I wake up on the couch only wearing my underwear. Jorge lived in the guest house of his brother Rodrigo’s home in Hawthorne, so I rented a one-bedroom apartment South of Wilshire. The TV is blasting some YouTube video showing Donald Trump coming down his golden elevator. I’m covered in taco wrappers, and cilantro and onions, from my early morning feast. Empty PBR cans decorate my glass coffee table.  My phone vibrates off the table. Instinctually, I reach down and answer. 

Jorge speaks on the other side, “Pat, one last chance to change your mind. Car’s all packed and we’re about to head across the border.” 

I chuckle and rub my eyes fully open. “Dude, if you couldn’t convince me last night when we were grabbing tacos at 2:00 a.m., you’re not going to now.” 

“Alright, well that fucking book better be done by the time I get back. You’ve been telling me it’s inches away for the last three years.” 

I swipe the discarded food from my chest. “I’m just about to get on it now. Have fun. And be safe.” 

Jorge laughs softly.  “I will. Dad. Anyway, love you, man.” 

“Alright man, adios.” 

“Adios. And I know you love me too,” Jorge says before ending the call. 

I smile and hang up before stretching and scratching myself. I sit up silently for a moment trying to regain full consciousness.  

Better get some water.  

After I return to the couch from the kitchen, I pull out my laptop from my backpack and open it. I click a file, and the document opens to a page that reads: 

FINDING A PLACE CALLED HOME 

WRITTEN BY 

PATRICK EATON 

Alright, here we go.  

I scroll through the manuscript, not actually reading, just taking in the work I had done so long ago. I scroll back up to the first page and start attempting to read under my breath.   

C’mon, Pat. This is your dream. Focus. 

Finally, I start typing.

The Google search returns results for “calories in al pastor taco.” I count the empty wrappers.  Fuck! Almost 1400 calories?  Jesus. I need to get back into shape. 

— 

After struggling through about 40 minutes of my run, I was back by the Federal Building when the sound in my headphones of Start Today by the Gorilla Biscuits is interrupted briefly by the ping of a text message coming through my phone.  

I pause to check. I can use a quick breather.  

I read the message on my watch:  

Mom 

Patty, please call me ASAP. 

Later. I’m less than a mile from home. 

No route ever planned, I run now, occasionally, just to find that generative drive I used to tap into when running cross-country back in high school. I always loved exploring the beautiful landscapes of my small mining town at the foothills of the Sierras.  And when I discovered distance running, I found my escape to solitude and some time to think. All that hiking in the mountains and swimming in the lakes built up impressive lung capacity.   

The neatly stacked buildings in Los Angeles aren’t so inspiring but I need something to reignite my creative flame.   

Satisfied with my effort, I walk into my apartment drenched in that extra sticky sweat that is produced when it is laced with alcohol. I head straight to the bathroom for a shower. 

—     

I walk into my bedroom, wet from a shower, wearing a towel. After drying, I put on some mesh shorts and my old UCLA Den t-shirt with the worn hem and ripped off sleeves. After that, I grab my phone from the dresser. It shows six text messages from Mom. I call her without looking at what she wrote. 

Mom skips a greeting and says, “Patty. I’m so sorry to bug you.” 

“What’s up. Mom?” 

She takes a deep breath then begins to cry.   

“Oh, Patty…” 

— 

Wind slapping my ears always reminds me of the downhill mountain biking we did as kids. My dad taught me how to ride when I was only three because he “never wanted me to get left behind.” The funny thing is, I broke my leg riding my bike and so I had to learn it all over again when I was four.  

That saying, you never forget how to ride a bike, doesn’t apply to toddlers I guess.  

Instead of my saddle, I am buckled into my 2005 Tacoma driving on the sparsely populated 5 Freeway near Stockton; now a welcome reprieve from the bumper-to-bumper traffic I have grown accustomed to in L.A. That slap in my left ear was the primary noise I sensed most of this drive, but when “The Same Son” by Have Heart comes on my truck’s stereo, I crank up the volume and begin screaming along: 

The song continues but I go silent as I exit the freeway and pull onto Highway 99. My surroundings change from concrete and metal to open fields punctuated by small roadside restaurants and bars. Had the sign been flipped upside down, this highway would be indistinguishable from the old Route 66. Everything here is meant to feel old. My music just doesn’t feel right now, so I click it off.  

On this highway, time stands still. 

Driving on that empty country road usually gave me the same opportunity to think that I enjoyed while running. Except for now, my mind will not engage.   

Further up now, on Highway 88, I drive past Main Street where the fire station sits adjacent to the only traffic light in Jackson. With one hand on the wheel, I text mom that I’m close.  

When I reach the parking lot of Sutter Amador Hospital, I find a spot, kill the engine and enter the main building. Mom is there waiting for me with a visitor tag. She is dressed in sweats with no makeup on – a sight rarely seen outside of home. Cheryl Eaton still looked much younger than her 54 years, but there was a strain on her face that I had never seen before. This isn’t a simple family visit. I mean those don’t really happen anymore. But still, this is different. Defense mechanism, denial, or whatever else, I am out of body. It’s like a movie. 

Int. Suttor Amador Hospital – Evening. 

Cheryl places the tag on Pat’s chest, hugs her son, and takes him past the reception desk into a wing of rooms appointed with customary hospital equipment.  

CHERYL 

They put Dad at the end of the hall. He has more
privacy there. 

Pat is silent. He does his best to respect privacy as he walks past patients thinly veiled by hospital curtains. The moans and groans make it impossible not to look sometimes.  

Cheryl stops at Room 16 and Pat pulls up to her side and idles.  

