“It was what your mother wanted,” Dad revealed to me, letting me know he was not an army of one. “She begged me, but I refused. I should have listened.”
Whipping my head toward her, I silently implored her to deny his statement. To tell me she loved me, that I was wanted. No matter that she never protected us, that she stood by and allowed him to hit us. I forgave her, believing her to be a victim right alongside us. But her next words made me realize she was also a perpetrator.
“Right, Ranee?” Dad demanded.
“Yes,” Mom answered, her face downcast, refusing to meet my gaze. Her admission, the truth, seared me. “It would have been best for everyone.”
It was a mistake coming back. There’s no place for me here. I hoped things had changed. That with him in a coma, I could finally find home. But there is no home to be had. Just memories of a heartache that won’t heal. The argument with Mom at the house still stings. She has not changed and may never. She’s settled into her way of life, and acceptance has followed. I used to watch her when he hit us. Her head lowered, her hands wringing. I believed I hated her for not loving me. Now I realize, more than anything, I hated her for not trying to stop him. At least if she had attempted to do something, I would have known that the sight of us being hit hurt her more than us. That as our mother, she would rather bear any pain than watch ours.
I stare at my father, his breathing steady, stable. It is time to say good-bye. His hands rest on top of the hospital sheet; his fingernails are trimmed, though his hair falls over his forehead. I clutch my camera. A physical extension of me, it is what I trust the most. Like a security blanket, I take it everywhere I go. When I look through the lens, I am sure I will see beauty. No shades of gray to cast a shadow over the image. In that one moment when I shoot the scene, it will be perfect.
Over the years, I learned that it doesn’t matter what I photograph. The beauty of a falling snowflake is as powerful as the smile of a young child. I capture what demands immortalization. Like the words from a writer, each photo is its own being, with its own life. I am simply the conduit, the one chosen to take the picture. If not me, then another will pass by and honor the request. It is my fortune to be a part of it, to preserve it.
Raising my camera slowly, I glance through the lens, staring at him. The image blurry, I wait for the automatic focus to correct it. Through my trusted lens I see him, his body frail, and his mind blank. Weakened from age and illness, his face is drawn. The man I believed all-powerful now lies in bed, powerless. Shocked, I lower my camera and stare, watching, waiting for him to rise out of the bed and prove me wrong.
“He’s a very lucky man.”
I turn, surprised to see David standing at the foot of the bed. Jerking away from the bed, I fear having revealed any secrets. He watches me, his eyes curious.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“No, not at all.” I grab the camera as it starts to slip off my lap and onto the tile floor. He had said something before, when he walked in. “I’m sorry—I didn’t catch what you said.”
“Just that your father is very fortunate.” David scans the machines that have become Dad’s constant companions. He jots some notes down on the chart. “At least one member of your family is here to visit him every day.”
“Other patients? They don’t . . .” I leave the question hanging, unspoken.
“Not everyone is fortunate enough to have a loving family,” David says, seeming to understand me. “Your father must have done something very right to inspire such loyalty.”
I swallow my denial. There is no reason to tell this doctor the truth. For him it is irrelevant that his patient inspired neither loyalty nor love. David’s job is to save my father’s life. Regardless of whether we want him to live. “How is he doing?”