I drive around town, going everywhere but here. Yet, without meaning to, I arrive at the same place. Usually I sit in the parking lot of the hospital, staring at the building that houses my father. Sometimes, when I can’t help it, like today, I go in. I fight the instinct to see him. Part of me refuses to believe that he’s sick, unable to move or speak. My visits assure me he is still paralyzed, unable to attack. It’s jarring to see, to accept. His power was all encompassing, his hold over us complete. If someone had told me that this would be the way we concluded our story, I would have laughed. Said it was impossible. I was destined to always be at the end of a never-ending line for happiness, and he . . . well he was the one who demanded I stand there.
“Why?” I ask him for the first time in my life. It never occurred to me to ask as a child. I accepted his violence like other children accept love—as an assumed part of their lives. Only when I left for Stanford did I consider not everyone was raised as we were. It seems almost naive to me now, but when beatings are a normal part of your upbringing, you don’t question them. It may have been too much for my psyche to acknowledge before eighteen that I had been put on the path of abuse while others were given the hand of love. That’s still true now. I fear what would happen if he opens his eyes. If he regains the ability to hurt me when I am already ruined. “Why did you take so much away that wasn’t yours?”
“Good to see you again.”
I have missed David’s arrival. Suddenly self-conscious, I scoot back, allowing him room to do his checkup. I scan his face to see if he overheard me, but he gives no indication he has. “Do you need me to leave?”
“You’re fine.” David uses his stethoscope to listen to my father’s heart. I watch him silently, wondering about the results. He checks his pulse, watching the monitors for any sign. Making some notes on his chart, he glances at me. “He’s the same.”
“Still no idea what could have caused this?” I want a reason. I need to know that he is not going unpunished for everything he did. I want to hear that he is suffering, that as his body began to fail him, my father felt the same fear and agony that we did every day of our lives.
“We’ll continue to run tests, but right now all we can point to is the diabetes. His insulin levels had dropped dangerously low.”
“Is that normal?” I ask.
“He was fairly healthy for his age. No smoking or drinking.” He scans the chart again. “Said he walked for exercise.” He looks up at me, an apology in his gaze. “The longer he stays in the coma, the fewer answers we have.”
He starts to leave, to tend to other patients that need him. I glance down at my father, suddenly not wanting to be left alone with him. Having kept to myself for so many years, I find I am yearning for conversation. “Were you his regular doctor?” I ask before I can censor myself.
“No.” He looks puzzled that I wouldn’t know that. “I’m an attending. His regular physician is an internist. We’re staying in touch about his condition.”
“That’s good.” I feel new to polite conversation. I have never been good at it. I read somewhere that abused children often have social anxiety as adults. Whatever the terminology may be—all I know is that I feel safer away from people than with. “Thanks.”
He starts to leave again but seems to reconsider his actions. Stopping, he watches me. “Your mom mentioned your dad’s condition would bring you home from your travels. She asked if he would be better by the time you arrived. I’m sorry we weren’t able to make that happen.”
“She said I would come home?” I stop him, stand in his way. I am shocked she would say anything about me. “When?”
“A few days after his admission.” He glances at me, trying to understand my reaction. “I hope I didn’t speak out of turn.”
“No.” I step back, out of his way. “I’m just surprised.” I cross my arms around myself, hoping to ward off the chill that is in the air. “What else did she say?” It feels odd to ask a stranger for insight into my mother’s thoughts.
“Mentioned you traveled all over the world,” he says gently. “She was clearly very proud.”
He misunderstood. Mom has always hated my travel. My travel meant that I was lost to her. That she had one less daughter to mother, and for her, the role was all she had left in a life that ceased to make sense the first day my father hit her. “Not as much as you would think. It’s for work.”
“Photography?”
“Yes.” I think about all the places I’ve been, but more than that, all the places I have never been. “For pictures.”