Pamela Villars
As she held him, her thighs tucked against the backs of his withered legs, Sarah felt him sigh, and after a long pause, release.
A moment later, she did the same.
Sarah let go.
Each dawn, as daylight crept into the room, Saul would lift his bony arm and with his index finger stir the air, trying to make the shadow move. You can’t make me, he imagined it saying, no one can. And there it stayed all morning, no matter what he did, still as a rock. But at twilight, when the hall outside his room swelled with the clanking of silverware and squeaky carts, it stretched and changed, becoming a spiny sea urchin or a fierce thorny bush and sometimes a tiny porcupine.
This was the time of day he loved.
When he was small, his father would make animals on the wall using candlelight. What a delight it had been to watch a mouse or dog or happy rabbit bob and dart at his father’s whim. “Go that way,” he would cry, and “Stop there!” His father’s nimble fingers were soldiers that snapped to at his commands; it was the only time he was in charge.
After supper they would lie together on the bed, his small frame curled around his father’s back and buttocks, joining their warmth as the stove embers dimmed. Papa left the candles burning until he fell asleep. He had been afraid of the dark and believed Grimm’s troll lived under his bed and came out at night. He could see it still, its huge head twisting and pushing out from underneath the wooden frame that had served as its indoor bridge. These days, as night approached, he dangled his fingers over the bed, waiting for a nibble, wondering if the troll could find him here or if it needed the warmth of burning wood and smell of cheese and toast to entice it.
Perhaps it wasn’t here because of Sarah. She was always with him now, head bowed over her papers or fluffing his pillows, fighting with the nurses, shaming the aides into another bath. Her fierceness still astonished him; as a child she had chased down bullies, punching and kicking, and only after they ran home sobbing would she catch a breath. Saul struggled not to appear ungrateful for her attention, but he missed his time alone.
He wanted one last chance. There were so many things he longed for: to feel his father’s heavy frame, the caress of the high, dry sun on his cheeks, one last roll with a wild-eyed lover... Saul’s bones ached with desires that no amount of morphine could soothe. More, he would whisper to himself. Please, God, more.
Sarah watched and waited. Some mornings she saw him reach out and wave at the corner of the room, as if he was greeting someone far way. She was surprised it was happening to him—he’d always ridiculed the idea of angels and the afterlife.
She wrote constantly to pass the time, to prepare, to resolve. He was a good man, she wrote, and then he died surrounded by those he loved. The words blurred and she felt a fluttering in her chest like a tiny bird, frantic to be free. She wiped her eyes and the rest came quickly: Saul Rivera, 83, survived by a daughter, Sarah. No services.
Sarah began to write again, carving mantras of regret into the yellow legal pad. I’m sorry for the times I’ve disappointed you. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better daughter to you. I’m sorry for not coming home to take care of Mom. Please forgive me. And then, unexpectedly, Daddy, do you love me?
She had run home just in time for dinner, knee socks drooping around her 10 year old ankles, and was resting her head on the dinner table. His bellow came first and then the drunken swats that knocked her off her chair. The room spun and she was gone, sucked into forgetfulness. But her body remembered. Her friends thought she was a hero, or an avenger, and they were partly right—bullies were her way of getting back. As she pummeled them, she would see her father’s face. But when the fights were over, she would see her victim wasn’t him and feel ashamed.
Now when her memories returned, she would inhale to the bottom of her lungs and visualize herself surrounded by pink, golden-flecked clouds, which her latest book said created The Energy of Love. This was supposed to free her from resentment. Since her father had entered the hospital, Sarah spent most of her time wrapped in their fluffy warmth. She was always cold.
One day, a group of young doctors swarmed the room; Saul lay heavy-limbed and helpless as they gingerly poked his swollen abdomen and asked him questions he did not understand. He called for Sarah, but she wasn’t there. Just like her, he thought, selfish. When she returned and asked what the doctors had said, he turned his head away and would not speak.
That evening, Sarah waited for darkness to fill the corners of the room. The chill lifted and the crevasses in Saul’s face softened. Sarah pulled her chair next to Saul’s bed and placed her hand on his arm.
“Dad? Daddy?” she said softly. “I need to ask you something.”
At her words, Saul saw his shadowy porcupine startle and run, retreating into its cave.
“Damn it, Sarah,” he shouted. “Can’t you ever leave me alone?”
Saul whispered his last wish to the night nurse as she wiped his cooling arms with a damp cloth. She took it to Sara, along with the words “any time now.”
Soon after, Sarah climbed into his bed and tucked her thighs against the backs of his withered legs. “Hey, Daddy,” she said. “I’m here.”
Saul felt the warmth and sighed.
Papa, he thought.
Oh, papa.
© Copyright 2009 Pamela Villars