Seventeen

It’s not that I didn’t think about Patrick. I was certainly aware, somewhere in the recesses of my mind, that he’d left town with the impression I didn’t want to see him. But I couldn’t let myself consider him when my father had just had a stroke. As I sat by my father’s side I could only think that he might never again hear me tell him I loved him. I might never again feel his arms around me or hear his voice or see his smile. I stayed, holding his hand, talking to him when my mother was sleeping or had gone home to bathe and change clothes. Jill was there, too, in and out. She encouraged me to go home, get some rest. “There’s nothing you can do here,” she told me, but I thought my voice could wake him. I thought if anyone could bring him back, I could. So I kept talking.

“Remember the time you took Jill and me to the Cubs game, Daddy? Remember the bobble-head dolls you bought us? I still have mine.” I did. It sat on a shelf in my workroom next to my favorite family photo, taken when Jill and I were just toddlers in little ruff led sunsuits.

“How about that time I hit a grand slam when I was ten and we won the game and the league championship? Remember that? I know you do. You honked the horn all the way to Baskin-Robbins and bought the biggest sundae they made, with all my favorite flavors, and the four of us toasted me on every spoonful. Do you remember? It had butter pecan, chocolate chocolate chip, rocky road … what else? Did it have turtle ice cream, too? It had chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, raspberry. It had everything! And then it had mounds of whipped cream and a cherry on top. Do you remember that, Daddy? It was gross. And we ate the whole thing. I couldn’t look at ice cream for a year after that.”

I watched closely for the slightest tremor, an acknowledgment that he heard. But there was nothing, no movement. He looked small and vacant lying there.

I thought about what he’d said after Michael announced our engagement—about not having to worry about me anymore—so I told him how great Michael had been during this time, how he’d brought me clean clothes, homemade sandwiches, soup in a thermos.

“He never tells me I should go home. He knows I need to be here. He comes and goes. Sometimes he sits with me and makes sure I eat something and then he kisses me and leaves and comes back again later. He’s been my rock, my anchor. You’re right, Dad, you won’t have to worry about me after Michael and I are married. He’s a good man.”

I thought if only he would just wake up now, I’d marry Michael tomorrow and he would walk me down the aisle.

Sophie and Tiffany came by. Sophie brought magazines and books, The Kite Runner and To Kill a Mockingbird, but I couldn’t concentrate enough to read. She went to my house and made macaroni and cheese and lasagna, and made sure Rufus’s litter box was scooped and that he had food and water. She checked my e-mail and responded to clients for me.

“There was an e-mail from Patrick,” she said.

“What did it say?” For a second I was back at the bar at the Palmer House, holding hands with him, giggling together, feeling something sweet and old–new in the pit of my stomach.

“I didn’t read it,” she said.

I laughed. “You did, too.”

“No, truly, I didn’t. It just didn’t feel right. But I had Pete e-mail him later to tell him about your dad. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” I said. I wanted to read that e-mail. But I thought if I denied myself this pleasure my father might wake up.

And on the third day my father did open his eyes. My mother was sitting in the chair by the window, leafing through an old issue of Better Homes and Gardens. I was sitting by his bed trying to read The Kite Runner. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his finger move and my head snapped up. He was looking at me, his blue eyes soft and confused. I thought he didn’t recognize me for a minute and a sharp pain grabbed my chest but then he said, “Hi, pumpkin,” and my eyes filled. Oh my god. He was alive. He knew me. He was going to come out of this.

My mother rushed over and took his hand. I touched his arm, his face. Our tears fell on his blanket.

“What happened?” he whispered. “Where…”

I pushed the button for the nurse while my mother told him what had happened. As she talked he closed his eyes and a knife of panic stabbed my heart, but when she stopped talking he opened them again. “Don’t cry,” he said to me, and then, “Tired…”

A nurse came in and when she saw my father awake ran back out and called orders to the aides. Suddenly the room was alive with activity and we were asked to please wait in the lounge. I argued, not wanting to leave him, but the nurse gently led me to the door and asked that they be allowed to do their work.

I called Jill and Michael while we waited. When I told Jill he was awake she let out a squeaky “Ooooohhhhh,” and I could hear her choking back tears. Michael said, “I’m so glad, Lib. I knew he’d be okay, I just felt it.” I was soothed by his words. He said he was rushing over. I called Sophie. I wanted them all: my sister, her husband, her kids, Michael, Sophie, Mark. I wanted everyone there with my mom and me when we saw my father again. I wanted him to know how much he was loved so he would fight to stay with us.

We waited, talking quietly, all of us speculating whether Dad would need to go to rehab, what his condition would be, if he’d have any paralysis, if his brain had been affected.

“We’ll hope for the best but prepare for the worst,” my mother said in her no-nonsense way. “We’ll manage whatever we need to manage.”

“One of my clients is a physician who doesn’t practice anymore. Now he’s a medical consultant,” Michael said. “He specializes in elder care and I know he’ll be happy to help out. He knows everybody in the industry.” Michael smiled tenderly at my mother and she patted his hand with trembling fingers. I put my head on his shoulder and felt a rush of gratitude. Yes, I was grateful. Very, very grateful.