Allowed
The only time I saw my brother Paolo was during clandestine coffee dates.
For the last six months, I’d been allowed two hours a week at his hospital bedside.
Allowed. What a crock.
~
For the last three weeks, he’d been unconscious. Every Wednesday at ten in the morning, I arrived at the medical center. At noon, I left.
These were the only two hours my brother’s wife permitted the family to visit him. As a bonus, they were also two hours I didn’t have to see her.
Paolo’s wife made the rules. The hospital had to back her up.
I’d always felt there was an unspoken rule when it came to family drama: when there was a health scare, there was a truce. Families closed ranks.
Not according to my sister-in—
No. Paolo’s wife. An in-law implied family. Family didn’t do that to one another.
I stepped through the entrance, passed the rows of pleather benches, and hurried past the gift shop toward the Tim Hortons that didn’t have a line yet. If that wasn’t a sign of a good day, I didn’t know what was. I made a beeline before one had the chance to form.
“Morning, Millie,” I smiled. “Large double-double please.”
The barista behind the counter, a fixture in the hospital, returned a warm grin. She must have started preparing my coffee the moment she saw me walk in. It was already poured and waiting.
“And a medium black for your Mum?” Millie asked.
“No, but she’ll be here soon. She called me on the way here, fuming about my aunt. It was her turn to drive, and my aunt wasn’t ready when she got there.” I rolled my eyes. “Drama, drama.”
Millie chuckled as she punched the dollar amount into the terminal. I tapped my credit card.
“I haven’t seen your sister-in-law walk by this week,” Millie said. “Was he awake when you were here last?”
“No,” I frowned. “It’s been three weeks in a row now. It’s not like he’s been able to talk, but at least I was able to make eye contact. Smile. Chat with him, even if it was only one way.”
“I’m sorry, Lina,” Millie said, placing the lidded cup of coffee in front of me. “I hope it’s different today.”
I wrapped my hand around the warm cup, lifted it toward Millie in thanks, and turned toward the corridor that led to the elevators.
“Thanks, Millie. Take care.”
I made my way down the hall.
In a hospital, time moved by different rules. The clocks ticked the same, but everything felt hushed. Expectant. The hours were measured in anticipation. In dread.
As if each minute apologized for not bringing an update or a test result.
Noise was rudeness. Voices dropped. Smiles were careful.
It’s why I stopped wearing heels on my visits. They felt obtrusive, the rhythmic click like a dirge. My sneakers squeaked sometimes, but even that seemed preferable.
The chairs and benches were filled with people pretending not to wait. Some stared at their phones. Others watched reruns of seventies game shows on televisions mounted in the corner without really seeing.
As I passed the information window on my right, a young couple—one holding potted flowers—leaned into the small hole in the glass.
The first time I came here, my mother and I had stood in that exact spot. Same lean.
“I’m sorry,” the woman sitting behind the glass had said awkwardly to my mother. “Your daughter-in-law asked that only immediate family be permitted to visit and no information was to be given unless she’s present.”
“I am immediate family,” my mother said sharply, leaning forward. “He’s my son.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman replied, shaking her head in sympathy. “My hands are tied.”
That’s when we learned Paolo’s wife had defined immediate family as herself and her three children—my two pre-teen nephews and teenage niece. Not that they’d have recognized me as their aunt had I been standing in front of them.
“But he called me,” my mother said. “He called me saying he was going to the hospital. This hospital.”
The look on my mother’s face burned into my memory. Her eyes were wide and wet, darting wildly. Her mouth hung open, but no sound came out. Her hands opened and closed, as if she didn’t know what to do with them.
My behaviour after that was cringeworthy: The poor woman behind the information desk the victim of a vicious verbal lashing. My mother and I fed off each other’s rage, tongues barbed, demanding to speak to someone in charge.
To make it right. To make it fair. To make it make sense.
Not my finest moment.
We eventually forced a compromise. A hospital social worker, Vicki, agreed to act as liaison and negotiate visitation because my brother’s wife refused to meet with us. Days of phone calls followed to agree on two hours, but even that became a point of contention when my mother asked to split the two hours so she could visit twice a week.
Paolo’s wife wouldn’t allow it.
As I walked past, I took a sip of coffee and gave a little wave to Getty, the woman behind the glass. My mother and I had later apologized, which led to Millie and I becoming friends. For a month, I bought Getty her morning tea and raisin muffins and took care of Vicki’s coffees too. We’d made a pretty nasty scene.
