My Father, Your Son

         My father and I have never had the ideal relationship, but what is "ideal" anyway? Is it necessary for a father to go outside on hot summer afternoons to throw the Frisbee with you, or guide you where to step so that you don't fall into the same pits as he did? To wordlessly scold you with a stern stare when you're acting up? Or even to love your mother like no other man can?

         Dad was never any of these, but I still show him the respect his title deserves. Even on this day when his life is fading away on his death bed, when he shows no traces of remembering who I am, he is no less a father -- my father -- than he has ever been.

         He was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor earlier this month. He admitted to me that he had been going through unusual symptoms -- unexplained vomiting, sharp headaches that never seemed to go away -- but he didn't feel that they were serious enough to get worked up over. He had kept everything to himself at the time and tried to wait it out. That is, until my last visit to his house when he thought I was a overly-persistent salesman turned criminal and couldn't even recognize the face of his son. I had been very worried by his behavior and called over an ambulance. What a mess it had been convincing them that he really needed to go to the hospital and that I was really his own son.

         Now, Dad has been bedridden for the past few weeks, phasing in and out of consciousness at random. Sometimes my visits are shortened or postponed by his inability to stay awake for very long. The doctors and nurses tell me little. I know that there is nothing they can do for him now.

         My mother died in a car accident four years ago, when a heart attack caused her to swerve off the road, but I am certain she would not come visit even if she were still here today. I am both my mother and father's only child, and my father had few friends, so I am his only visitor. His younger lover ran off when he became hospitalized, and he and his siblings never got along too well. They also don't care enough about him dying to make the trip over from San Antonio and Sacramento. I suppose they've seen enough death in their days. They send cards instead.

         The day before my father passed away in his sleep, I made another of my routine visits to see him. The secretary greeted me with a feeble smile, and her eyes told me more than her words. She reminded me of his room number, but I already knew it well.

         After a few knocks on his door, I opened it slightly and poked my head in. I was glad to find him awake.

         "Am I going home now?" he asked.

         I smiled but shook my head.

         "I'm not your doctor," I told him, entering the room. "You know who I am."

         He rubbed his gristly jaw with one hand, watching me as I took a seat nearby. He was still clueless.

         "Oh! Right!" he exclaimed. "Ooh...It's on the tip of my tongue."

         He was lying.

         "Steven Blake," I reminded him, "reporter for the Kansas City Star."

         "Yes, yes, the reporter, I remember."

         "I was here yesterday." And the day before that, and that, and that, I wanted to say. I've visited every day since you first came to the hospital.

         "What were you here for again?" he asked me.

         "We were discussing your life for an article of mine. Do you remember where we left off?"

         He tilted his head uneasily, turning his eyes towards his blanket.

         "Not...exactly."

         "Does the name Emily Wilson ring any bells?"

         "Isn't that my nurse?"

         "No, Robert, Emily Wilson was the love of your life. You two married in -- "

         "Wait. No, you're wrong," he insisted, grabbing a nearby card. He opened it and pointed me to the name inside. "See? Signed, 'the love of your life.' The name Emily Wilson is nowhere in that card."

         "Yeah, that may be true, but Emily Wilson was the only one you ever really loved. She was the mother of your only kid, your son. The others were just -- "

         "Well," he interrupted loudly, growing quite impatient with me, "where is this Emily Wilson? And where is this son of mine? If they were really worth my time, they would at least come visit me, wouldn't they?"

         I bit my tongue. I thought about turning to leave, but I restrained the tears and waited out the moment until I could speak again without crying.

         "Robert, they really cared about you, especially your son. He -- "

         "The only people that matter to me are my sisters and my love," he interrupted again. "And who are you to tell me who are important to me and who aren't? You're just a reporter."

         I didn't know what to say.

         "Oh, but my dear, sweet honey will come and visit me soon, I know," he said, hugging the card to his chest. "It's hard to wait patiently, but I suppose it's tough since I can't leave the hospital until tomorrow," he laughed.

         I didn't have the heart to tell him. The card had come from North Carolina. They were through.

         "Robert, you remember your son, don't you?" I asked. "He always looked up to you, even though you weren't around. That never changed. You never disappointed him."

