The Music of Bees Eileen Garvin (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

at least one stroke before social services brought him in. An advanced directive outlines what kind of care he wants to receive if hospitalized. He signed it last fall. It says he doesn’t want to be admitted to the ICU or put on a ventilator or have a feeding tube put in. We can only offer him limited intervention, like IV fluids and comfort care.”

Harry shook his head. “I didn’t know.”

The doctor shrugged, seeming unsurprised. “You’re living with him now?”

Harry nodded.

The doctor frowned down at his tablet.

“Sounds like his trailer is in pretty rough shape. If he recovers, he’ll likely move to a rehab setting for a while, but then he’d need a more stable living situation. Will you be staying with him? He’d need help with bathing, eating, getting to follow-up appointments, and such.”

Harry, who was down to $297.75, half a jar of peanut butter, two sleeves of Saltines, a Hershey bar, and a quart of whiskey, said, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

The doctor smiled. “That’s great to hear,” he said. “It’s much easier when folks have family step up.”

He tucked the tablet under his arm and reached out to shake Harry’s hand again. “I’ll check in later. Let the nurses know if you have any questions.”

The doctor strode out of the room.

Harry sat down and looked at his uncle, who struggled to breathe, and was unsure how to feel. He was fond of Uncle H, but he didn’t really know him, not like his mom did. He mostly felt guilty for not feeling something more deeply—sad or worried. But he could be there on his mother’s behalf. That was something.

Around 5 p.m., one of the nurses brought in a dinner tray.

“Oh, I don’t think he can eat that,” Harry said.

“Anybody else hungry in here?” she asked with a wink.

Creamed chicken and rice, corn, salad, a cookie. Harry ate every bite, ashamed and grateful. He fell asleep in the chair and awoke when another nurse came in in the morning. Through it all, Uncle H hadn’t opened his eyes or uttered a sound other than the rasping breath that escaped his mouth. Without his glasses and his dentures, he looked like a baby. His thin arm was bruised around the IV. Harry took his hand, which felt cold and papery.

“I’ll be back this afternoon, Uncle H,” he said. “I’ll bring some cards with me, and we can play rummy.”

Harry rode down the hill to Hood River and across the bridge. He passed River Daze and caught a flash of Moira’s face in the bakery window. His heart clenched, and his stomach growled. He thought wistfully of the hospital breakfast trays he had seen passing the door. The morning nurse hadn’t offered him one or seemed very friendly, so Harry hadn’t asked.

He stopped at a food truck just outside of downtown and bought a breakfast burrito. He knew a little Spanish from working with the guys in his parents’ landscaping crew. So he said good morning and ordered in Spanish. The guy beamed at him and said a bunch of stuff Harry didn’t catch. He gave Harry an orange juice for free and gestured to a plastic chair next to the food cart. Harry sat and wolfed down the burrito, licked his fingers, and drained the juice box. He looked out over the methodical rows of trees that made up the orchards. Their white blossoms stirred in the breeze. The valley opened up there, and he could see Mount Hood to the south and more orchards marching across the landscape. He heard the cough of a diesel engine and saw a man driving a red tractor between rows of trees. The engine startled a flock of birds, which burst across the road, crying in alarm and flapping their nearly useless wings. A covey of quail, Harry remembered from the bird book as he heard their alarmed peeping. He wiped his hands on his pants and grabbed the Schwinn.

“Gracias, señor! Buen día!” the man said.

“Gracias!” Harry said, waving as he pedaled off.

He parked his bike in the shade by a creek to wait until it was close to 1:00 p.m. He tried to think of what to say to the farmer. Should he have brought a copy of his résumé with him? The thought ratcheted up his anxiety. He hadn’t thought about job interviews since his coaching meeting at the correctional center.

His counselor was a skinny Italian guy named Anthony Barone. Anthony wore a crisp blue shirt and tie and had a small gold earring in one ear. His office smelled strongly of cedar aftershave, which was not unpleasant. Harry sat in the chair he gestured to. One of the wheels was coming loose, and the whole chair tipped backward if Harry shifted his weight. He sat forward and watched Anthony flip through his file, feeling like he was in the principal’s office.

“Mr. Stokes. Okay. So, you graduated from high school. Good. Oh, college boy! Don’t see that every day. How the heck did you end up in here with a college education?” He looked up from Harry’s file and raised a thick eyebrow.

Harry hung his head. “It was just community college,” he mumbled.

Anthony folded his hands and glowered at Harry. “Mr. Stokes, most of the guys in here didn’t get past the eighth grade. Do you know what it’s like looking for work with no diploma? And then a record on top of that? And brown skin?”

Harry shook his head, reddening.

“No, you don’t. That’s right. Remember that. Don’t take your advantages for granted. Be grateful you’ve got that education, okay, Harry?”

Harry nodded.

“Now what skills do you have, then? Let’s see. You’ve done some landscaping. Looks like that was for your folks’ company. What else? You worked at a restaurant for a little while. What did you do there?”

Harry shrugged, and the chair tipped. He saw Anthony frown, and he sat up straight.

“Um, I did a little bit of everything? Busboy, dishwasher, prep cook, stock boy, delivery driver. All those things,”