Stopping abruptly, I almost knocked into a lab technician in blue scrubs holding a clipboard. He was organizing the crowd outside the outpatient lab, collecting requisitions from people waiting for blood tests. The line snaked down the hallway and around the corner.
Blood.
My jaw tightened. After six months, I still didn’t know why Paolo was in the hospital. Or what he was suffering from as the staff was prohibited from telling us anything. My mother fell down the WebMD rabbit-hole, each week seizing a new theory I couldn’t pronounce, let alone remember. I pieced together a few of my own from stolen looks and overheard fragments. Blood poisoning, maybe. Nico, my husband, thought it might be dysentery.
It only took the first couple of weeks to understand that Paolo’s condition was grave. One nurse hinted his stay would likely be long. I had tried to get more out of him, but he’d scurried away, saying he’d already disclosed more than he should have.
A woman corralling four children apologized profusely as a little boy, being chased by one of the other children, slammed into my hip, almost toppling me. I assured her it was fine. I understood what it was like to herd cats.
I’d adjusted my teaching schedule so that I could visit every Wednesday. I was lucky my principal and colleagues had made it work for me, rearranging their own schedules.
Ironically, I’d spent more time with my brother during his six months in the hospital than I probably had in the previous ten years combined. I just wished we could’ve talked, like we used to, when he’d drop by to say hi or watch the game with Nico.
Every visit took a small piece of me. Not knowing why he was suffering. Not understanding why he was allowing her to keep it from us. Every week, it felt like they’d added another tube.
Letting out a sigh, I reached the elevator and pressed the up button. When the doors opened, I stepped in. Paolo’s wife trying to stop us from visiting was one thing. We were used to that behaviour. But not allowing us to know what was wrong? That was just insane.
Then again, so was my brother for marrying her. He was supposed to call it off.
~
From my kitchen, I stepped out the sliding door onto the patio. Nico was digging clumps of grass out of the lawn mower with a screwdriver.
“My brother called. He’s on his way over.”
“Okay,” Nico replied, his voice tight with effort. After a pause, he looked up at me.
“He?” he asked. “As in just him?”
I gave him the warning look. “Yeah,” I said. “It sounded that way.”
“What?” he said.
“You know exactly what.”
“I’m just surprised he’s allowed to roam the evil streets of Hamilton all by his lonesome,” Nico said dryly. “He might hear blasphemous things like other people’s opinions.”
I glared at my husband, debating whether that warranted a slipper being thrown at him as he grinned at me.
Twenty minutes later, Paolo announced himself at the side patio gate.
"Paolo! A beer?" Nico asked.
"Yeah, sure.”
Nico glanced at me. “Li?"
"No, too early. Ginger ale with ice?"
"On it." Nico said, slapping Paolo’s shoulder lightly as he walked into the house.
Paolo looked tired, with dark bags under his eyes.
“Where are the kids?” Paolo asked.
“Mom has ’em.” I replied. “We’ll be at Nico’s sister’s place in Toronto tomorrow so today became a Nonna-Nonno day. The kids love it because they get whatever they want.”
Paolo smiled. “Yeah, just like we did, right?”
“Right?” I said, throwing up my hands. “Who are these people and what did they do with our parents? We couldn’t go to restaurants because it was always, ‘Waste-a money. I make better.’ And now it’s, ‘Nonna, can we go to McDonalds?’ … ‘Ma sure, amore.’”
Paolo chuckled. He always got a kick out of my impressions of our mother’s accent.
After a few moments, I leaned forward in my chair. “You okay?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
Paolo parted his lips, only to be interrupted by the sound of the sliding door opening as Nico returned with the drinks.
Handing me my ginger ale and Paolo his beer, Nico clinked bottles before taking a sip and sitting down. Only then did Nico clue in. The awkward silence. Paolo’s fidgeting in his chair. He’d interrupted something. “Ah,” Nico said, his eyes scanning Paolo and me. “How about I let you two talk.”
“Nah, nah,” Paolo said, raising his hand motioning for Nico to stay. He took a swig of his beer. “I wanna talk to both of you, if that’s okay.”
Nico nodded and settled back in his chair.
“Did you –” Paolo started, then stopped. “Did you get cold feet before your wedding?”
I glanced over to my husband and then back at Paolo. “Is this about next week?” I asked.
Paolo titled his head left, then right, as if a simple yes or no was too complicated. His eyes flashed with turmoil. But he didn’t continue.
“Not really. Maybe a few butterflies,” I said, wanting to put him at ease but trying to avoid a lie. “I felt more frazzled than anything else. Mom was driving me nuts, and I was driving everyone else crazy with the stress.”