CHERYL 
(continued) 

Okay, Patty. This is it. You want to go in first? 

Pat nods his head silently and enters the room. Pat sees his dad lying on a hospital bed. Tom’s gown is draped more like a blanket than a dress, with wires coming out of the openings for his neck and left sleeve. The IV stick in his right hand is surrounded by the darkening crust of blood that forms before the actual scab.  

Pat 
(hushed) 

What the fuck. 

And suddenly, I feel my head lift, I can feel my breath, I feel the flow of blood in my veins, and my ears burn. I am back in my body again. Dad is in the ICU. It’s not that Mom kept any of this from me, I just needed to see it for myself. 

What the fuck. 

When I saw Dad last, a couple of months ago at my cousin’s wedding in San Pedro, he was stronger than most people my own age. Stronger than me. Hell, he’s only 55. But now, he looked frail, emphasized by the noticeable droop on the left side of his face.   

At the foot of the bed, Dr. Morrison, an athletic middle-aged woman, is reviewing Dad’s medical chart. She looks up at me as I remain motionless just past the threshold inside the room, my mind trying to comprehend the scene. “You must be Pat.” 

I turn my head toward the voice and stare blankly as Dr. Morrison continues. “A proud mama always talks about her baby.” She must have interpreted that blank stare for confusion for how this person knew me. Not that she was wrong, but that a stranger knew my name barely registered.  

Dr. Morrison waves at Mom who hooks her arm through my elbow and drags me toward the bed.  “Pat, let’s sit by Dad and let Dr. Morrison give us an update.” 

Mom and I sit on the lightly padded seats moved near Dad’s bed and look up toward Dr. Morrison for her explanation. “Well, predicting the outcome after stroke is nearly impossible. Fortunately, Mr. Eaton is relatively young compared to a lot of patients I see. He’ll be in the ICU while we monitor and run tests.” 

Mom grabs Dad’s right hand carefully avoiding his wound, and asks, “but when can we expect him to come home?” 

Dr. Morrison frowns and closes the chart. “Mrs. Eaton, stroke is very serious, and Mr. Eaton will need to fight like hell. Right now, put all your focus on supporting him. If he improves, we’ll talk about release.”   

Mom pulls her hand from Dad and holds her own head as she begins to cry. I can’t remember the last time I saw her cry, but based on the bags under eyes, it looked routine, now.   

And this is the time that the whole moment hits me.  

And then I hug my mom tighter than I can ever remember. I hug her the way she used to hug me when I was a kid. The times when it felt like everything was falling all around me.  

Mom catches her breath and calms herself.  

I finally find my words, although I still study the emotion of my mom. She had always been able find the bright side of things.  

“Is there anything else that we can be doing for now, doctor?” I look up at Dr. Morrison and exhale heavily.   

Dr. Morrison walks over and places a hand on my shoulder.  “The best advice I can give is for you and your mom to get some rest. Mr. Eaton won’t be the only one fighting this battle.” 

Dad shifts his eyes toward the doctor and mumbles incoherently. Dr. Morrison returns a look and crosses her arms. “And Mr. Eaton, you more than anyone need to rest and save your energy.” Then, she returns to me, “If there’s no other questions, I am going to continue my rounds and will check back in later.” 

I look at Mom, who looks at Dad, then mom and I just shrug at each other.  

“No, doctor. I don’t think we have any more questions right now. We’re…processing.” The raise in my voice at the end of the sentence made that last part sound like a question. 

 “Well, the nurses will be in and out if something comes up. And they can always get a hold of me. But please, like I said, get some rest.” 

Dr. Morrison nods at my family and walks out.  Mom and I stand and nod back, then in unison, say, “thank you.” I walk over to the monitors on the other side of the bed and review the information, mostly meaningless to me.   

For the first time, I look dad right in the eyes. I suck in my lips as I lightly squeeze his bicep. “You got this,” I say as if I have any idea. What else can I say? I’ve barely spoken to my dad these last three years. Really, ever since I decided to move down for college, and really even before then. The silence in the room was the most normal part of the experience.  

After a moment, Brendon walks in.

Silence broken.  

Brendon is my cousin. We spent our whole lives together before I left Jackson. He is tall with broad shoulders, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, with a well-worn ball cap, large belt buckle, and boots. Basically, the standard issue for this town. 

Typically, only two visitors were allowed at a time in the ICU, but the Eatons were Jackson royalty. And Brendon’s dad, my Uncle Bart, sat on the board of the hospital. Brendon walks over and hugs my mom, who had not moved after the doctor left.  

“Aunt Cheryl! I’m so sorry,” Brendon announced loud enough for Dad’s neighbors to hear. Brendon was not one who did things subtly. He turns right and drives a heavy hug into my dad. More like a tackle. Dad’s eyebrows raise in as much shock as a stroke victim can demonstrate.  

I walk over behind my cousin and pull Brendon off Dad. “Is he alright?” 

“Well, he just had a stroke,” I respond quickly.   

Brendon turned around immediately, recognizing the voice speaking to him, although he had not yet noticed me. “Pat? Is that you?” Brendon crushes me in a bear hug, strapping my arms down to my side.  

“It’s me, B. Can you loosen up a bit? I can’t breathe.”   

Brendon releases me and Mom smiles at our reunion. “Brendon, Pat just rolled into town and there’s nothing we can do here. Why don’t you take him to get a bite to eat?”  

I shoot Mom a dirty, angry look. “Patrick, you drove for hours.  Get some food and then head home and settle in. Rest up like the doctor said. I am going to hang out here a little longer and then I’ll see you at the house.”