Read Coming of Age: Volume 1: Eternal Life for Free Online

bit, but that could just be a touch of neuralgia or bursitis or whatever. There was nothing wrong with his father.
    When John Praxis toppled sideways, like a statue knocked off its pedestal, Richard suddenly understood the situation was serious. He dropped his putter—barely conscious of how its head nicked his ball and disturbed the lie—and rushed to his father’s side. “Papa!” he called. And again, “Papa!”
    His father’s eyes were open, their gaze fixed but at slightly different angles, almost cross-eyed. And he was not breathing—not straining or gasping, just not breathing. Richard realized his father was dying.
    “Papa!”
    He dug out his cell phone and tossed it to the caddy. “Don’t call nine-one-one,” he instructed. “That just gets you the Highway Patrol and a layer of bureaucracy. Call the clubhouse and tell them to call the nearest hospital with a helipad and arrange a medevac chopper. Get it out here now! Put any charges on the Praxis membership.”
    Without waiting for the caddy to acknowledge, Richard rolled his father over on his back. It was the first time he had physically touched the Old Man, other than a handshake, in more than twenty years. Richard had taken the company’s mandatory training in office safety and high-rise disaster preparedness, which included basic first aid and cardio-pulmonary resuscitation. He couldn’t remember the rhythm—was it twenty or thirty chest compressions? two or five breath-of-life ventilations?—but he suddenly realized the exact number didn’t matter. He just had to do it.
    He crossed his palms over his father’s breastbone and started pumping. He dimly recalled the fire department instructor describing the beat of that old Bee Gee’s song “Stayin’ Alive” as the perfect pace. Push, push, push, push, staying alive! Push, push, push …
    After what he guessed were twenty or so compressions, he pulled opened his father’s jaw, used his index finger to probe the airway and depress the tongue—which was rough and dry as sandpaper—took a deep breath, and bent to close his lips around his father’s mouth. He blew as hard as he could, forcing air into his father’s lungs, and out of the corner of his eye saw the chest rise an inch or so. He took another breath and blew. Then he went back to pumping along with the Bee Gees.
    As Richard worked, the two Chinese government officials knelt quietly on the grass beside him. When he could spare them a glance, he saw their faces held reverence, even awe. He remembered that Chinese culture valued respect for one’s parents and elders. That was what they were feeling now. Then he put that thought out of his mind and kept on pumping.
    A long time later—push, push, push, push, breathe—he could hear the familiar thwock-thwock-thwock-thwock and the jingling mechanical whine of a helicopter descending. It took effort not to change his rhythm to match the beat of those blades. A frenzied downwind battered his hair and shirt collar. He glanced over to see skids dig into the perfectly manicured green. After a minute, a pair of hands in purple nitrile gloves at the end of dark-blue uniform sleeves gripped Richard’s arms to stop him and then take over the compressions.
    He sat back on his heels. The med tech moved into position above his father while others brought a stretcher from the helicopter.
    As they loaded John Praxis through the fuselage doors, Richard confirmed the hospital where he would be taken. He retrieved his cell phone from the caddy and called his office, told his administrative assistant to find his brother Leonard and sister Callie, tell them what had happened, and get them over to the UCSF Medical Center at Mission Bay. Richard himself was allowed to ride in with his father.
    Two hours later, with John Praxis still in surgery, the three children sat on the cold, slate-blue vinyl furniture of the waiting area. Callie was next to Richard and held his hand. After he had described giving