With a quick glance I saw Paolo and Nico both draw their lips into knowing half-smiles. I had been bouncing off the walls leading up to my wedding, trying to achieve the perfect day. As if there was such a thing.
“I was a little nervous,” Nico said. “Especially the night before because your parents wouldn’t allow me to see Lina. Porta sfortuna,” he scoffed. “I don’t think it was cold feet though. There were no doubts I was marrying her.”
Nico narrowed his eyes at Paolo. “Having doubts about next week?” Nico asked.
Paolo fidgeted on his chair then leaned back with a slouch, dragging a long pull from his bottle… “I don’t know,” Paolo said. “I think so. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do.”
“Talk to us Paulie,” I said. “What’s going through your head?”
Paolo sighed. “It’s just… it’s all moving so fast,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I wanted to wait until next summer, but Maya wanted to do it right away. If it wasn’t for her parents, we probably would’ve ended up running to City Hall or Vegas or something.”
It had been a bit of a whirlwind romance, at least from my perspective. From their first date to the wedding next week, they’d been together for a total of fourteen months. Nico and I dated for five years before getting engaged and married a year later.
“Maya has always been in a hurry for the whole white-picket fence life. The house. Marriage. Kids. Pets. I told you when she put the deposit down on the rings.”
An eye opener for me, the ring situation was a rare line in the sand, with Paulie refusing to turn the purchase of the rings into a ‘couple thing’. It didn’t slow anything down, though.
“Her assertiveness was one of the things that attracted you to her,” I said, reminding him of the first conversation we ever had about her. “You’re the one that told me that.”
“I think the fact that she’s hot probably helped,” Nico said.
Oh Lord love a duck, Nico. I pierced my husband with a was-that-necessary look. He gave me a small shrug.
“It’s not like you’ve been an unwilling participant,” I pressed. “What’s the real reason?”
Paolo ran his hand through his hair again.
“I already told you Li,” Paolo said. “Everything is moving too fast. Last week, we were talking about schools, and we haven’t even gotten married yet.” Paolo rested the back of his head on the chair, looking up.
“I don’t think that’s it,” I said. “Nico and I talked about schools before getting engaged.” Reaching out, I touched his knee. “Paolo.”
He glanced down.
“Do you love her?”
Paolo hesitated. Then he exhaled. “I don’t know.”
I sat back into my chair, letting the words linger in the air.
Nico broke the silence, his voice soft. “I’m pretty sure that’s your answer.”
Paolo glanced over at Nico, then back up to the sky. “But everything is planned. Paid for. We’ve got people flying in for the wedding.”
“Who gives a shit,” Nico retorted.
“You don’t understand,” Paolo said. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Then help us understand,” I said. “You came to talk it out, right?” I paused. “Talk.”
Paolo leaned over, his arms resting on his knees. “I’ve been feeling like this for a few weeks now. I haven’t been able to sleep. I tried a few times to talk to Maya about it but she’d barrage me with wedding questions and—” Paolo’s head dropped. “The other night, we finished dinner… just small talk. And I asked her if she was getting cold feet with it only being a week away. She must have read something in my face because she got angry. Started accusing me of all sorts of things. Saying that you and the family were forcing me to cancel the wedding.”
I sat up. “Me? I didn’t say anything,” I said. “Did Mom say something?”
“No-o-o,” Paolo groaned. He looked up at us again. “I wasn’t gonna cancel the wedding. Honest. Maybe, postpone it a bit? A year maybe. But I wasn’t breaking things off.” He sighed. “I don’t know. I just wanted to talk about it. That’s all. Then she…”
I waited for my brother to continue but he just stopped talking and tipped his head back, finishing the bottle of beer.
“She what?” I pushed, my voice stronger than I intended.
Paolo cupped his mouth, dragged his hand down to his neck, and exhaled slowly. “She said she’d kill herself right in front of me if I did.”
“Oh my god.”
“The look in her eyes, Li? I believed her.”
I turned to Nico. His eyes were wide with a I-have-no-clue-what-to-say look. Neither did I, for that matter.
“Paulie—” I began, but Paolo interrupted me.
“She scared me, Li. It’s not that I don’t care deeply about her. I do! But… what do you do with that?”
Moving towards my brother, I sat on the armrest of his chair and slipped an arm around his shoulders. I gave him a gentle squeeze and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “I don’t know, Paulie. I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around all of this. But this is not a ‘you’ problem.”
