by Jenny Wood
“Judge Glenda Harris has opted to have him transferred to a long-term care facility. Sir, there is no easy way to say it, and I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, especially on the phone; but, the severity of your father’s disease does not have a positive outcome. The best we can do is keep him comfortable and keep with the daily dialysis. Because he was on disability upon his incarceration, the state is responsible for his medical care. It’s my understanding that you’ve not had a relationship with your father, Mr. Perry, but, he’s asked me to get in touch. Not only that, but you’re his only living relative, and I’m required to at least let you know.” He finishes rather formally. I’m silent for what seems like several minutes until a call light comes on down the hall and I’m forced out of my daze.
“I appreciate your calling and telling me, is there a number I can call you back on? I’m just in the last hour of work, and there are things I need to do to finish up.” I explain truthfully, though really I just need a few minutes to process. My dad, who’d been a terrible person my whole childhood, was dying. What did I do with that?
“Of course,” He replies and I write down his name and number with the promise of calling him back later this morning. I go through the rest of my shift warring with my brain on what I should do. What I want to do and what I feel like I should do, are two different things. When I get home, grandma is sitting at the table, having breakfast.
“You look tired, sweetheart.” She runs her fingers through my hair as she passes to get me a glass of milk. I don’t drink coffee, and even if I did, I need sleep. Third shifts are brutal.
“I got a call from the prison today. He’s sick.” I blurted. “He’s asked to get in touch with me.” Grandma stops and stares at me from the fridge.
“Okay,” She says slowly, “how do you feel about that?” Sliding my glass in front of me and refilling her coffee before sitting down across from me. It takes me a minute to work it out before I answer.
“I care,” I tell her, bewildered by that fact. “It makes me sad.”
“You have a good heart, honey; and a piece of crap or not; he’s still your daddy. It’s okay to be sad.” She gives me that. I feel like a weight has lifted off my chest. I didn’t know that I needed that validation. Like I was allowed to be sad for a man who’d done me so wrong for so long.
“What should I do?” I asked. She’d been the one constant I’d had the last five years of my life. She taught me to be the man that I am. She pushed me and supported me through college, even though it was hard as hell at first. Being so young and starting my life so quickly. She kept me on the right path instead of letting me go off like the moody, angry teenager that I had been. I owed so much to her.
“I can’t tell ya that, darlin’. You do what you need to do, and everything else will work out.” She says. Whatever will be, will be- I’d heard that too many times over the last handful of years; it really did seem as simple as that.
Later that morning I called Mr. Markim back, and we talked for a good long while about my father. Apparently, he was more than an advocate of the inmates he worked to help, but he was also a counselor there at the prison. The man he spoke of was not the father that I knew. I had to say that I was somewhat intrigued, but more than a little bit hurt.
In the last five years, it seemed that my father was a “changed man.” Off the bottle, it seemed he was a funny man with a respectable nature. He was well liked and trusted within the walls of the prison and he often times got special privileges because of those things. He led group AA meetings, which I found hysterical, though I didn’t share that with Mr. Markim. After several conversations with him and several more with grandma; I agreed to go see my father. It took fourteen hours, driving straight through to get there and I booked a room for the week. Grandma had wanted to come with me, but I knew the travel time would be hard on her knees and back, so I promised to call every day to check in.
The first few nights in town, I couldn’t muster up the courage to go see him; I hated myself for being so wimpy about it. He couldn’t hurt me anymore, not like he had, but I was afraid he might in other ways.
On the fourth day, I met with Mr. Markim, and he gave me a visitor’s pass and walked me through the process of visiting someone in the institution. While it was technically a hospital in the next town over from Madison, it was still a prisoner hospital. Therefore, I wasn’t able to just come and go whenever I wanted. There were protocols and regulations that I had to adhere to. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment I walked in and saw what remained of my father. Skin and bones were all he was, with the most yellow skin and whites of his eyes. I couldn’t believe it; didn’t want to.
“Douglas.” He smiles as he opened his eyes and noticed me. He was hooked up to all kinds of machines and IV’s.
