knew he was sitting. “I wish I had a sign now to tell me what to do,” he whispered, his voice anguished.
It pains me to be putting him through this. My father is not built to deal with emotional conflict.
“Your mother says I should stay out of the decision… and maybe I should. Otherwise she might oppose my opinion just to spite me.” His voice broke off on a sob.
“What’s wrong, Mister?”
The presence of another voice threw me for a few seconds. A memory chord stirred, but I couldn’t place the child’s voice.
My dad sniffed. “My daughter won’t wake up.”
“The magic lady is your daughter?”
Oh—it’s the little girl who visited before.
“The magic lady?”
“See her pretty turban? She’s magic.”
He gave a little laugh. “You think she’s magic, huh?”
“Uh-huh. She’s going to make my mama better.”
“You mama is sick?”
“Uh-huh.” She sighed. “I’m scared sometimes.”
“I’m sorry. I’m scared sometimes, too.”
I’d never witnessed my dad interact with a child before. It bore no resemblance to his standoffishness when I was little. But it gave me a glimpse into how he would be with a grandchild.
“What are you scared about?” she asked, her voice solemn.
“That my daughter might not wake up.”
“Maybe that’s how she does the magic,” the little girl reasoned. “And then when the magic is all done, she’ll wake up.”
“I’ll bet you’re right,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his words.
“Christina!” came a booming voice from the hall.
“I gots to go,” she whispered. “Bye! Bye, Magic Lady!”
The patter of her departing footsteps blended with the rumble of Dad’s low chuckle, then he sighed.
“Marigold, can you hear me?”
The chair squeaked.
“Marigold, I’m holding your hand. If you want me to fight for the baby, squeeze my hand.”
I panicked. Did I want him to? Did I have the right?
“Sweetheart, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand if you want to keep the baby.”
What if I were responsible for bringing a fatherless, disabled child into the world, and my family would have two of us to deal with?
“I didn’t feel anything,” he said.
Good. This was not the time for my brain to be sending involuntary signals to my fingers.
“Okay, squeeze my hand if you don’t want to keep the baby.”
Because in truth, even if I were well, I might be struggling with the decision to keep the baby. The fact that Duncan was marrying someone else could make things pretty unpleasant for everyone involved.
To squeeze or not to squeeze? If I even could.
“I guess you can’t hear me,” he said. “Okay. Goodbye for now. Keep doing your magic, Marigold.”
September 6, Tuesday
“HEY, YOU’RE DOWN a roommate.”
Our poet volunteer is back.
“I heard one of you dream girls got up and walked out of this place. So it was Audrey, huh? Go, Audrey. Are the rest of you giving her a head start before you bounce out of here, too?”
He couldn’t know that Audrey’s post-escape visit had been a downer to the point that if her old bed had been setting there, she might’ve crawled back into it.
“I like the new head scarf, Coma Girl. Pink and yellow and orange flowers, kind of a seventies vibe. Nice.”
It sounds nice. I’m grateful he described the scarf. Sidney had brought the first wrap to cover up my bandages for a picture, and after she posted the photo on social media, scarves started pouring in. Store bought, handmade, and hand-me-downs. Now once a week, nurses gather up the extras, launder them, and take them to the chemotherapy department. And although someone or another usually changes my scarf every day, they usually don’t think to describe it to me.
“If you ask me, women should wear scarves more often. It allows you to concentrate on a person’s face, you know?”
Except I know my face is a cross-hatch of scars. He’s being very kind… which makes me very suspicious. Because I suspect
It pains me to be putting him through this. My father is not built to deal with emotional conflict.
“Your mother says I should stay out of the decision… and maybe I should. Otherwise she might oppose my opinion just to spite me.” His voice broke off on a sob.
“What’s wrong, Mister?”
The presence of another voice threw me for a few seconds. A memory chord stirred, but I couldn’t place the child’s voice.
My dad sniffed. “My daughter won’t wake up.”
“The magic lady is your daughter?”
Oh—it’s the little girl who visited before.
“The magic lady?”
“See her pretty turban? She’s magic.”
He gave a little laugh. “You think she’s magic, huh?”
“Uh-huh. She’s going to make my mama better.”
“You mama is sick?”
“Uh-huh.” She sighed. “I’m scared sometimes.”
“I’m sorry. I’m scared sometimes, too.”
I’d never witnessed my dad interact with a child before. It bore no resemblance to his standoffishness when I was little. But it gave me a glimpse into how he would be with a grandchild.
“What are you scared about?” she asked, her voice solemn.
“That my daughter might not wake up.”
“Maybe that’s how she does the magic,” the little girl reasoned. “And then when the magic is all done, she’ll wake up.”
“I’ll bet you’re right,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his words.
“Christina!” came a booming voice from the hall.
“I gots to go,” she whispered. “Bye! Bye, Magic Lady!”
The patter of her departing footsteps blended with the rumble of Dad’s low chuckle, then he sighed.
“Marigold, can you hear me?”
The chair squeaked.
“Marigold, I’m holding your hand. If you want me to fight for the baby, squeeze my hand.”
I panicked. Did I want him to? Did I have the right?
“Sweetheart, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand if you want to keep the baby.”
What if I were responsible for bringing a fatherless, disabled child into the world, and my family would have two of us to deal with?
“I didn’t feel anything,” he said.
Good. This was not the time for my brain to be sending involuntary signals to my fingers.
“Okay, squeeze my hand if you don’t want to keep the baby.”
Because in truth, even if I were well, I might be struggling with the decision to keep the baby. The fact that Duncan was marrying someone else could make things pretty unpleasant for everyone involved.
To squeeze or not to squeeze? If I even could.
“I guess you can’t hear me,” he said. “Okay. Goodbye for now. Keep doing your magic, Marigold.”
September 6, Tuesday
“HEY, YOU’RE DOWN a roommate.”
Our poet volunteer is back.
“I heard one of you dream girls got up and walked out of this place. So it was Audrey, huh? Go, Audrey. Are the rest of you giving her a head start before you bounce out of here, too?”
He couldn’t know that Audrey’s post-escape visit had been a downer to the point that if her old bed had been setting there, she might’ve crawled back into it.
“I like the new head scarf, Coma Girl. Pink and yellow and orange flowers, kind of a seventies vibe. Nice.”
It sounds nice. I’m grateful he described the scarf. Sidney had brought the first wrap to cover up my bandages for a picture, and after she posted the photo on social media, scarves started pouring in. Store bought, handmade, and hand-me-downs. Now once a week, nurses gather up the extras, launder them, and take them to the chemotherapy department. And although someone or another usually changes my scarf every day, they usually don’t think to describe it to me.
“If you ask me, women should wear scarves more often. It allows you to concentrate on a person’s face, you know?”
Except I know my face is a cross-hatch of scars. He’s being very kind… which makes me very suspicious. Because I suspect
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