"3 A.M." by Shawn O'Shea

Together, the frigid air, the faint odor of anti-septic, along with the straight-backed, stiff-leather chair seemed to conspire to keep the overnight visitor from sleeping as he dutifully maintained his vigil.
Brent recalled from his days serving aboard ship in the Navy, a technique called battle napping. While applying the method a person could enter into a semi-REM-state for up to seven minutes at a time yet remain completely aware of his surroundings.
Brent cocked his head up and snapped open his eyes. He had positioned himself so the red digital numbers of nightstand clock were the first things he consciously saw. He stared at them for ten seconds when, in a blink, they switched from 259 to 300.
As if prompted by the changing numbers, the man for whom he had been keeping watch began to stir and mumble in the hospital bed. “What time is it?”
“It’s three a.m., Dad. Go back to sleep.”
Being told the time alarmed Brent’s father. “Three a.m.? We have to go! Now!” He tried to maneuver past the safety rails. Even over the commotion a tearing could be heard.
Brent jumped on his feet and attempted to calm his frantic father. He imagined what he had just heard was simply a bandage coming loose, an IV being pulled out, or, worst of all, the Foley catheter being yanked from its delicate position.
“Dad! Dad! Dad! It’s okay! You’re okay! I’m right here! Help! Nurse!” The panic began to subside. “It’s me----Brent. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Nurse!”
Brent kept one hand gently on the man’s shoulder and the other on the man’s chest. He could not help but notice where a once muscled torso had been was now a weak collection of cartilage and bone.
“We have to go! If we don’t leave now we’ll be late!”
“Go where, Dad? Be late for what?”
“The boat! If we don’t get there in time, the Captain will pull out without us.”
“What boat? Where are we sailing to?”
He raised his head, “Deep-sea fishing. You remember, don’t you? Deep sea fishing?”
The question raised from the depths of his mind a long lost memory within Brent. “Yeah, Dad. I remember.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seventeen-year-old Brent felt himself being shaken from a sound sleep. His eyes slowly focused on the dim silhouette of his father as he reoriented from a dream world to reality.
“C’mon, sport! Time to go!”
“Hunh? What time is it?”
“Three a.m.”
“Oh gawwwwwd!” Brent moaned as he sat up. Waking at such an ungodly hour was the only part of the deep-sea fishing trips with is father he disliked.
While searching the clothes-covered floor around his bed, he exhaled a long loud yawn, “Where’re my boots?” He was already dressed. His father always insisted Brent dress prior to going to bed for fishing trips so he could simply wake up and go.
“In the kitchen. Remember? You’re mother asked you to put them on down there so you won’t wake up her or your brother clomping down the stairs.”
“Oh yeah.”
“I’m gonna go warm up the car. Hurry up and get your boots on and meet me out there.” The older man then turned and went down the stairs in the manner Brent’s mother wanted her son to avoid.
In the dark, Brent wiped the remaining sleep from his eyes, made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and made his way to the kitchen. He slipped his feet into his favorite Timberlands. ‘I’ll tie them in the car,’ he thought.
It seemed to Brent he had only closed his eyes to rest as the car started to move when he again felt his father shake him awake. “We’re here! Let’s start unloading the gear.” Ninety minutes had actually passed. Only fifteen minutes remained before the boat would depart to begin its three-mile eastward sail.
After securing their rods, inspecting the lines for tangles and pre-cutting squid for bait they heard the Captain’s voice boom, “Release the mooring lines!” followed by the grinding of the engines. Seconds after the noise eased into a long steady growl and the boat inched away from dock so it could turn and slowly make its way through the marina, through the bay and out to sea.
Brent went as far out on the bow as he could. His favorite part of these trips was standing there, staring straight ahead feeling himself carried forward into the dark nothingness of the ocean night. Only the perpetual misting across his face reminded him there was another part of the world out there, his world. In his world he had no complaints, no worries, no problems.
He would remain situated until the Captain cut the engines at their first location. It would often be after sailing for forty-five minutes to an hour. This time, however, Brent abandoned his station after twenty-minutes. This time the boat bounced higher and with greater frequency than any previous trip.