         "Did I tell you that yesterday? Boy, I must've been in an arrogant mood," he told me, chuckling. "Anymore, though, it's hard for me to even remember what I had for breakfast. I'm getting old."

         "It was your favorite. Your son bought you just what you wanted from Burger King: Ciabatta breakfast sandwich with pickles, lemonade with no ice, and lots of extra fries. Do you remember all that?"

         "Hm! Sounds good," he replied. "You seem to know a lot; how come he didn't come in and deliver it himself?"

         "He had me come and give it to you. He told me to tell you he had been really sorry that he couldn't come. But, he promised he'll come tomorrow."

         Dad shifted around in his bed, looking from me to the windows.

         "Has it been a long time?" he asked. "Since I've seen him, I mean."

         "Your son?"

         "Yeah." He turned back to me. "I just can't seem to picture him. It must've been years since I've seen him."

         "Maybe," I told him. "Maybe it just feels like it's been years, too. He really misses you, though. And he loves you, a lot."

         "He told you that too?"

         "Yeah."

         Dad glanced up at the TV, which quietly played the typical Spanish soap operas. On the show, a pretty Latino woman was angrily arguing with a man who resembled Enrique Iglesias in many respects. He seemed almost unresponsive to her, so she grabbed a nearby vase and held it up as if threatening to smash it on his head.

         "Do you understand any of these shows?" he asked me.

         "A little. I know some Spanish."

         "No, I mean, do you really understand them?" he repeated. "They seem too dramatic, too played-up. Next episode that same woman might be getting her mug shot for prison."

         "I suppose it'd make more sense if you knew what they were saying."

         "I don't even need to know what they're saying. It's a show of just how foolish people can be. Why does anyone want to watch that garbage? If I wanted to see anything like that, I'd just go down to the nearest high school and sit in on the bench with them."

         "It might be a bit silly," I agreed, "but some people live for that stuff. They feed off drama, even TV show drama."

         "Ah," Dad said suddenly, "what were you here for again? I suppose I'm wasting your time with such idle chitchat."

         "No, it's okay. Sometimes it's nice just to talk."

         "With complete strangers?"

         "Well, I like to think that we know each other a little bit."

         A look of gloom clouded over my dad's face. I quickly thought back to my words. Had I said something that had upset him?

         "Are you okay, Robert?" I asked. "You seem a little bit depressed all of a sudden."

         "Yeah," he answered, "it's just that I don't really feel like I know anyone anymore. I can't think of any friends that I have. Nobody comes to mind." He motioned towards the cards. "To be honest, I can't even remember the faces of these people who've sent me cards. It's crazy, but I feel like you're the closest friend I have nowadays."

         "I'll always be here for you."

         A calm breeze blew in through the open windows, letting in the fresh air of outdoors. I smiled.

         "My son," he spoke quietly to me, pausing afterwards. I looked up at his dull eyes, feeling very emotional. "I let him down, didn't I?"

         I looked away, to my hands, thinking about the question. He spoke again before I could answer.

         "You said that I never let him down, but that was a lie," he said. "How could I have not let him down?"

         He looked at the card in his hand, his lover's.

         "It must've been hard for him to accept. My son," he said. "Maybe this is the reason why he is afraid to show his face."

         He stared long and hard at the card he held. Then, so suddenly that it scared me, his face tightened up in anger and he tore the card in half. He threw the pieces to the floor and looked away from me. Tears were forming in his eyes.

         "Damn it. Damn it all," he whispered in his anger, shaking slightly. "I've been nothing but a disappointment to everyone. Nobody thinks anything of me anymore. Nobody comes to visit me."

         I looked at the floor, and then back up to him.  I watched as a tear streamed swiftly down his nose and fell to his lap.

         "Dad," I said. "You didn't disappoint him."

         As he turned to me, I too was crying. He looked straight into my eyes and blinked. I hoped that he remembered me, in that moment we shared.

         "You?" he asked.

         "Yes. You didn't disappoint me at all, Dad."

         "Even though I..."

         "Dad, it doesn't matter anymore. I respect your choice, even if I hadn't before. It doesn't matter what anyone says about it. I still love you."

         "My son," he began, as we embraced in a hug, "I love you, too."