Fetching my Dad
There is a keypad at the
gate with the code written next to it. I've even asked my father to
read the numbers when its been too dark for my failing eyes to see
them. The entrance is a ground level slab porch, all readied for
winter, with a salt bucket, a stuffed character sitting on a slatted
and faux wrought iron bench, and dusty cream vinyl siding. As always
I had to choose between the “door bell” and the “press here
direct to telephone” buttons. I decided the door bell would be
kinder to the addled keepers inside. After three minutes I pushed it
again. Minutes later, I pushed the telephone button, which
bing-bonged 10 times and quit. I wondered what was going on inside,
but refused let my disparaging imagination free. I turned to the cold
breeze lurking around the highly manicured grounds. I saw low-cut
maiden grass, snaking arches of mulch, and everything else, flat in
the damp near-frost.
I stepped graciously into
the warmth and took a deep breath. I dreaded the encounter. I dreaded
the lolling white-washed and well-gone heads. My inner freedom
fighter sat on pangs; I had a compulsive wish to let them all go off
on the journeys they'd once imagined themselves destined for. I
dreaded the flowery colorfulness, the showroom boredom, the “isn't
that charming” chair rails and couches and …
My father was dressed and
sitting in the dining area. He hadn't had anything to eat. The room
has a relatively formal feel to it. Clean with dark cherry-stained
press-wood tables and chairs. The places at the tables were all
identical with matching green linen and condiment assemblies. The
one exception to this was that each setting had its own drinking
vessel: a mug or a colorful plastic cup or a child's sippie cup. My
father held a disposable plastic medicine cup, and with a confused
look he asked me if he could have some water. I looked up at the one
of the immigrant Caribbean caretakers and she said “Yes, of
course.” My father continued to look up at me with surprise in his
eyes. I'll never forget this look, probably the first time he looked
as though he didn't know who I was and was maybe a little afraid of
me. Even though inside I reacted with my usual selfish internal
resignation to fates I ultimately, and illogically, blame on him, I
refused to believe he didn't recognize me. I guess he just didn't
understand why I was there. He didn't smile. I still can't help but
think that he, now so much like a child, can no longer suppress his deepest
feelings toward me.