“It’s Jay, now,” That’s what I opened with. He smiled anyway.
“Your mother used to call you her baby Jay.” He croaked, smile dimming just a little bit at the slash of pain that had to have shown on my face. Speaking of my mother was never allowed at our house, so I didn’t know what to think that he mentioned her so casually. He must’ve read the confusion on my face.
“Would you like to sit?” He asked, pointing to a chair in the corner of the room. Did I? Did I want to sit and talk to him like I would if he wasn’t the monster that used to terrorize my life? Could I do that for him?
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He gave me the option, and that pissed me off.
“I know that.” I snapped, feeling guilty immediately. He looked close to death; I shouldn’t be mean to him.
“I’m glad you came.” His eyes never wavered, they never looked away from mine. I didn’t know what to think. “Do you think that we can talk, sometime? I have a lot I’d like to say to you.”
I wasn’t sure why my feet moved me to the chair, and I scooted it closer to his bed, but that’s what happened. This was why I came, wasn’t it? To get closure on this part of my life; to give my dad some peace of mind, if that’s what he wanted before he passed. Maybe this would fill that piece of me that felt like it was missing. Maybe I needed closure.
I’d known from Mr. Markim that this disease would kill my father; he wasn’t eligible for a transplant because the rest of him wasn’t healthy either. While in prison, his disease had gone untreated for too long. Prison wasn’t the place to get sick, because, it sometimes took weeks to get into see a real doctor. This was the outcome; well, this and years of abuse on his liver… so it technically wasn’t all the prison’s fault, was it?
“How’s Phyllis?” He asked me, asking after my grandma. I wasn’t even aware he knew that I’d gone with her.
“She’s good,” I replied. Neither of us said anything for a while, and I watched him look me over.
“I suppose I have about a thousand explanations to give you.” He coughed, grabbing his cup of what looked like water and took a drink.
“You don’t have to.” I offered, not knowing why, because, my whole life I’d wanted to know why he hated me so badly.
“I didn’t hate you, Doug- Jay,” He answered. I must’ve said that last bit out loud. “Looking at you, hurt.” He shrugged. “That’s a terrible thing to say, and it isn’t an excuse, though I know that it sounds like one.
“I know that I don’t deserve a chance to make things right with you, or even if I can. And you don’t have to give me an answer today. We can do things at your speed, if you want; or not at all. I know I don’t deserve it. I know I have no right to ask this of you, but as you can probably guess, I’m not much longer meant for this world. I know I shouldn’t ask, I know I shouldn’t; but if you could, I’d love it if I could maybe get to know you and maybe try to make things up to you before I go.”
I couldn’t stop the wet that hit my eyes. I didn’t have an answer to give him; I just didn’t. So, I said nothing. He took that as his cue. He told me how losing my mother was the single worst moment in his life, followed by the next decade being
even worse. He explained how drinking helped him to forget and helped him cope. It helped him not feel, which I guess is understandable. He admitted to being a terrible father and a terrible human being; though that didn’t make me feel any better about it. I sat silently as he confessed to countless mistakes he made with me. He didn’t need to remind me though; I remembered them all. He didn’t ask for forgiveness or try to blame anything on the alcohol, he owned up to everything and apologized over and over. I had compassion, I guess; I could see where he lost his way and why.
“I’m gay.” I blurted, the first words I’d said in his hour-long monolog. He blinked a couple of times before looking contrite and maybe a little regretful.
“I know.” He said simply. No malice or disgust in his tone. That was different.
“How?” I wondered; I was always so careful.
“Your mother told me.” He almost smiled. “I’m sorry about that too, that I was so hateful and bigoted and intolerant back then. I was raised in a different time, I guess. Things like that weren’t accepted. I learned a lot being in prison. A lot.” His eyes went huge, and I snorted, finding that funny for some reason; or maybe just ironic.
