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THE KNOCKOUTHE KNOCKOUT
T
“Naw. Can’t punch stone that hard.”
He chuckled and I smiled at Mama. Her smile slowly faded
when Papa coughed and reached over me for a tissue. I sat up
to give him room.
“Give us a few minutes, beta,” Mama said with that sad
but hopeful smile she’d perfected over the years. Seven years to
be exact. Seven years since Papa first went to the doctor with
stomach issues, dizzy spells, migraines, anxiety, inflammation,
abnormal blood tests, and half a dozen other things that
apparently didn’t add up to a real diagnosis. Not until he kept
getting hospitalized for high fevers and passing out.
Papa had diabetes. Then he got renal disease. It advanced.
This time, he’d gone septic, which was scary as crap (imagine
someone telling you that you had an actual blood infection that
could lead to system failure and possible death), but the doctor
had caught it in time.
I nodded and slipped from his arms, trying not to imagine
how it would be to slip out of his hold for the last time. Renal
disease didn’t just go away, not at this stage.
They refused to say it, but Papa was basically inching toward
multisystemic failure. Mama never told me as much. Just like
our bank account, she offered partial disclosure according to
what she felt I needed to know or could handle. But I was nosy,
or as I called it—concerned. Enough to snoop through Papa’s
records and lab test results and bills. I had to know how to
take care of him and what to look out for in case he relapsed.
Mama gave me a brief rub on the shoulder in passing and
I hurried with a quick step to my room, dragging the duffel
bag inside and then hopping into the shower.
A few minutes ended up being an hour and a half, in which
time I’d showered in lava-hot water, washed my hair, shaved,
hopped out, dressed, wrapped a towel around my damp head,

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