Read from the first story, "Taking a Stitch in a Dead Man’s Arm", of Our Lady of the Artichokes and Other Portuguese-American Stories by Katherine Vaz:
I changed the bandage over my father’s knee in the final month of his life. His wound was violet, and blood pulsed through. I never looked away from it. I swallowed my vomit when it struck the back of my clenched teeth; I was ready to swallow my insides as often as necessary—it was important to gaze at his flesh exactly as it was because I would not have it with me for much longer. I wanted to learn matter-of-factness about being this close to someone. The yellow fluid on the gauze around the bloodstains, the cortisone spray that would have made Papa scream if he’d had the strength: my stain, my shock, and my scream.
A brain lesion gave him double vision. Everything wore a register of itself, a crown of haze. It amused him to watch people walking around with the ghosts of themselves stuck to their skins. Papa’s knee had ripped open when he fell off a ladder while trying to repair a broken window sash. Frantic to protect us, to seal every entry, he had crawled from his sickbed while my mother was at work at the Sunshine Biscuit factory and I was at school. A killer who called himself the Zodiac was roaming the Bay Area. He was sending letters with obscene ciphers to the San Francisco Chronicle.
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