I am not foolish. It may seem like that to my sisters, who hate him. They had cause to, I did not. I hated his actions toward them, hated him hurting the sisters and mother I loved. But with me he was a different person. There are a myriad of reasons why I was special. My frailty allowed him to protect me, or maybe because I look like him. A small voice whispers that he simply chose one of us to love and I was the lucky one. Perhaps parents understand their capacity, accept their limitations. They are only able to give so much of themselves to another, to love one person unconditionally. They pick a favorite and the others must fend for themselves. Whatever the reason, I was the one loved. Adored by both parents, I am indebted to them for life for making me the chosen one.
“Hi, Papa.” Bending down, I kiss his forehead. After smoothing the blanket over his body, I rearrange his pillow to make him more comfortable. I scan the machines, checking his vitals. Since his admission to the hospital I have become an expert at reading them. What used to be a foreign language is now decipherable. “Did you have a good night?”
Pulling up a chair, I bring it right next to the bed. Holding his hand, I lay my head down on the bed. Exhaustion seeps into my limbs. I want to curl up and fall asleep. We played a game when I was little. The nights when sleep was elusive, he would pick me up and fly me around like an airplane. Through the living room, in and out of the bathrooms, past the den until we returned to the bedroom. While Sonya lay in bed watching, he would fly me around our room once, twice, until the airplane was all out of fuel. “Time for the plane to land at the gate,” he would say, tucking me into bed.
“Me, Daddy, me now,” Sonya would yell when she was younger. He would pick her up and play the game, but I knew it wasn’t the same. Her plane ride was shorter, quicker, without nearly as many turns or the same level of excitement. She must have caught on too, because after a while she stopped asking.
“Eric is pushing for a baby.” The machines are the only sound in the room. “He wants to adopt a child.”
Papa loved Gia. It was obvious from the way he played with her. The day of Gia’s birth, he arrived at the hospital loaded up with gifts.
“I told him not now.” The screeching wheel of the food-service cart as it comes down the hall announces it is breakfast time. They always pass Papa’s room. No reason to bring a plate to the man who is dependent on a tube for his sustenance. “Not when you’re here, fighting for your life.”
The day Mama called me with the news, I was getting ready for our weekly meal. Our plan was for me to pick them up and drive together to sample a new restaurant that had received rave reviews. My cell phone began to buzz just as I was slipping my earring in. “I’m on my way, Mama,” I said into the phone, not giving her a chance to speak. Grabbing my keys off the mantel, I rushed out the door, the phone still to my ear.
“He’s collapsed, Trisha,” she said, interrupting me. “The ambulance is taking him to the hospital.”
Her words washed over me. My keys dropped. I stood frozen, paralyzed from shock. Eric came home and drove us to the hospital. We met them in the ER, but the doctors were baffled. He had fallen into a coma with no explanation as to why.
“Please wake up.” I pace the tight room. It is as large as my guest bathroom. “How am I supposed to be a mother?” He stays silent. Not a muscle moves or twitches. Picking up his hand, I whisper, “What kind of parent would I be?” His hand stays limp. Left without an answer, I collapse back into the chair and sit, watching him for hours, hoping for a sign. When none comes, I leave the hospital, more confused than before.
MARIN