his leg in three places. The only reason he didn't get nabbed for DUI is because the guy who hit him was even more intoxicated.
He should have been back home already but he had a couple of bad infections and his physical therapy was... well, let's just say my dad isn't the most cooperative man on earth. He's milking his short-term disability insurance just so he can avoid going back to work and get waited on hand and foot for as long as he can.
Not to mention he hasn't quit smoking. He'll put almost zero effort into his exercises but he's hell-bent to get past the nurses to the side door so he can light up.
Just ahead of the rehab center is a Walmart. I clasped the steering wheel tight and held my breath, forcing my eyes to stay directly ahead until it passed. Then I breathed again.
I parked and went up to my dad's room. His face brightened up when he saw me.
"Punchy!" he said when I walked into the room. "There's my little punching bag. Come here." He raised his fists and went into his routine. “Keep your head down, fake to the left. Duck. Boom. Boom. Left, right, left, right.”
It always ended in a hug.
When I was little he would come home from work, lift me up and put me on the table by the front door and pretend I was his little punching bag. He never actually hit me, of course. It was all play.
Then mom would come in all freaking out about me being on her perfectly polished table with lace doilies. She would yell at the two of us for a while, lambasting him for supposedly teaching me 'unclean things' and then we'd hear a few Bible quotes.
My mom loved us, but she was a strict Jehovah's Witness. Everything we did, every word we said, and every mistake we made was fed back to us with a Bible quote about how we were risking our chances of not getting into the Kingdom of Jehovah.
After she died when I was thirteen, my dad and I seemed to have little to talk about. We both loved her and we both mourned for a long time, but it was like she supplied all our conversation for so long that we never knew what to say to each other.
When I started dating boys, he didn't know how to handle it so he just shut down. He just left me alone to figure things out on my own.
Sometimes I would even push his limits by staying out all night. He would give me a small lecture in the morning and then never mentioned it again, kind of like he knew he had to but didn't want to.
Then I would bring home an obvious thug just to push his buttons, but all he would do is shake the boy's hand, say "Have a good time", and disappear into the living room with another beer.
I always wanted to grab him by the lapels of his nicotine-saturated truck driver's uniform, shake him, and say, "Snap out of it! She's gone! Be a father! Tell me what to do!"
Now he looked so helpless and forlorn lying there in hospital clothes.
He immediately started airing his gripes about everything to me. The TV keeps cutting out when a hockey team is about to score. The food tastes like plastic. The bastards in Washington are raising our taxes again.
I just nodded and listened, not really hearing what he was saying. My right hand found the piece of paper in my pocket and rubbed it.
When my dad hit a lull, I reached in my other pocket and took out the purple box.
"Dad," I said, "Jake gave me something."
"It's okay," he said. "Herpes can be controlled now."
Now you know where I get my sarcastic sense of humor.
"Very funny. No, seriously. Check this out."
I opened the box and held it up. Even in the fluorescent hospital lights, it lit up with dancing rainbow colors.
"Holy shit! That could pay off the mortgage on the house."
"So what do you think?"
"It's very nice."
"No, I mean... what do you think I should do?"
"He wants to get married?"
"No, he bought me the biggest rock in the world because he wants me to go to the Prom with him."
My dad just looked at me with a blank expression.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay what? Okay you think I should marry him?"
"If you
He should have been back home already but he had a couple of bad infections and his physical therapy was... well, let's just say my dad isn't the most cooperative man on earth. He's milking his short-term disability insurance just so he can avoid going back to work and get waited on hand and foot for as long as he can.
Not to mention he hasn't quit smoking. He'll put almost zero effort into his exercises but he's hell-bent to get past the nurses to the side door so he can light up.
Just ahead of the rehab center is a Walmart. I clasped the steering wheel tight and held my breath, forcing my eyes to stay directly ahead until it passed. Then I breathed again.
I parked and went up to my dad's room. His face brightened up when he saw me.
"Punchy!" he said when I walked into the room. "There's my little punching bag. Come here." He raised his fists and went into his routine. “Keep your head down, fake to the left. Duck. Boom. Boom. Left, right, left, right.”
It always ended in a hug.
When I was little he would come home from work, lift me up and put me on the table by the front door and pretend I was his little punching bag. He never actually hit me, of course. It was all play.
Then mom would come in all freaking out about me being on her perfectly polished table with lace doilies. She would yell at the two of us for a while, lambasting him for supposedly teaching me 'unclean things' and then we'd hear a few Bible quotes.
My mom loved us, but she was a strict Jehovah's Witness. Everything we did, every word we said, and every mistake we made was fed back to us with a Bible quote about how we were risking our chances of not getting into the Kingdom of Jehovah.
After she died when I was thirteen, my dad and I seemed to have little to talk about. We both loved her and we both mourned for a long time, but it was like she supplied all our conversation for so long that we never knew what to say to each other.
When I started dating boys, he didn't know how to handle it so he just shut down. He just left me alone to figure things out on my own.
Sometimes I would even push his limits by staying out all night. He would give me a small lecture in the morning and then never mentioned it again, kind of like he knew he had to but didn't want to.
Then I would bring home an obvious thug just to push his buttons, but all he would do is shake the boy's hand, say "Have a good time", and disappear into the living room with another beer.
I always wanted to grab him by the lapels of his nicotine-saturated truck driver's uniform, shake him, and say, "Snap out of it! She's gone! Be a father! Tell me what to do!"
Now he looked so helpless and forlorn lying there in hospital clothes.
He immediately started airing his gripes about everything to me. The TV keeps cutting out when a hockey team is about to score. The food tastes like plastic. The bastards in Washington are raising our taxes again.
I just nodded and listened, not really hearing what he was saying. My right hand found the piece of paper in my pocket and rubbed it.
When my dad hit a lull, I reached in my other pocket and took out the purple box.
"Dad," I said, "Jake gave me something."
"It's okay," he said. "Herpes can be controlled now."
Now you know where I get my sarcastic sense of humor.
"Very funny. No, seriously. Check this out."
I opened the box and held it up. Even in the fluorescent hospital lights, it lit up with dancing rainbow colors.
"Holy shit! That could pay off the mortgage on the house."
"So what do you think?"
"It's very nice."
"No, I mean... what do you think I should do?"
"He wants to get married?"
"No, he bought me the biggest rock in the world because he wants me to go to the Prom with him."
My dad just looked at me with a blank expression.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay what? Okay you think I should marry him?"
"If you
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