Paolo shot up from his chair and Nico followed.
“It is a me problem,” Paolo said, his voice rising.
“No, it’s not,” I said.
Paolo opened his mouth in protest, but I raised my hands towards him, palms out.
“Hear me out.”
After a moment, Paolo nodded and sat back down, arms resting on his knees again. I sat back on my own chair, mirroring him.
“I know you care about her,” I continued. “I know you don’t want anything to happen to her. And as much as we’ve had our differences, I don’t want anything to happen to her, either.”
Our mother on the other hand? Best not bring it up.
“This is about you, Paulie. What do you want? You need to decide what’s best for you regardless of how others are going to react. That includes Maya.”
“I don’t know if I could live with myself if something happened,” Paolo said. “Because of me.”
“Yeah, I understand but listen. If you want to call off the wedding, then call it off. If you love her and believe this is just cold feet, then we’ll be at the church cheering you on.”
I could feel Nico giving me a are-you-kidding-me glare.
“But how she reacts to your decision shouldn’t play into it,” I said. “Your happiness is just as important as hers.”
Paolo stayed long enough to have a bite to eat. There was small talk, some heavier conversation, and a few warm laughs.
And that was it. Nico and I, we were sure the wedding was off.
That night, Paolo told his fiancée that he stopped at our house for a beer. That was enough to send her into hysterics, and she slashed her arm with a kitchen knife in front of him.
Eleven stitches.
They were married a few days later.
~
Ding. The elevator door opened. I stepped out, realizing too late I’d gotten off on the wrong floor.
This wasn’t the first time I’d done that. Sighing, I stepped back to the elevators and pressed the up button. Again.
~
Over the years, I tried giving my brother’s wife the full charm offensive, but it somehow made things worse. Visits grew shorter. Then rarer. Soon Paolo was stopping by alone, saying his wife had a headache or giving some other excuse. He was always anxious, checking the time, and we saw Paolo less and less.
Eventually he admitted the truth: he had been lying about where he was going so he could see us. According to his wife, the family—and me in particular—were poisoning him against her. When he called me or our mother, he used prepaid phones because his wife checked the call history on their cellphone bills.
Nico’s relationship with Paolo deteriorated even faster. Nico was angry. The choices were Paolo’s and therefore entirely his fault. Period. No debate. The little brother Nico had gained through marriage was gone.
I saw it differently, which for a while put a real strain on our marriage. Where Nico saw cowardly capitulation, I saw Paolo’s kind heart, too willing to make the noble sacrifice for someone unworthy of his love or loyalty.
Not that Nico didn’t have a point.
With the birth of Paolo’s daughter, more walls went up. No one was allowed to see the baby, including the grandparents. Paolo did manage a few quick visits to our mother’s house, baby in tow, while his wife napped. But that didn’t last long.
The point-of-no-return came a couple of years after the birth of his twin boys. Paolo had called wanting to make plans for dinner at Valentino’s, the place we used to go to before he got married. He wanted my help finding a good lawyer.
“You still close with your neighbour?” Paolo asked. “Isn’t her husband a lawyer?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think he does family law. I’m sure he’ll recommend a good divorce lawyer though.”
“I can’t lose the kids, Li. I need to find the best and nastiest one around. Maya will do everything to get full custody. I can’t let that happen.”
I agreed to help without hesitation.
Except, the day before we planned to meet, he called to cancel. I knew exactly what had happened: she’d threatened to take her life again, just like before the wedding.
Let her.
The thought stunned me. Not because I’d had it, but because I meant it.
“Li, I’m not going through with it,” Paolo said as we sat tucked into the cornermost booth of the restaurant.
“Yeah, you said that already. I’m still waiting to hear why the hell not? And don’t tell me it’s complicated.”
“Please, Li? Lower your voice.”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” I whispered.
After a minute of awkward silence and fidgeting, he said quietly, “She said that if I left her she’d kill herself.”
I stared at him. “She said that before, Paulie. What’s different this time?”
“She said she’d take the kids with her if she did.”
I begged him to call the police, even threatened to call Children’s Aid—everything was on the table to get those kids out of that house. Paolo asked me to stop, saying he needed to find a way to leave her while keeping the kids safe. In the meantime, he thought the best thing was to keep the peace and let things cool down while he figured it out.
~
The elevator doors slid open. Paolo’s floor.
