Page 2 of The Hope Once Lost
Holden
I’m dying.
Those are not the words any person wants to hear about a parent, let alone a parent they thought was dead five years ago.
I’m dying.
He said it when he called a month ago to tell me he’s in renal failure, that he’sbeenin renal failure for months, maybe even years. I don’t know exactly, because all I kept hearing was ‘I’m dying.’
The words out of his mouth when I finally answered the fifth call from the hospital was to tell me exactly that. I was at my best friend Liam’s house, all my friends accounted for, so I didn’t think anyone would need me. Who else would when my entire world died five years ago at the hands of a miserable and irresponsible human being?
I never would have thought it was the dad I was told was no longer alive.
I’m dying, he echoed when I told him I wasn’t falling for another one of his games. When I told him I didn’t question he was dead when I was twelve. I told him not to call me again until he was the one buried six feet deep. So, he called when the death sentence was handed down.
I’m dying.
The two words that convinced me to give this man a second chance. Not for him, but for me. The last thing I need is a lifetime of regret after not listening to his part of the story. After not, shit, I don’t know, trying to have a relationship with him? My dad?
No, not my dad.
Dad is a label you earn. Dad is a title you fight for. By showing up day after day and night after night, forever. I see it in the way Liam and Oliver are with their children, in the way their parents treat them, in the way my mom gave up everything for us. This man, who donated his sperm and abruptly disappeared from my life for three decades, doesn’t get to call himselfDad. Especially not after he made us all think he was dead.
But still… I let out a breath, my hands white-knuckling the steering wheel as I sit outside of Baker Oaks Senior Living, where he resides, considering it all.
He’s dying.
I take a breath in and step out of my car, slamming the door closed and walking up to the building. I don’t know enough of the details; all I know is that today is Father’s Day, and he invited me over so he can catch me up on what’s going on. Or so he said.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to push the door open, but my hand freezes before I can.
Am I really going to step through the glass doors and face this man? The man who abandoned us? Who let a twelve-year-old believe he was dead? The man who left the woman he supposedly loved to raise two kids on her own while working two jobs? The man who so irrevocably fucked up the way I perceived manhood for so long?
On Father’s Day?
I blink away the tears that threaten to fill my eyes and take a step back.
“Are you going in?’ a woman carrying a baby says from behind me. I flutter my eyes, searching hers for the joke or the space for hidden cameras.
“Are you going in?” she asks again; my large body is blocking the entrance.
I shake my head, and with it goes all my demons. “No, sorry. I’m leaving.”
I rush past her straight to my silver car—slamming the door closed.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The only place I want to be on Father’s Day is by my mom’s grave. She was more of a father to me than whatever piece of shit is in there.
He’s dying.
The rational voice in my head screams, but I need to quiet it. I have to.
I blast whatever is playing on the radio to drown out all the noise in my head. And of fucking course, Luke Combs fills the space, singing about a ball game and begging his dad to take him back again. Suddenly, I can’t contain the tears anymore.
Thirty-six fucking years old and still crying about the dad who never showed up. The dad who drank too much. The dad who made me feel like it was all my fault. Maybe if I did better, if I listened, if I got good grades, he would be home. If I stayed in my room and out of the way, maybe he wouldn’t need to drink.
The dad who never once showed up on time for dinner or an awards ceremony. The dad who was asleep for breakfast, and only knew how to drink until he wasn’t there anymore. Physically, yes, but never present.
