Chapter 11: Visiting Hours

"My mother is his health care proxy," I said into the phone. "She says I can't go in."

"May I explain how that works?" the advocate said.

"Please."

"A proxy speaks for a patient who can't speak for himself."

"Okay."

"Your father can speak. He's alert, and he asked for you by name."

I stood in the ambulance bay, shaking.

"So she can't stop me."

"Not if he wants you there. Come to the fourth floor. I'll meet you at the elevator."

I did not stop to sleep on it.

I did not even think of the yellow note in my locker.

He was my father, and he had asked.

The advocate was a small man in a gray cardigan with a lanyard around his neck.

He walked me down the fourth-floor corridor, past a long window, past a row of blue chairs.

My mother was standing outside Dad's door.

She must have gone up the back stairs.

She blocked the doorway with her whole body.

"Absolutely not."

"Mrs. VanCott," the advocate said gently. "Mr. VanCott has asked to see his daughter."

"He is confused. He's on medication."

"He passed the cognitive screen an hour ago. I read the chart."

"I am his proxy."

"Only when he cannot decide for himself. He can."

A nurse had stopped at the station to watch.

An orderly with a laundry cart slowed down.

My mother's chin trembled, and the tears came, perfectly on time.

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