The familiar sharp smell of disinfectant and warm plastic carried the faint bitterness of burnt coffee from the nurse’s station. As I strode down the hallway toward my brother’s room, some of the nurses gave me a look. I checked to make sure I hadn’t missed a button on my blouse and adjusted my waistband. I nodded to Tessa, the nurse behind the desk, and wished her a good morning. Tessa gave me a tight smile, returned the greeting and then immediately reached for the phone. Paolo’s floor was always ridiculously busy, the poor nurses were constantly on the go.
A man in his seventies moved slowly ahead of me, taking tiny steps in his hospital gown while pushing an IV stand in front of him. I excused myself and slipped past, only a few doors away from Paolo’s room.
I plastered a smile on my face and threw my shoulders back as I marched in.
A woman lay in my brother’s bed.
I gasped, mortified. I’d walked into the wrong room. First the wrong floor, now the wrong room. “I’m so sorry,” I said, backing out of the doorway. I checked the room number. Six seventeen. No, this was the right room.
I closed my eyes tight and exhaled. Not this again.
A few months back, the hospital moved Paolo to another room and my brother’s wife told the nurses not to give us the new room number. My mother and I had arrived at the empty room, and I asked where he was. As ever, the nurse was apologetic but had to enforce the rules. Back at the nurses’ station, Tessa had glanced over her shoulder for a moment, then looked straight into my eyes.
Mom and I took the hint and followed her gaze. A few minutes later, we found Paolo. This was becoming so childish it sickened me.
“Hi Tessa. Can you please tell me my brother’s new room number.”
Tessa shifted her weight and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Vicki is on her way up if you don’t mind waiting a minute or two?”
Vicki the hospital social worker? What baloney was happening now?
“Really?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.
Tessa grimaced. “I’m sorry.”
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
I was so done with all of this. The games. The spite. The constant battle to simply be around my own brother. Heat rolled up my chest, but I tamped it down. Blowing up at Tessa or the social worker wouldn’t accomplish anything—they weren’t the problem.
Five minutes later, Vicki waved from down the corridor and motioned to a room beside her. “Good morning,” she said when I reached her.
“Good morning. What’s going on? Why all the cloak and dagger?” I asked. “You know I’m just going to check every room in the hospital until I find him.”
“He… he’s not here,” Vicki said. “Your sister-in-law said she’d inform the family.”
“What do you mean he’s not here?” I said, my jaw clenching. “Did you send him to another hospital?” I was already bracing for a whole new set of fights. Unbelievable.
“Ah… No,” Vicki said awkwardly, folding her hands together. “I’m so sorry. Your brother passed away on Friday.”
I froze, unblinking. A concussive blast detonated in my head; all I could hear was a muffled ringing sound.
Vicki guided me to a chair and I sat. “I’m so sorry you had to find out this way,” she said, her voice pained.
“But… but… you sure?” I asked, stupidly. “How?”
“I can’t say,” Vicki said, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“You can’t even tell me how he died?” I blurted, my voice loud and cracked.
My fingers curled into fists as I felt my face flush. Months—years—pressed up all at once, and a screech escaped my throat.
A nurse stepped into the doorway. “Everyone doing okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” Vicki replied. “We’re good, Gerry. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whispered, covering my face with both hands. Tears streamed down my cheeks, my shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Vicki placed a warm hand on my upper arm.
After a bit, I took a deep breath, sat up straight on the edge of the chair and wiped my face with the heels of my hands. “Can you at least tell me what funeral home he was sent to?”
“I will check on that for you,” Vicki said. “I do know that your brother’s remains were sent for cremation. The mortuary will be able to tell you if there will be a public funeral.”
That. Cunt.
“You can stay in the room until you’re ready.” Vicki said.
I nodded.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Vicki said.
“Thank you.”
Paolo was gone. His wife hadn’t had the basic human decency to tell us. This was how I found out my brother died? From a stranger, five days later?
My shoulders slumped as I set the coffee cup down, hands shaking.
How could this have been the plan, Paolo? You went through with the wedding because you didn’t know if you could live with yourself if something happened. I saw that as noble.
I was wrong. Your need to be compassionate stripped that same compassion from the people who loved you.
I loved you. Your family loved you. But you allowed it. Allowed your family to be treated as strangers. As unwelcome vermin. This was how you chose to live with yourself?
I realized then—compassion without boundaries was surrender.
A cry tore loose in my chest and slammed into my throat, but no sound came out. My body shuddered in the aftershock.
I dragged myself toward the elevator in a trance. As I approached, the doors opened. My mother stepped out, coffee in hand.
Smiling.
Fiorenzo Mastroianni is a writer from Hamilton, Ontario.
