This Halloween is the worst ever. I’m spending the night at the hospital with Dad so Mom can take Jason trick-or-treating. He was not at all impressed with the treats the nurses are giving out—small bags of apple slices, tiny boxes of raisins, black licorice.

The plan for Halloween was going to be me and Chelsea dressing up as Gloria Steinem and Dorothy Pitman Hughes. One day, when Chelsea was over and we were making buttons for our eighth grade end-of-the-year project, Dad overheard us talking and said, “You two are little versions of Dorothy Pitman Hughes and Gloria Steinem.” When neither Chelsea or I knew who Dad was talking about, he made us look them up, and that’s when we saw the iconic photo of the both of them holding up their fists, with a confident defiance on their faces. Chelsea and I promised each other we’d replicate the photograph for this Halloween. Although I wasn’t sure anyone would actually know who we were. Unless we walked around side by side all day with our hands in the air in fisted protest, I doubted we’d be easily guessed. I think this made Chelsea want to do it even more. She likes for people not to know who she is dressed up as. We decided to emphasize our hair and clothes—Chelsea would wear a long wig, parted in the middle, and I would wear my hair out in an Afro. We even went to the Goodwill on 135th in Harlem to find seventies clothes.

Now that I am not going, Chelsea said she’s not dressing up at all, which will be the first time ever in life that Chelsea has not been in a costume for Halloween. I’ve seen pictures of her as a baby dressed as a ladybug, a sunflower. Always something.

“You don’t have to stay, Jasmine,” Dad says. His voice is scratchy and weak.

“I know.”

“You’re going to miss your school’s dance,” he says. “And you already missed the open mic thing. And weren’t you and Isaac going to go to the Schomburg Center? You can’t keep missing everything because of me. You really don’t have to stay,” Dad tells me.

“I know,” I say. I turn the TV on, flip through channels trying to find something that isn’t depressing, like the news or one of those animal shows. I know I’m missing out on a lot of fun, but if I go, I’ll just wish I was here anyway. Plus, I’m really scared of something bad—really bad—happening while I’m away. I don’t know what I’d do if I was at some silly dance and my father died. And I know that sounds extreme, like what can I do anyway if I’m here? I’m not a doctor. But I am his daughter. His first and only girl. I need to be here.

When I turn to the station that shows reruns of classics, Dad says, “Leave it here.” A Different World is on. Dad and Mom swear this is one of the best shows ever to be made. They watch it for nostalgia’s sake, reminiscing about their college days at Clark Atlanta. Mom is always pointing out an outfit, saying, “I used to wear that back in the day,” or “That style used to be fly.”

Used to. Key words.

Dad reaches for the remote and moves the bed up a little so he can see the TV better. It’s weird to me that the controller for the television and the bed are all in one. “I was cool like Dwayne Wayne,” Dad says. He musters a laugh out; it is faint, but it is there.

“Dad, Dwayne Wayne wasn’t the cool one. Wasn’t his character considered a nerd?”

“Nerd or not, he got the girl in the end,” Dad says. “Just like me.”

I laugh.

When the commercial break comes on, Dad lets out a deep sigh. “She didn’t sign up for this,” he says. It almost sounds like he doesn’t remember I am here, that I can hear him. But then he turns to me and says, “I know our vows said for sickness and in health, but we assumed sickness would come much later. Much, much later. I just wish—” Dad’s voice cracks. It isn’t until I look at him that I realize he’s crying. Actual tears. I have never in my whole life seen my father cry. Just the sight of it makes me crumble to pieces. I don’t know what to say to him—the man who always, always knows what to say to make me feel better. I can’t just let him sit in the bed crying, alone and full of frustration. I get out of my chair and sit on the edge of his bed. I take his hand, hold it in mine. Just as I squeeze his hand, my phone buzzes. It’s sitting on the windowsill, so the vibrating is loud and obnoxious.

“You can answer it,” Dad says. He sniffs his sorrow, clears his throat, and sits up stiffer.

“I know,” I say, but I don’t move.

We watch the show together.

My phone buzzes again.

And again.

My phone is shaking and spasming on the windowsill.

“Whoever it is, is just going to keep calling until you answer,” Dad says.

“I know,” I tell him. I turn the volume up. By the time the show ends and the commercial comes on, Dad has fallen asleep. I let go of his hand, but I stay in the bed with him.

A nurse comes in, my favorite one, Ann. She smiles at me like nothing is wrong, which is actually more comforting than sad smiles that are full of pity and worry. “You’re on overnight duty tonight, huh?”

“Yeah. My mom needed a break, and my brother needed to go trick-or-treating.”

“I’ll bring a cot and some blankets.”

“Thanks.”

When Ann comes back, she’s also brought a few boxes of apple juice and packets of saltine crackers. “A little midnight snack for later,” she says.

I’m two more episodes into the marathon of A Different World when Dad wakes up. He coughs the sleep out of his throat. The first thing he says is, “Is that your phone again?”

I didn’t even notice it buzzing. I forgot all about it. I go to the window, pick up my phone, and look through the notifications.

Dad asks, “So who’s that calling? Got a new boyfriend you haven’t told me about?”

Isaac comes to mind, and I look down hoping maybe it’s him that’s been calling. “You’ll be the first to know,” I tell Dad. Well, Chelsea will. And then Mom, but Mom and Dad are basically the same people so he’s high on the list. I look at my phone: sixteen text messages; five missed calls.

Something is up.