The severity of the motion caused the spray to feel more rain-like than misty. It also formed a wall of water that crashed over the bow, soaking the young, self-appointed watchman.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dim light cast from above the washbasin allowed the nurse who entered to see the young man standing over and restraining her patient.
“What’s going on here? Did you call for assistance?”
The man’s son turned his head to address her, “He was trying to get out of bed. He thought he was late for----“ Brent felt it was pointless to give an explanation. “I don’t know what he thought. Anyway, I think ripped something. And he’s soaked.”
Before the young man had finished talking, the nurse began a cursory assessment making sure nothing had torn. A few adhesive strips required replacing. “Everything looks fine. It’s not uncommon for someone in his condition to have occasional dementia induced hallucinations.”
Brent’s knees weakened and he fell back into the chair. He understood in that moment his entire life was built on the faith his father was a pillar of health, was invincible, was his source of strength. The last few moments, capped with hearing the word ‘dementia’ applied to his father, forced his comprehension that the man he knew for the whole of his life was mortal. Was mortal and was soon to die. Where, Brent wondered, would he draw his strength when the inevitable happened?
“Who’s that?” The sick man was pointing at the nurse. With what Brent heard as fear, the man repeated, “Who’s that?”
Trying to remain composed, “Don’t worry, Dad.”
“But who’s that?” He was becoming increasingly agitated.
“It’s the first mate, Dad. She came to tell us it’ll be a while before we shove off.” Brent looked pleadingly at the nurse, wordlessly asking her to go along with his deception.
Relishing her new sea-faring role, the nurse reassured her patient, “That’s right. We have a few more lines to secure and finish inspecting the rigging and anchor hoist. After that, we’ll be ready to set sail.” She winked at Brent who was bewildered at both her willingness and her nautical knowledge
Brent mouthed “thank you” to her as he watched his father lay back and immediately fall asleep with new feelings of peace and serenity.
She wiped the resting man’s brow and said to his son, “He needs a fresh gown and dry bedding. I’ll be right back to change him.”
The only acknowledgement Brent gave the nurse as she left the room was a slight nod. He then leaned his head against the back of the chair, shut his eyes and inhaled deeply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seeing the mate’s look of surprise and suppressed laughter, Brent’s father turned to see his shivering, dripping son. “What the hell happened to you?”
After the boy explained what had happened, the mate offered with a tone of sympathy and amusement, “C’mon. You look like you’re about the same size as me. I have a change of clothes you can wear.”
Twenty minutes later he re-emerged from below deck dressed in a red, black and blue flannel shirt, yellow rubber overalls, thigh-high green rubber waders, and a red, gray brimmed ball cap with the boat’s name embroidered on the front in script. By that time, the engines were silent and the anchor had been dropped.
Brent awkwardly walked to the aft starboard corner where he knew he would find his father. Though not as strongly as while it was moving, the boat still pitched and rolled, but still heavily enough that less than half the passengers were actually fishing. The others were leaning over the side feeding their earlier meals to the creatures of the sea.
Taking position beside his father, Brent baited his line and released the reel lock. As his line dropped to the water below and drifted out into the vessel’s wake he asked, “Any luck yet?”
“Not yet. Too choppy. I think today’s gonna be----Oh, my god! Look at you! Who the hell are you supposed to be? The Gorton’s fisherman?”
He could not help but laugh at the reference to his outfit. “Shut up, Dad! It’s all he had. At least I’m dry.”
They had been fishing for almost thirty minutes, occasionally reeling in and recasting their lines, re-baiting the hooks when necessary, when it occurred to Brent, “Dad, shouldn’t the sun be coming up by now?”
“Yeah. It should.” The older fisherman was staring upward. His eyes, filled with concern, were scanning the sky for something. For what, he did not know. He reeled in his line and secured his pole. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“But, Dad, where----?”
“I said wait.”
Brent turned and watched his father enter the passenger cabin at the boat’s midsection. A larger than normal swell pitched the boat roughly causing Brent’s father to stumble forward.
Through the windows Brent saw his father talking to the same young man who had provided him with the fresh clothes. The mate had a look of fear and was animatedly gesturing. After a quick conversation, the mate turned abruptly and proceeded below.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Holding fresh linens and towels the nurse said to the visitor, “Why don’t stretch your legs while I change your father.”
