“Of course, Berlin,” she says, moving to the door before turning back. “Just – promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I promise.”
She gives me a nod and then opens the door. I walk over and watch to make sure she gets into her apartment okay before I close and lock my own door. I hear the television in my father’s room going – another sports highlight show, judging by the sound of it – and head down the hall. I lean against the door frame and look in to find him sitting propped up in bed, his eyes glued to the tube. He looks over and gives me a smile.
“Hey, honey,” he says, sounding every bit like my father rather than the stranger he is some days. “How was your day?”
I feel tears well in my eyes as I look at him and can’t help the smile from stretching across my face. His eyes are bright and lively – I can tell he’s actually here with me right now. He’s present and in the moment. After the last few days of him being out there and not recognizing me, along with him being so angry about it, it’s a nice change of pace. One that overwhelms me with emotion.
He pats the edge of his bed and gives me a gentle smile. “Come sit next to me.”
I walk in and sit down, and he immediately takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. My dad used to be a big, burly man with a barrel chest, broad shoulders, and an overpowering laugh. His voice was a deep rumble, and back when he sported a full beard, he looked like a bear of a man. It’s hard for me to believe the balding, sickly thin, frail man in the bed before me is my father. He literally is a shell of the man he used to be, and all too often, he just looks hollowed out. His gaunt face and empty eyes break my heart every time I see them. Which is what makes seeing him present and in the moment with me mean all the more, since I know there is a day in the not too distant future looming when that sparkle will be gone forever.
“Tell me about your day, honey,” he says.
The smile crosses my face at the same moment, the tears roll down my cheeks, and I’m powerless to stop either. My dad squeezes my hand again and reaches out, wiping away my tears. I can see the sadness and frustration in his eyes, knowing he’s as powerless to stop what’s happening to him as I am to control my tears.
“Sorry,” I sniff and wipe at my eyes. “I’m making this weird.”
He chuckles. “You’re not,” he reassures me. “But maybe telling me about your day will make it seem more – normal.”
I wipe at my eyes again, doing my best to will the tears to stop falling. Maybe he’s right. Maybe just talking about something normal like my day will help alleviate the strain of awkwardness in the air around us.
So, I start my story, not that it’s overly exciting, but he listens, hangs on my every word, and seems to relish every moment of it.
I don’t know; maybe his condition makes moments like these, when he’s coherent, lucid, and totally present, make the mundane mean so much more to him. Maybe it makes him feel more – well – normal. Whole, perhaps. He’s taken life’s day to day things for granted – hell, we all do – and it’s only now, at a time when he doesn’t know who he’s going to be when he wakes up every morning, that he appreciates it. Maybe it’s knowing that he very well may forget everything I’ve said, forget himself, and even forget me, that makes him seem to cherish life’s small, inconsequential moments in ways he never has before.
He seems eager for more, so I go on and tell him about everything else I can think of – from the meeting with the borough board, to lunch with Sawyer, as well as my conversation with Gabby about it. My mouth is moving so fast, and my words are flowing out so freely, I don’t even realize what I’ve said until my dad quirks an eyebrow and grins.
“What are you grinning at me for?” I smile.
“I think Gabby is right,” he laughs softly. “It sounds like you have a crush on him.”
My peal of laughter is something close to a shriek as I playfully slap his hand. My dad laughs along with me for a moment before his expression grows serious.
“Obviously I don’t know this Sawyer West character,” he begins. “But one thing I want is for you to have a full life, Berlin. I want you to find love, have a family – I just want you to be happy.”
I give him a lopsided grin. “What, you don’t think I can be happy on my own?”
“I think that you’ve dreamed of having a family of your own since you were a little girl, honey.”
I shrug. “Dreams change, Dad,” I state. “Priorities change.”
“True enough. But one thing that’s never going to change is that I want you to be happy. I want you to live a happy, fulfilled life, Berlin,” he presses. “I never want you to be like me, looking back at all the things you wish you’d done – or that you wish you’d done differently.”
He stares into my eyes. The meaning behind his words is more than clear to me. I squeeze his hand in return and give him a smile that probably looks as weak as it feels.
“Dad, I –”
He shakes his head. “No, I know that I haven’t been the best father. I know I screwed up plenty,” he declares. “And I know that now, you’re paying the price for those things.”
“That’s not true, I –”
“It is true, honey. No need to sugarcoat things for me,” he cuts me off. “I never want
