The Language of Our Hands

Every family has its traditions; this is ours. From the time the first of us kids drove the battered blue Vista Cruiser to college, our every visit home has ended with my father changing the oil in our cars on Sunday morning. This Sunday morning is no different. Dad says he wants to change the oil in my car before I leave. As usual, we drive to WalMart for the filter and oil. But this time Mom and I go inside while Dad waits in the car with Patrick, who is two and sleeping.

He waits in the car because he is dying. I know this, but I can't cry. I am a single mother running a business. I can't give way in front of Patrick; who is too young to understand. I can't give way in front of clients; our survival depends on my strength. I can't sleep; part of me believes that if I don't observe the nights, the days won't pass. Instead I work, finishing projects ahead so I can drive the nine hours through forest, city, and desert to offer what help I can, which is none.

At home I say, "I'll do it." Dad agrees. After all, I've done it before, and the reality of his life now is pain and nausea.
I slip on a pair of Grandpa's coveralls-which smell of grease, transmission fluid, dust, chewing tobacco, and caramel-and stash Patrick in the back seat with Thomas the Tank Engine. Mom, who is still clean, drives my car around the house to the shop while I cut across the lawn, pass the wind-whipped locust trees, crunch across the gravel lot, and heave the big shop door open. The shop looks foreign, empty, too neat. I feel stupid, helpless. I can't remember how to hook the hoist without twisting the car's frame, and I can't find the car ramps.

My mother says, "Go to JiffyLube; I'll pay." I am embarrassed. I can pay for my own oil changes, but the habit of providing is too strong for my mother to break. Finally I agree, but I hope she'll forget.
We sneak back inside. When Dad asks about the car I am tempted to lie, but my mother, who opposes all lies on principle, tells all. Twenty minutes later Dad is tottering out to the shop. I do not want him doing this. Exertion lessens the effectiveness of the morphine pills, the "patch", and the "break-through" pills, which these days are still not enough.

Above all I do not want him knowing he can no longer do this. But I walk beside him, my hands outstretched behind him where he can't see it, ready to catch him if he falls. In the shop I watch him brace himself, catch his breath, hold his stomach,

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