“Truth is, those weren’t even my words. They were the opinions of people like my father and his brothers that I’d grown up hearing my whole life. Honestly, kid. I don’t give a fuck one way or another; it was just another way for me to be hateful. It was terrible, I was terrible. The things I said and done were unforgivable and I don’t blame you if you want to walk out of this room and never see me again. I appreciate you giving me the chance to explain though.” He finished. We sat in silence for a while before I told him I had to go. I was feeling too much and was confused about all of it. He only nodded as I left, with no promise of coming back and without a much word of anything else.
I got back to my hotel and called my grandma, relaying everything that happened since I’d seen my father. She told that me she loved and supported me and no matter how I was feeling, it was me who was feeling it, and there was no right or wrong way to do it. I laid awake all night, wondering where to go from here. The next night, I went back to see my dad; followed by a nightly call to grandma. I made sure to keep my visits brief and only stayed when I knew he was sleeping. I wasn’t ready for more than that, just yet.
This went on all week and I decided that I couldn’t, in good conscious leave my father to die alone in Madison Georgia. It wasn’t like I had to live with him or anything, but I’d worked in old folk’s homes (and now in a hospital) long enough to know that nobody deserved to die alone. I just wasn’t sure how present I wanted or could be during this process. I felt guilty, but I made sure to tell the nurses to let him know I had been there; but I just couldn’t do more than that, not yet.
I rented a small little apartment and got hired on at the county hospital. I was a registered nurse; I worked on all the floors, but I jumped back and forth from labor and delivery to the emergency department. Both of them were severely understaffed, this whole hospital was, actually.
My co-workers were nice, in that friendly, “small-town-I-don’t-know-a-stranger, kind of way. The majority of them were older than me, and I didn’t remember anyone that was around my age or even close to it. Still, I enjoyed the small town feeling that I’d missed, living in Grand Rapids. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to be here, but I liked that I got a chance to keep myself busy and not put myself on hold while I was here.
The town was exactly the same; not much had changed in the five years I’d been gone, except maybe a few more expansions; like a new coffee chain and a super store! I’d seen all the Kennedy’s since being back in the last month, and I’d quite literally bumped into the biggest one that tackled me that regretful day I got busted.
I’d been thinking now that I’d be back for the next little while, that I could finally go and apologize to Conner, on behalf of my dad and me. I don’t know; maybe I could even explain why things went down the way they did. I hated having that on my conscience, and I even looked him up once on social media and thought about sending him a message. I didn’t, but I really wanted to. Maybe now that I was back, temporarily, I could find the time to do that. That’d be nice.
Tonight, I was on second shift and running from floor to floor for whoever needed me. I’d been in town for close to two weeks, and this was my third evening at work at the county hospital. When asked, I asked for first or second shift; which was different than my night shift, back home but I wanted to get to sleep at a decent hour tonight because Dad had dialysis in the morning and I wanted to be there for it, to talk to his doctor.
I felt like he was getting worse since I’d gotten to town, and I wanted his opinion. I wanted to know what to expect and get a formal prognosis since I was going to be staying for the foreseeable future. Things were still strained with dad, but, I was hoping that eventually, I’d be able to forget the past and just be there for him anyway that I could. Not just for him, really, because it was mainly for me. I knew I’d regret it if I left now and just left him to die alone. I wasn’t that kind of person; I tried to have compassion and empathy. It was hard some days, especially with him, but other days, I could tell it made him happy to have me there, and it made me glad to do it. He still apologized on the days I’d found him awake, it was all he could do. I wasn’t ready to say I forgave him and I didn’t know if I ever would; I liked to think I would though, and he really was trying. I’d just keep this going one day at a time, and I’d have to see what happened, later. For now, I was being called to the E.R. for a sick little girl.
One day at a time.
Finn
“Daddeeeee.” My daughter, Lennon, screamed from her crib, down the hall in her bedroom. I rolled and looked at my clock to see that it was just after eight in the morning and was glad that she seemed to have slept through the night. That was rare since we’d moved to Madison, a couple of months ago. It had taken us a little bit to get settled in around here, but now that we had a nice place to live and several friends we could depend on, things were going really well.