“That’s alright. I don’t mind.”
“It was not a suggestion.”
“Oh. Okay.” Brent stood up and walked out of the room.
Standing outside the hospital room he cracked his knuckles, raised his arms above his head, arched his back and let out a low moan of relief as he felt his muscles tingle as they stretched out their stiffness. He rolled his head to experience the same sensation in his neck and looked around trying to decide in which direction to walk. A sudden, deep, lung-filling yawn helped with his decision.
He walked over to the nurses’ station and attempted to get the attention of the sole male nurse on the floor. “Excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you, but could you tell me how to get to the cafeteria?”
“No bother,” the man said as he looked up. “I’m just going over my progress notes. The cafeteria? Sorry. It’s closed. Doesn’t open again until seven. Wait. Today’s Sunday? Eight.”
“Well is there a coffee vending machine anywhere?”
Another nurse came behind the desk as he answered, “No. Just soda and junk food.” He looked at the young man and said, “Hold on a minute.” He turned to his co-worker, “I’m going on break.”
“Fine,” she responded with a hint of frustration.
A hand gesture indicated to Brent to follow his guide fifty feet down the hall where there was a door with a placard that read NURSES ONLY in white letters on a crimson background.
The man in blue hospital scrubs opened the door and turned to his companion, “Come on in.” What was once a patient’s room was now a break room.
Brent sat on a molded plastic chair at a table reminiscent of a high school lunchroom. He watched as coffee was poured into two canary yellow porcelain mugs.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Two of each----please.”
Brent wrapped his hands around the mug placed before him. He stared at the wavy coils of steam streaming upward from the dark liquid until he heard, “Pretty rough, hunh?”
Startled, he looked up into the face sitting across the table from him. “What?”
“Dealing with your dad. Pretty rough.”
“I’m sorry. I know he’s been a burden on you all. But I really appreciate everything you all have been doing for him.”
“Oh. You’re welcome. That’s what we’re here for. But that’s not what I meant. I meant it must be pretty rough for you.”
“I guess.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job.”
“I’m not really doing anything. Just sitting there.”
“That’s not true. You’re doing a lot. You’re helping him through something that could be very frightening for him. You’re keeping him calm.”
A twinge of guilt shot through Brent. “By lying to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t even know where he is, what’s going on! Whenever he starts talking like he’s somewhere else, I go along with it and let him believe it.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s my father! That’s what’s wrong with that! I’m not supposed to lie to him.”
“So I suppose you never lied to him while you were growing up?” The nurse smugly sipped his coffee.
“That was different.”
“Right. Now it’s okay.”
“How is it okay? What makes it okay?”
“Look. Your dad is dying.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry. But it’s true. And sometimes when----that----is happening,” he did not want to use the word ‘dying’ again, “a person’s mind can shift out of reality and into a place where it feels comfortable, happy, safe. Think of it as life’s ultimate defense mechanism.
“Shouldn’t I tell him the truth? That way he could face what’s happening.”
“Why?”
“So he could deal with it.”
“Deal with what? The fear? The panic?”
“But he----“
“Deep down he knows. He is dealing with it. Just not in a way you understand.”
“So what can I do?”
“Just what you’ve been doing. Be there for him. Let him be happy. Protect him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brent’s father told his son to pack up their gear to secure it inside. The Captain wanted all passengers inside the cabin because a nasty storm was headed toward them.
Reeling in his line, Brent asked, “How nasty?”
“Any storm when you are in the ocean is pretty nasty.”
“So are we going to head back to land?”
A noticeable pause preceded the reply. “No. We’re going to ride it out.”
“Cool!”
“Yeah. Cool.” His father carried a red cooler and tackle box to the cabin.
Brent sat on that cooler pressing his knees against his chest and resting the soles of his feet atop that cooler. Ignoring the sight and smells produced by those passengers whose stomachs were being defeated by the storm, he struggled to maintain his balance so he would not fall onto the deck as the small vessel rocked violently.
“It’s kind of like being on a roller coaster. Isn’t it, Dad?”
“Yeah. A roller coaster.”
“It’s kinda fun, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. Fun.”
