TWO
* * *
I can see her. Only me, and Mary, when she comes out to visit. Mary doesn't do that much anymore, not with her own child to raise. And it's hard, too, when Mary comes, because things have always been hard because of Mary.
She wasn't the loving daughter she should have been. We try to welcome her but these days it's almost like she doesn't want to be welcomed.
But she still does come, sometimes. For her sister, she comes.
Just not today.
I'm used to the smell of the place, like old urine permeating everything. I hate that. But I've brought everything I need, that we need. It'll be all right, because with me she's quiet, docile. They don't even have to drug her anymore; she just sits there, in her chair.
I remember her in her chair, at the dinner table. She was such a beautiful child.
So articulate.
So loving.
So sensitive.
Maybe it was this last part that did it.
No. She was loved. She had her family. She had us, her mother and father, her husband, her siblings. She was loved and cared for.
I step into her room.
#
Odd how I think of it as her room now. This isn't her room; her room is at home, up in the garage apartment, up there with Kevin, with the man she swore to love and honor. But this is her room, until they decide they need to move her, and then whatever room they take her to will be her room. She'll go easily; she always does.
She's sitting by the bed. Her hands are moving, like she's playing some little game. I speak.
"Hello, Lucy."
She looks up and smiles.
"Daddy!"
She's so beautiful as she reaches for me. She wants me to pick her up, like I used to when she was little, but I can't anymore; she's grown now, too heavy. But I accept the hug, let her cling.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
I hold her. Flesh and blood. My flesh, my blood.
Running into the warm water of the bath.
Paramedics. If Kevin hadn't been a police officer, if he hadn't had a radio when he found her....
No. Don't think that. They made it. She made it. She's still here.
Is she?
Shut up.
In time, she lets me go and settles back into her chair. I try not to look at the two long scars on her wrists.
"Daddy daughter day?" she asks.
I smile and nod.
"Yes."
"Goody!"
* * *
I can see her. Only me, and Mary, when she comes out to visit. Mary doesn't do that much anymore, not with her own child to raise. And it's hard, too, when Mary comes, because things have always been hard because of Mary.
She wasn't the loving daughter she should have been. We try to welcome her but these days it's almost like she doesn't want to be welcomed.
But she still does come, sometimes. For her sister, she comes.
Just not today.
I'm used to the smell of the place, like old urine permeating everything. I hate that. But I've brought everything I need, that we need. It'll be all right, because with me she's quiet, docile. They don't even have to drug her anymore; she just sits there, in her chair.
I remember her in her chair, at the dinner table. She was such a beautiful child.
So articulate.
So loving.
So sensitive.
Maybe it was this last part that did it.
No. She was loved. She had her family. She had us, her mother and father, her husband, her siblings. She was loved and cared for.
I step into her room.
#
Odd how I think of it as her room now. This isn't her room; her room is at home, up in the garage apartment, up there with Kevin, with the man she swore to love and honor. But this is her room, until they decide they need to move her, and then whatever room they take her to will be her room. She'll go easily; she always does.
She's sitting by the bed. Her hands are moving, like she's playing some little game. I speak.
"Hello, Lucy."
She looks up and smiles.
"Daddy!"
She's so beautiful as she reaches for me. She wants me to pick her up, like I used to when she was little, but I can't anymore; she's grown now, too heavy. But I accept the hug, let her cling.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
I hold her. Flesh and blood. My flesh, my blood.
Running into the warm water of the bath.
Paramedics. If Kevin hadn't been a police officer, if he hadn't had a radio when he found her....
No. Don't think that. They made it. She made it. She's still here.
Is she?
Shut up.
In time, she lets me go and settles back into her chair. I try not to look at the two long scars on her wrists.
"Daddy daughter day?" she asks.
I smile and nod.
"Yes."
"Goody!"