I walked quietly into the dim recovery room. My father lay on the bed to my left quietly, still under the sedation of the painkillers. He was awake as far as I could tell, though his gaze was most likely transfixed on some delusion in the air. Gotta love morphine. I sat down beside the bed, folding my arms over the metal safety rails. I rested my chin upon my folded wrists as I gazed pensively at my recovering father.
“Da?” I whispered quietly, gently nudging the side of his stomach with the back of my fingers. He stirred slightly, his head rolling to the side to gaze at me. Though I could look him straight in the eye - close enough to see the red veins on white eyeballs - he looked distant.
“Gwenifire…” he mumbled quietly, speaking the French pronunciation of my name. It made me cringe a little. I had never liked my name. His hand, pierced with an intravenous, gently fell upon the back of my head. His fingers stroked through my hair, as if he were trying to differentiate between a hallucination and reality. The corners of his chapped lips curled upwards into an extremely small smile. It was a really painful smile to witness; he smiled, his lips cracked and began to bleed.
My brow furrowed slightly, I looked around the room and plucked a few white tissues from the bedside table. I leaned forward, gently touching the white tissue against his lips. Instantly, the white was stained red. He struggled vainly against me. Gently, I pressed my hand against his chest, keeping him from hurting himself.
“Easy… easy, ol’ boy... don’t hurt yourself, Da,” I whispered to him, discarding the tissue into the waste basket.
Flash.
“Daddy! Up! Up!”A little girl, about three years old, in a frilly pink dress ran towards her young and jovial father who was surrounded by his sons and wife. The father laughed, stooped over and scooped the little girl off her feet. Her hair was chestnut brown, face a light pink with accents of where she had gotten into her mother’s makeup. The father hugged his daughter tightly, giving her a kiss on the forehead before putting her on the ground and telling her to go change into something more durable. The little girl grabbed her mother’s hand and began to run off, urging her mother to pick up her feet.
Flash.
The little girl, a bit older now, perhaps seven, moved into the den. She had on dark green dress that went down to just beneath her knees. Again, her face was lightly painted with makeup. Her father was sitting on the sofa, hunched over, the heels of his hands in his face. She looked around, confusedly. “Where are the boys?” She had asked, completely innocent in her lack of knowledge. Her father looked up at her, red-faced, condensation upon his cheeks. “Gone. All gone…” he said, quietly. The girl frowned a little bit, as did the father. “Go change into something more durable. And take that stuff of your face.” The girl’s brow rose slightly before she turned and walked away to change by herself.
Flash.
The little girl was now about ten years old. She was clad in a pair of denim overalls and a white t-shirt. Her father held her hand tightly as they walked through the airport. She struggled to keep up with her father, legs moving at least thrice faster than his. She constantly adjusted the strap of her Sesame Street backpack, for it kept falling down over her shoulder and dropped towards the floor. “We’ll be late, hurry up.” Her father stated, tugging her along harder. She winced a bit as she felt her arm strain, but said nothing of it. She knew her father was beginning not to care. By now, she was already growing rebellious.
Flash.
Fourteen years old and still kickin’ around. She walked back into the hotel room, rubbing her lip softly. Her growing feminine frame was adorned in a slinky dress that went down to her ankles, the collar almost halter-top like. Idly, she clicked the labret stud against her teeth. As if the sound had resounded throughout the entire room, her father appeared, staring at her in disbelief. “What the hell is that?” He queried, almost angrily. She touched her lip and smiled proudly. “I got my lip pierced, Dad.” He grabbed her arm and sat her down on the chair, fingers going for her lip to rip the new piercing from her flesh. She batted his hand away and glared. “Argh, take that out and get into something more durable.” She frowned almost hatefully before getting up and turning on her heel, slamming the bathroom door shut.
Flash.
Fast-forward to the age of seventeen: she lay in a hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her father came in, instantly plopping down on the chair beside the bed. Her hand was outstretched, reaching for a glass on the table with Kool-Aid in it. She managed to grab the brim of the glass, but nothing more. Cautiously, she drew the glass closer, until she was able to grab it and take a drink from it. She looked to her father, who looked rather annoyed and impatient. He announced that he had been fired and in order to still have money, he was taking her out of the hospital. She frowned a bit, fingers curling tightly around the cup. “No,” she said, bravely, her hand sinking to her side to press the call button. Outside the door, a light lit up, announcing that she was in need of assistance. Her father stood up, glaring angrily. The nurse came in, seeing tears streaming down the girl’s face. “Get him out of here,” the girl squeaked, pleadingly. The usually bubbly nurse soon grew angry as well, grasping her father’s arm and escorting him out the door, announcing that he was not to return or would face criminal charges if he did.
