I sit in the parking lot. Engine off. Keys in hand. The strawberry juice is still on my fingers. I fed him. I fed my father. Like he fed me. Thirty-seven years ago. Mashed bananas. Airplane spoon. "Here comes the plane, Sarah." He knew my name before I did. He gave me my name.
He said it ten thousand times before I turned five. I counted once, estimated, a child's math, proud of the number. Scraped knee: "Sarah, let me see." Nightmare: "Sarah, I'm here." First day of school: "Sarah, you're going to be brave." Walking me down the aisle: "Sarah...my Sarah." He cried that day. I'd never seen him cry before. He said: "You'll always be my little girl." I believed him. I believed him. Today he looked at me. Looked hard. And said: "Helen? Is that you?" Helen. His mother. Dead twenty-six years. I said: "No, Dad. It's Sarah. Your daughter." And he said: "Oh. I have a daughter?" I have a voicemail I won't delete. July 14th. Last year. His voice. Clear. His. "Hey sweetheart, it's Dad. Just calling to say happy birthday. Fifty-three years ago you made me a father. Best thing that ever happened to me. Love you, Sarah-bear. Call me back when you can." Sarah-bear. He called me that when I was four. I didn't know he still remembered. I didn't know that was the last time he would. My son won't visit anymore. He's seven. He said: "Grandpa scares me now." I said: "He's still Grandpa." He said: "No he's not." And I couldn't argue. Because my son is right. The man in that room wears my father's face. Sits in my father's body. Smells like my father. Old Spice. Coffee. Something warm that meant safe. He still smells like safe. But he asked me today if I was the nurse. I found a birthday card last week. Cleaning out his house. His real house. The one he'll never go back to. The card was in a drawer. Never sent. Dated three years ago. For me. It said: To my Sarah, 53 years ago you came into this world screaming and red and perfect. I held you and I thought: I will never let anything hurt you. I'm sorry I couldn't keep that promise. But I loved you the whole time. Every single day. Even the days I forgot to say it. Happy birthday, sweetheart. Love, Dad His handwriting. Shaky already. He knew. Even then. He knew. He wrote it before he forgot how to write. He wrote it before he forgot who to write it to. And he never sent it. He hid it. The last time he said my name without prompting was March 7th. I know the date because I wrote it down. I started writing things down when I realized they were running out. March 7th. He called me. Confused about a bill. Water bill. Thirty-seven dollars. "Sarah," he said. "I need your help." Just like that. My name in his mouth like a key in a lock that still worked. I didn't know that was the last time. You never know the last time is the last time. You just one day realize there are no more times. He tried to say "I love you" today. Three words. He's said them to me ten thousand times. A hundred thousand. A million. His mouth opened. "I... the thing." I watched his hands. They were gripping the chair. Like he was holding on. Like the word was a cliff and he was slipping. "The feeling. You know." I know. "I have it. For you." I said: "I love you too, Dad." Fast. Too fast. Like if I said it fast enough he wouldn't notice that he couldn't. He used to check under my bed for monsters. Every night. Every single night. Until I was eleven and embarrassed. He'd get down on his knees. Look under. Report back. "All clear, Sarah-bear. Nothing there." I want to tell him: The monster is here now. It's in your head. It's eating the parts of you that knew my name. And I can't check under the bed. I can't get down on my knees and make it go away. I can't make it all clear. I read about the disease. I shouldn't have. But I needed to know what was happening inside him. The proteins fold wrong. One touches another. The second folds wrong. Then the third. Then the fourth. Then the ten thousand. And somewhere inside him, in a cell I'll never see, in a synapse I'll never touch, my name is dissolving. Not hiding. Not sleeping. Not waiting to come back. Dissolving. The way breath dissolves in winter air. The way a father dissolves into a man who asks if he has a daughter. The worst part is not that he's dying. The worst part is that I'm dying too. Inside him. The version of me that he carried. The Sarah who was four and scared of monsters. The Sarah who was seven and fell off her bike and he carried her home singing to drown out the crying. The Sarah who was twenty-five and walked down the aisle and saw him crying and thought: He'll always be here. That Sarah is dying inside his head. And when she's gone, when the last synapse that held her dissolves, then I will be the only one who remembers who I was to him. And that's not enough. That's not enough. I fed him strawberries today. His favorite. He bit into one. Closed his eyes. Smiled. And for one moment. One moment. Something in his face came back. Something that knew strawberries meant summer meant the backyard meant me at six years old meant "Daddy, watch me!" meant Sarah. For one moment I saw him. Him. My father. Then the moment passed. And he looked at the strawberry like he didn't know what it was. Like he didn't know what anything was. And he said: "These are..." And stopped. And the word for what they were was gone. I should start the car. I should drive home. I should hold my son. I should be grateful he's still here. At least he's still here. At least I can visit. At least he still knows my face. At least. At least. At fucking least. But I don't start the car. I sit here. And I play the voicemail. One more time. "Hey sweetheart, it's Dad." His voice. "Just calling to say happy birthday." My birthday. "Love you, Sarah-bear." My name. In his mouth. His real mouth. The one that still knew. The one that still held. The one that still I'm crying. In the parking lot. Alone. Holding a phone. Listening to a ghost say my name like it still means something. Tomorrow I'll come back. I'll bring strawberries. I'll say: "Hi Dad. It's Sarah." And he'll say: "Oh. Hello." And I'll feed him. Like he fed me. And I'll say: "I love you." And he'll say: "I... the thing. The feeling." And I'll say: "I know, Dad. I know." And I'll drive home. And I'll play the voicemail. And I'll cry. And I'll come back. And I'll keep coming back. Until there's nothing left to come back to. Until the face doesn't know my face. Until the hands don't know how to hold a strawberry. Until the heart that made me forgets it made me. I start the car. Engine on. Eyes blurred. Now I sit in parking lots. And I say his name back to him. "Dad." Like I can return the favor. Like I can make him real. Like names work both ways. They don't. - Sarah
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God! This is beauty veiled in pain.
Raw, Beautiful and Heartbreaking. I’m crying while holding my phone too.