My Father’s Goodbye

It was hot and I sat in the grass with the bugs, feeling each blade in between my pink-painted fingernails. I’d watch cars pass, as time did simultaneously. Another disappointment. Another lost chance. Another call to say a party was more important than meeting for Father’s Day. Another voicemail that left tears dripping down my phone screen. We forget and we forgive until the next occurrence breaks our trust but lessens the hurt. Like a full glass of water being swallowed, a bottle of shampoo being lathered. It simply disappears into nothingness.

Alcoholism. A mask that tightened to my father's face after each empty can was thrown to the ground. The mask that became his persona, as alcohol replaced his blood. Alcohol kept him going, kept him alive but took his spirit. He was no longer the father that would take me to the lake so we could watch boats pass by. He was no longer the father that would search for antiques, finding the perfect jewelry box that played the ghost of what was once a sweet song. We would listen to music and drive, and he would tell me ghost stories. We would visit my grandparents and drink generic Mountain Dew. We would watch Bonanza and sit on the couch as the air conditioner cooled the stuffy room. I would open the car door to candy, feeling as if I was the sweetest passenger. Feeling as if I was the most important part of my father’s life.

Time continued and the visits stopped, replaced with calls that threatened our entire relationship. The contact eventually ended, until I visited him as he laid on a hospital bed.

While traveling abroad, I received a call from my mother. She explained that my father was unresponsive in the hospital. His liver was useless, his brain panicked at the withdrawal from alcohol, his body had failed him. But hadn’t he failed it? Every drink seeped carelessly into my father’s body and out into everyone’s lives. The full glass of water spilled; the shampoo burned my eyes. I was furious.

“Say something to him, he may be able to hear you.”

“You can hold his hand if you want.”

My mind was blank, and my hands shook, I had no idea what to feel. He was a shade of yellow today, or had he looked that way yesterday? Family wept over his body as I stood staring. Everyone knew there wasn’t the slightest chance of hope. I walked into the hallway alone and a foreign shriek left my lips. One I didn’t recognize until sobs were released from my throat. Pitied looks from nurses and visitors were sent my way, but I ignored them. How sad I must’ve looked, as they knew someone I loved was dying? I was able to be in the room alone with my father and I stared in disbelief. This is how it's going to end? There would never be a chance for another picnic, there would never be a chance to listen to another story while the wind blew through my hair. I would never open the door to an orange chocolate wrapper, melting under the summer sun. There would never be a chance.

I grabbed my father’s hand quickly, as if I didn’t do it fast, I wouldn’t do it at all. It was warm and soft; I can still feel it today. I choked out, “I’m sorry” and that was the last time I saw my father.

My father passed an hour after I had left him. I spent days mourning in the safety of my bed, drowning in guilt, and praying that I did the right thing. If I had tried harder, if I had worked to get him help, would things be different? I never had the chance to mend our relationship. He died knowing we didn’t get along. But the mask. The hold alcoholism had on his body didn’t take his entire soul. I know the love we once had remained. I know he bragged about my achievements. I know he was proud. I know the alcoholic mask he wore stopped him from being the father he wanted to be. He won’t be there to walk me down the aisle next year. He will never meet my children. These things I mourn, these ideas that rip at my heart, are the things he would've missed anyway. Some days, for a moment, I think I may see him around town, I think about how I haven’t spoken to him in a while. This split-second grounds me and reminds me that my father is gone.

Though this memory is painful, it is overwhelmed and buried by the happy times. I can see the tall trees pass by, as my father’s car drives over each hill. I can hear the same songs play in a cycle, looping through my father’s favorite CDs. I can hear his voice order our favorite thin pizza; I can hear his voice call my nickname. I can picture his stride as we took walks and talked about the future.

I know that despite it all, I love my father and somewhere he is still loving me. I know that he was sick and despite the help that he had received, there was nothing anyone could’ve done to stop the man that was set to self-destruct.

Casey Shortt is a graduate student, teacher, and lover of books. She is an aspiring writer, wannabe world traveler, and an amateur seamstress. When she isn’t writing, she is most likely planting flowers around her lake cabin and drinking a glass of pink lemonade.