Flash.
That had been me… my life summed up in a few flashbacks. My father had separated himself from me, and only kept me around purely out of pity, and to eventually spite my mother. He knew, from taking me on the road that I would end up in the same career as he. It’s a disease… and for people like me who love to travel, the infection was worse.
An hour or so passed. My father had fallen asleep or fallen unconscious, some time ago, and I had stayed. He doctor had come in to check on my father, not really noticing me standing by the window. I turned on my heel to the look at the doctor, who was an up tight, elderly gentleman who was balding and wearing invisible-frame glasses. His dull grey eyes scanned my father’s chart. I crossed my arms over my chest, brow raised in question. I didn’t trust doctors. Who knew when one doctor would come along, after just snapping, and take it, vicariously, out on you? Too risky for my liking. I’d rather just sit at home and bleed to death.
The doctor took my father’s pulse, then his temperature. I watched with silent interest. Believe it or not, when I was younger, I had wanted to be a doctor. Still can’t recall why. Anyway, those plans were foiled by my father’s career: it just wouldn’t allow such a task to be undertaken. After I’d grown sick, I soon grew ill of hospitals and could no longer stand being in one. In thought, I tugged at my bottom lip, adjusting the centre ring.
“What did you do to him?” I asked quietly, moving to the bedside. The doctor jumped slightly, looking straight at me.
”Visiting hours were over forty-five minutes ago,” he replied firmly, as if to strike some sort of submissive fear into me. It was in vain for I trudged across the floor, footfalls purposely heavy on the linoleum tiles.
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. I know you don’t really care,” I muttered beneath my breath. “What did you do to him?” I reiterated, more fixedly than before. He sighed softly, fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose after pushing up his glass a little ways. It seemed he was trying to push away an on-coming headache, either from my annoyance, a long day, the smell of sickness and death, or all of the above. I figured it was the latter.
“Raphël was in surgery for nearly twenty-three hours,” the doctor began. I could tell by the way his dull eyes looked at me that he was going to be completely honest with me. At that point, I didn’t know whether or not I wanted to hear it. I’d rather live in the delusion that my father was going to be A-okay. I may have harbored hatred and rage for the man, but he was still my father and I wasn’t a monster.
“Go on,” I urged, pushing back the anxiety attack that was clawing its way painfully up my throat. He glanced at my father, than myself. He called me out into the dimly lit and eerily quiet hallway. I leaned against the wall, arms still crossed.
“Your father died twice in surgery. He had punctured both his lungs, tore his left ventricle and lost spinal fluid through a hole we found at the back of his head. I gotta be honest, Miss Jordan,” And here it came, drum roll please: “He’ll be lucky if he lives out the month, if that,” I felt my stomach clench, drawing my heart to sink into my abdomen with it. The doctor gently rubbed my shoulder before walking off to check the rest of his patients. Another reason I couldn’t be a doctor: breaking the bad news to family members.
I moved back into the room, noting my dad was awake and reaching for a little, plasic cup on the bedside table. I whispered a soft ‘no’ and plodded to his side. I took the cup from the table for him. I found myself hunching over his bedside, gently draining some of the water passed his lips. Ironic, no? We both had our own paths… he decided his was best not to help me. He coughed a bit and gently pushed my hand away. I put the glass back down on the table, sitting down on the chair at his side. He gently reached out and took my hand, giving it a limp squeeze. He sank back into the bed, closing his eyes tightly, and fingers tapping against the top of my hand. He reached up and turned off the light. Darkness instantly engulfed the room as my eyes began to adjust slowly. I drew my hand away and sat back in the chair.
“Why do you hate me?”
No response.
“What did I do to you?”
No response.
“Is it because of mum?”
No response. I frowned a little bit, standing up and flicking on the light. My father looked as if he were asleep. Gently, my hands stretched out, to touch his cheek. He made a soft noise and I sighed with relief. He was just asleep… good.
