, changing his bed pads.
Making breakfast.
Feeding him spoon by spoon.
At first, Father couldn’t keep it down; the porridge would dribble from the corner of his mouth onto the pillow.
I would catch it with a towel.
Wipe it clean, then feed him another spoon.
At eight o’clock, rehabilitation exercises.
Helping him sit up, moving his fingers, arms, and legs for him.
It hurt him.
He would break into a sweat from the pain every time.
But the doctor said he had to practice.
At ten o’clock, giving him his medicine.
Blood pressure pills, blood thinners, nerve supplements.
Six kinds of pills, taken at different times.
I made a schedule and stuck it on the fridge.
Cooking lunch.
Father couldn’t eat anything hard, salty, or greasy.
I cooked his meals separately every single time.
In the afternoon, pushing him outside to get some sun.
The building had no elevator.
Fourth floor.
I would carry the wheelchair down, come back up, move Father from the bed to the living room chair, help him down the stairs step by step, and put him in the wheelchair.
The reverse when going upstairs.
Two trips a day.
The shirt on my back was never dry.
At night, soaking his feet, massaging him, rolling him over.
I had to get up twice during the night to check if he had kicked off the blankets or if the bed pad needed changing.
Three years.
I never slept through the night.
I never took a long trip.
I never went shopping.
I never met up with friends.
My girlfriend of two years broke up with me.
She said: “When is this going to end?”
I couldn’t say.
Because I didn’t know either.
And Robert?
Three years.
He visited four times.
The first time, when Father had his stroke and was hospitalized.
The second time, for Christmas.
He stayed a day and a half, then left on Boxing Day, saying he had work.
The third time, for Father’s seventieth birthday.
He brought a cake, took a picture, and posted it on Instagram.
The caption: “Father’s seventieth birthday, wishing my old man oceans of blessings.”
The fourth time was this time.
Father passed away.
He came.
And Eleanor?
She came a bit more often than Robert.
Five times.
Every time she came, she had to post on Instagram.
Hugging our father, taking a selfie.
Wiping our father’s face, taking a picture.
Feeding our father fruit, recording a video.
Every post got hundreds of likes.
The comments section was full of: “You’re so filial,” “Eleanor is such a good daughter,” “So touching.”
She never knew—
What medicine our father took.
What time our father needed to be turned over.
Which of our father’s legs couldn’t bear weight.
Once I went out to buy groceries and asked her to keep an eye on him.
Half an hour later when I returned, our father had fallen from the bed to the floor.
She was in the living room playing on her phone.
“Huh?
Dad fell?”
She panicked, “I didn’t hear anything just now…”
Our father lay on the floor.
His eyes looking at the ceiling.
He didn’t cry out.
He couldn’t cry out.
When I carried him back to bed, I noticed the skin on his elbow was scraped.
Blood seeped out, but he didn’t make a sound.
He was used to it.
That night, Eleanor left.
Before leaving, she stuffed two thousand bucks into my hand.
“Thanks for your hard work, Julian.”
Two thousand bucks.
I took a demotion for three years.
Two thousand bucks.
