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His face was a study in contrasts – one side was the father I loved and was beginning to know as an adult – bristly greying hair cut in whitewalls Marine-style, thick greying eyebrows, strong beaked nose, a deep crevice on the side leading down to jowls on a once-strong jaw. He looked, at least on that side, like the father I knew, only pale, sleeping, a bit of salt and pepper stubble poking through because he hadn't shaved. His head had been shaved on one side and was bandaged.
The other side of his face was a whole different story and I was amazed to realize how important the facial muscles were to how we appeared. My father's face actually looked as if it had melted, like warm wax drooping down the side of a candle. His eyelid drooped over the bottom of his eye, his cheek was flat, his mouth turned down, drool collecting in the fold beside the corner and down to his jaw. He looked as if he were in pain.
I covered my mouth with a hand and tried not to cry.
After I moved to the side of his bed, the good side, I took his hand in mine and leaned over him, planting a kiss on his forehead.
"Hi, Daddy," I said, forcing my voice to be calm. He didn’t need to hear me crying, in case he was awake but unable to respond. "I'm here. Drake and I came as soon as we heard you were sick." I squeezed his hand and stroked it. He didn't squeeze back.
"I'm going to talk to you even if you can't respond," I said, my voice becoming stronger. "The nurses told us that you may be awake and aware but unable to say anything or show you can hear, so I'm going to assume that you can hear me, OK?" I squeezed his hand again, and pulled up a chair so I could sit beside him.
And then I told him everything about Africa from the day I left Manhattan with Drake to the moment I arrived home from class and found Elaine's message. I told him about the hotel and how it was named after Hemingway and resembled a plantation from the British Raj era. I told him about our home in the city and my studio, and how the stars were so bright at night even in the city. I told him about the crazy drivers on the Mombasso Road, about Jomo, my favorite taxi driver, about my art class, my instructor Talia, and how I was invited to take the Master Class. I told him about Sefton, the Artist in Residence at the Institute and that he was one of the instructors who encouraged me and made me think seriously about my art and what I wanted to accomplish.
Finally, I told him about the safari and the animals I had drawn and the painting of the mother and baby elephant I was planning.
I didn’t tell him anything personal about Sam or Sefton at first, because I didn't want to upset him. Not now, when he was so frail, almost hanging between life and death. But while I was telling him all the good things about my time in Africa with Drake, those other facts haunted me. I kept seeing Sam with her hands on Drake, alone in the small windowless room at the hospital where they both worked, leaning over and saying something to him with her mouth by his ear. I remembered her cutting comment about me in the washroom that first night we were in Nairobi and how Sam hoped she and Drake would get back together again, not caring whether he was engaged.
I kept remembering the pain when Sefton grabbed my arms, the look in his face as he insisted I was meant to be with him, not Drake. I kept hearing Sefton question why Drake wasn't with me on safari, insinuating that Drake's priorities were wrong, and that Sefton would never put me second to a job. I didn't believe him, and I knew that Drake's work really was important – life and death for some of his patients – but it still forced me to think about what I needed in a relationship.
So even though I thought my father shouldn’t hear my worries and fears, I knew better.
He needed to know everything – not what I thought he wanted to know. That was my mistake with him all my life, second-guessing what he thought about me instead of paying attention to how he really felt – that he wanted me to be happy and fulfilled and would support me in anything I chose.
So instead of pretending everything was perfect, I told him the truth.
"I need you to live, Daddy," I said, my throat choking with emotion. "So if you can hear me, please fight to get better. I need to have you in my life. I want to be able to talk to you and listen to your advice. You're a judge and you have such a great mind. Please," I said, squeezing his hand once more, wishing he could squeeze it back. "Please stay alive. I want you to walk me down the aisle if—" I said and then stopped myself. "When Drake and I get married. I want you to be alive if – when I have a child so you can sit him on your knee and play with him the way you played with Heath's children."
I stopped at that and covered my mouth for a moment, fighting tears.
"I still need you, Daddy."
And then I told him the truth. I told him how both Sam and Sefton had, in their own way, made me question my relationship with Drake – not my love for him or my desire for him – those were certain. What happened with Sam and Sefton made me question whether I could be happy with the kind of life I would lead as Drake's wife. Long days when he was at the hospital, teaching or in surgery, late nights when he did evening rounds to check on his patients, weekend call when he covered the ER in case neurosurgery patients arrived and needed to be seen. Seeing him for a few minutes before bed, a few minutes in the early morning before he went to work, and three weekends out of four when he recovered from the hectic week.
Would that be enough for me or would I feel neglected, as if I was an afterthought, something of lesser importance in his very important life?
Was Sefton right? Did his patients and his practice and teaching mean more to him that I did? I wished I could talk to him and have my father counsel me because part of me thought, yes, if Drake did really love me, he would work less. He would have tried to get out of on-call duty that weekend so he could come with me on the safari.
I told him about Sam and how Drake had a previous a sexual relationship with her that she seemed intent on rekindling, despite knowing he was engaged. I told him how Drake seemed unaware of it and unconcerned, brushing aside my fears and jealousy. How she had undermined my self-confidence with her cutting remark about me being a 'mousy little thing' and how I had found her trying to give Drake a massage.
I told him about Sefton and how he had been so rude, making comments about my relationship with Drake that were completely inappropriate, how he knew private details about our relationship, and how he alluded that I would be happier with him if he was my fiancé instead of Drake. I told him how almost attacked me. How he had challenged my view of myself as an artist, suggesting that my work was technically skilled but not really 'art' and how that had thrown me, making me re-evaluate my self-concept as an artist. I also told him that, perhaps, his comment had led me to re-evaluate my drawings and possibly -- probably improve my piece.
"So you see, Daddy," I said, his hand in both of mine. "I need you to get better. I need you to recover so you can be around for a long time."
I sat with him for a while, my stories finished and watched him breathe, listened to the sounds of the ICU, the beeping from machines and alarms, the hiss of ventilators for the patients who were intubated.
Finally, Elaine came to the door and opened it, peering in at me.
"Honey, they need to do a check of his vitals. Come on out and have some coffee. You must be thirsty."
I nodded and leaned down to kiss my father and then I followed her out of the room. We embraced outside the door while the nurses went in to do their check.
"Come on," she said as she took my hand and led me to the waiting room where Drake sat, a coffee in his hand.
Drake stood and came to me, pulling me into his arms, rocking me slowly in comfort. "How are you?" he said in a soft voice. He pulled back, brushing hair from my forehead. "Why don’t you let me go in and visit him for a while. Have something to eat."
"That's a good idea, Kate," Elaine said. "Let Drake go in for a while."
I nodded and let go of him, following Elaine to a coffee shop that was still open so I could get a sandwich. We sat at a small table and I forced the food into my mouth, forced myself to chew and swallow but my throat was dry and I had to wash everything down with iced tea.
