1
Tap. Tap. I
feel each flick of the tube as its contents slowly course their way through the
hole in my arm and into my bloodstream. Some man with bleached blonde hair does
a few final recordings, plants his hand upon my dad’s shoulder, says a few
words, and walks out the door. I wonder if that man has a wife. Or kids. Will
he tuck them in tonight?
My dad
wears his heart of his sleeve. He draws the blanket around my shoulders, sweeps
my hair back, and kisses me on the forehead. Is there a better dad? Most girls
starve for this sort of attention—this affection—but will get in a year what I
get each night.
He turns
out the light, but he doesn’t walk out. Instead, he lies back in the recliner
by my bed. Same thing each night. He never escapes to the bathroom without me
noticing. I’ll pretend to be asleep so he doesn’t feel bad, but I know he’s
leaving. How could I not? He leaves utter silence in his wake. The sound of
death. I can feel his absence.
I close my
eyes. It is my way of giving Dad permission to sleep. Otherwise he would stare
at me all night. I used to tell him to knock it off, but I have come to
appreciate his gaze. It’s nice to be known, to be watched, even loved.
Within
minutes I hear the faint snores. I slowly turn my head and look at him. With
his balding head turned back and his mouth fully ajar, he begins to look like a
Muppet. All he would need is string-drawn arms, flailing wildly, to complete
the look. In any case, I am grateful. I am now left to my thoughts.
It might
seem silly to you that I can only think when others are not looking. I used to
think it was silly too. But you try loving someone whose eyes are upon you while
also getting lost in thought. You can try it for a time—hell, you can even be
looking in the person’s eyes—but they’ll see the vacancy. The blank whiteness
of your eyes will overwhelm the pupils, and your callous heart will overwhelm
your friend.
But that’s
a tangent. I cannot reason with the slow of heart or mind. No, I’m not exalting
myself or insulting you. It’s just—you learn things—when you live without rest.
When night becomes so familiar that the first morning’s light becomes painful.
Yes, then you would not be so slow.
Tonight, my
mind dines upon love. Believe it or not, I first fell in love at the tender age
of four. Clifford the Dog had just weaned her puppies (my parents did not ask
enough questions of their neighbor when they bought the pup). I sprinted out
the door to go visit my friend, Harry Watkins, up the street. He had the best
fort on the block.
As I ran,
the barking of the puppies wasn’t receding. I turned to find one of them
(awkwardly) chasing after me. When it finally reached my shoe, it started to
claw and nibble at the toe. I picked him up (I checked to make sure it was a
him) and held him against my chest. He rested his head against me and I was in
love. His name was Baby.
Some might
wonder if this name foreshadowed a future obsession with having a baby of my
own. Some would be right. I fell in love with Baby that day because he needed
me. I could drop Baby and hurt him, but I wouldn’t. He trusted me to love him
as he was, and I did. There is nothing like holding a living being to your
heart and knowing he is yours. I want a baby.
I was
practically still a baby when my mom said that she was going away. She no
longer loved my daddy, and he no longer loved her. But she made sure I knew
that she still loved me and would write me often. I remember thinking then, if
she loved me, why would she leave me?
Well, she
kept her word and wrote often. Once a month, in fact. Her letter would be
mostly numbers and a quickly-scrawled signature. My daddy would let me hold the
letters, but not keep them. He would always take them to the bank the next day
and get money out. Those letters were alimony checks.
Years
later, I realized that Mom found something that she loved more than she loved
Dad or I loved Baby. She loved success. The world was her oyster and nothing
would stop her from taking the pearl at its heart—or mine. She was able to
write plenty of checks as she pursued her dreams. Obviously a little child
wasn’t her dream…just mine.
I learned
about the world from my mom. A thousand disappointments waited behind the
original, each ready to deal me a new blow and extract their own tears. I
couldn’t trust the world like Baby trusted me. The arms wouldn’t hold.
But my
dad’s arms would always hold tight. He lost his first love but he would not
lose his last. At times I resented him for it. As children, we need freedom.
Just like nights like these, though, his eyes would follow me. He would not
close his eyes until I closed mine.
You might
think that this is ridiculous. In our modern world, what type of parent would
be so backward and oppressive? I was once like you, but that is one area where
us modern types are wrong. You think the world is your oyster like my Mom, but
it’s more likely to snap on you. We need unconditional love, even if it’s
messy.
I know that
now more than ever. Friends are surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) fickle
when you need more than you can give. Early on, they would sit and chat. They
would eye the tube nervously and avoid looking at the bandana on my head. They
were nice enough, but it was obvious they were uncomfortable.
I became a
circus mirror to those friends. They would look at me and see their own
disfigured forms. Why should they mourn their mortality when they could
celebrate their vitality? I knew this. They knew this. I was relieved when they
just left me alone and played football.
Dad was a
hero. He took me to appointments, talked with me about serious things, and took
me for daddy-daughter dates. I felt a little like I was a wife and he was a
devoted husband, but without the weirdness. He obviously missed my mom, but it
simply made his affection for me more whole.
My standard
for a husband is virtually impossible as a result. He would need to love me
like my dad loves me, and my dad doesn’t quit.
Dad works his butt off at the hardware store, does some home repair work
in his spare time, and gives all the rest of his energy, time, knowledge, and
love to me.
I feel a
tear work its way around my cheekbone as I look over at my Muppet-dad. He has
fallen short in many ways, but not in his love. As everything I have ever taken
for granted shifts around me like a sea of sand, he has been my rock. And I
need him so much.