“Coming baby girl!” I hollered down the hallway and heard her start clapping at the sound of my voice. My girl always had a big smile for me the minute she saw me. She looked so much like my sister, it sometimes hit me in the most unexpected ways. I wonder if she was looking out for us down here and I wondered if she was okay with the job I was doing raising her daughter. My sister passed away from breast cancer just a few months after having Lennon. She knew she was pregnant when she got sick, but she refused treatment so she wouldn’t hurt the baby.
“She’ll be all the world has left of me, Finny; and she’s only a baby, she didn’t ask to be brought into this world. It’s obviously part of God’s plan.” She explained. I tried and tried to get her to abort the baby in the early days and save her own life. There would be other times for a baby; this one had bad timing. Things didn’t work like that though, and my sister was right; Lennon was perfect, and although it’s hard as hell some days. I couldn’t imagine my life without her.
Using the restroom and brushing my teeth before heading down the hall to my girl, I stop at her baby gate that keeps her in her room and out of trouble when she wakes up before me. I stand there and listen to her hum and sway with her baby doll that she conveniently named; Baby. She went nowhere without Baby.
“Baby, baby, baby,” She sang sweetly and cooed softly in her little chipmunk sounding voice.
“Hey, little mama. You and Baby, ready for some breakfast?” I ask her, watching her curly little ringlets fling all over the place as her head swung toward the sound of my voice.
“Daddy!” she cried, dropping her baby and running to me with her arms in the air. How can one person love another, so much? How could I not?
“Morning, baby,” I say, kissing her cheek and pulling her to me. “Somebody needs their butt changed, huh?”
“I pee.” She says, helpfully. I smile at her seriousness, and we head to the living room. I know h
er diaper bag is stocked full of diapers but we need to get more today. I knew we were running low. The last few days have been busy, and it keeps slipping my mind.
Everything is baby proofed in Lenny’s room and most of the house as well, but her room is her domain. Things are bolted down and clasped shut. There’s nothing she could get hurt on in there, even if the little monkey did like to climb things. I wasn’t as paranoid as I used to be, we were learning things together, but… I still didn’t fuck around when her safety was concerned.
Breakfast consisted of a banana and some oatmeal. My little dumpster gut ate anything you put in front of her and she had an appetite. She never shied away from anything and Kingsley, and Morgan tested her on that, frequently. When we moved here, she’d gained a shit ton of honorary Uncles. They’d become good friends to me in the short time we’d been here, and I appreciated their help more than I could tell them. Kingsley and Morgan especially, because Morgan loved spending time with her so much, he often offered to babysit; sometimes more than I needed him to. He worked from home as an artist, so he loved the company, especially since he and his husband Kingsley had just told us all that they were looking into adopting. They’d be great parents, I already knew… they were perfect with Lennon.
“You going to spend the afternoon with Uncle Morgan today?” I asked her, knowing she knew exactly who Uncle Morgan was.
“Paint!” She squealed and ran off, the minute I had her clean of mushed oats and banana. Morgan had a plethora of finger paints and endless supplies of canvases. I currently had seven of her paintings hanging in various places throughout our little three-bedroom house that we were renting with the option to buy, after one year. I was sold on the place; the house didn’t matter, although it was homey and in a good neighborhood; but I meant the town. I loved it here, it was a magical place of southern living and down-home country roots. Everybody knew everybody and everyone was so friendly here. The crime rate was practically nonexistent and if something did happen, well...the sheriff just gave you a good talking to and made you apologize for what ya did, and that was about it. There wasn’t murder or break-ins. I didn’t have to worry about getting mugged or somebody kidnapping my child at the park, (though I still never let her out of my site while we were there. It’s a safe town, but I’m not stupid). It was a great place to call home and the more we stayed, the more in love I felt with the place. Not to mention, it was LGBT friendly. Everybody that worked in the tattoo shop that I, myself, was a tattooist in, was also “family,” in more ways than one. Brothers, best friends, and partners, they all were. I was lucky to be brought into that fold because we didn’t have that back in Atlanta.