The curt responses suggested to Brent he was not being given all the information. It was easy for him to stifle the feeling of anxiousness by thinking, ‘He’s my father. He would tell me if anything was wrong.’ To make sure, “Is everything okay, Dad?”
“Yeah. Fine.” At that moment, two mates emerged from below deck, their green waders covered to above the knee with a viscous black residue. “I’ll be right back.”
The crewman his father approached shook his head negatively to a question unheard by Brent before spinning on his heels to leave the cabin to ascend to the wheelhouse.
His father returned conspicuously more talkative, “Well, it’s official. This trip is pretty much a wash. Sorry about that.”
“Next time will be better.”
“Yeah. Next time.”
As his father went on to tell his son when ‘the next time’ could be and how much of a catch ‘the next time’ would produce, Brent watched as the members of the crew, including, occasionally, the Captain, ran to and fro around the boat and in and out of the familiar door. During the activity that continued for an hour, Brent would not allow himself to believe anything except his father’s earlier statement as to the condition of things: “Yeah. Fine.”
Brent could not help but experience a sense of relief as he heard the engines roar to life. Shortly after, the boat added forward to its already heavy rocking and rolling motions.
During the craft’s slow voyage toward shore, Brent intermittently looked at his father to give the impression he heard what had been said by smiling and nodding his head in agreement even though the man’s words were being drowned out by the combined sounds of the grinding machinery and the pounding rain. Mostly the boy stared out the window watching the storm attack the tiny craft.
When the first rays of daylight appeared as the storm clouds broke and the rain subsided allowing the boat to pick up speed Brent realized their journey home had passed the two-hour mark. By the time they reached shore it was almost ten a.m.
While they unloaded the gear and packed the car, the mate who provided the dry clothes apologized to Brent explaining his clothes, including his favorite boots, had been ruined in the oily water below. He would have to wear the fishing outfit home.
Father and son were silent for the drive home and most of the unloading. When they were nearly finished Brent had to ask, “Dad, what was really going on out there? Why was there so much water? And oil? Enough to ruin my clothes?”
“The engines broke down.” He paused. “And the oil tank cracked. That’s why we weren’t moving.”
“What about the water?”
“A seal on the hull popped, too. So we were sort of taking on water.”
“Sort of?”
“We were sinking.”
Though Brent had already guessed the truth, he was not sure at which he was more surprised, his father’s confirmation or the calmness at which he made it.
The recent memory of his panic flashed through Brent’s mind. “Sinking? What do you mean we were sinking? Don’t they have pumps for that?”
“Normally. But they need the engines in order to operate. That’s why the mates kept going down there. They were bailing the water out by hand. When they got enough of it out to stay afloat, the Captain went down to repair the engines. But what are you worried about? We made it back okay, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, I guess. But, Dad,” Brent felt childish about his impending confession, “I was really scared.” Brent received a comforting pat on the back when he turned to walk into the house.
Several feet away, Brent heard his father whisper, “So was I, Brent. So was I.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting at his father’s bedside Brent stared at the yellow coffee mug that was resting inches from the red digital numbers. He wondered how he was supposed to protect his father, and what exactly was he supposed to protect him from? ‘Who’s going to protect me?’ he thought.
“Brent? How’d we do?”
“What’s that, Dad?” Brent stood and put his hand lovingly on the dying man’s chest.
“How’d we do? Did we catch a lot of fish?”
“Yeah. We did, Dad. Biggest haul ever!”
“That’s good.” He closed his eyes. “Strange, though. I don’t remember.”
Weakly and with his eyes still closed, his father reached across his body and placed his hand over his son’s, “Brent?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“We didn’t just go fishing, did we?”
“No, Dad. We didn’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” He opened his eyes and looked at his son. “What’s really going on? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” Brent gently patted his father’s hand that he now held between both of his own.
The man was almost asleep when he startled his son by suddenly opening his eyes. “Brent?”
“Yeah, Dad?”
“I’m scared.”
Brent stared into his father’s eyes with a comforting smile on his face. He gently brushed a few stray hairs from the man’s brow with his fingers. He continued to soothingly stroke his fingers along his father’s hairline.
When he was sure his father had fallen asleep, Brent sat down again, looked at his father and said in a whisper, “So am I, Dad. So am I.”