father would never have gotten sick. Maybe I’d always wear the right things and do my hair in the right way. Maybe I’d be confident like Amanda and maybe men like Gregory would be interested in me.
The smell of bacon drifts into my bedroom and I resolve to get up. Perhaps I’ll discuss Gregory with Sandy later. That is, I would discuss Gregory if there was anything to discuss but there isn’t.
Following the smell leads me across the landing into my father’s bedroom. Sandy’s perched on the foot of his bed and they’re laughing together. Leaning against the frame of the door I watch them, enjoying listening to the incredibly sweet sound of happiness.
“What’s going on here?” I ask jovially.
“Scarlett, Sandy was just telling me a joke,” my father says, his shaking hands resting on the bacon sandwich in his lap.
“You know who I am?”
My father’s brows furrow before turning to a smile. His eyes sparkle as he shakes his head like I’ve made a joke.
“Well, what would you like to do today?” I say, instantly cancelling any plans I could have had, unable to contain the excitement that bubbles to the surface in my words.
“Perhaps we could just sit in the garden together?” my father offers. “Whatever it is that’s had me locked up in this bed must’ve been good. I still don’t feel one hundred percent and Sandy tells me I’ve been here for a little while now.”
“Okay, great!” I beam, washing over his questioning tone.
Running from his bedroom and back to my room, I throw on a pair of leggings and a shirt from my wardrobe, tie my hair roughly in a knot on top of my head and quickly clean my teeth.
“Ready!” I yell a few minutes later, bouncing to his bedside.
My father chuckles. The sound is so magnificent and playful it makes me laugh.
When my father is dressed, Sandy and I help him from his bed. He’s gracious as we lift his upper body forward, despite each vertebrae cracking through its own inertia. Only his eyes expose his true pain. He’s become shockingly weak. His legs are skinny and frail and no longer meet in the middle when he stands upright. His trousers, once perfectly tailored, sag from his lower back. His arm feels so thin in mine that I’m afraid it will shatter if I hold on too tight. We walk with him to the stair lift, each linking one of his arms in our own.
“Why is there a bandage on his arm?” I whisper to Sandy as we send him on his descent.
“He has a bed sore. I can’t get it to heal because he forgets that he shouldn’t put his weight on it.”
“Does he need medication?”
“The doctor came out during the week and gave me the dressings I’ve been using and some cream. He told me to persevere for now.”
“Oh,” is all I manage to utter.
I should’ve been here. I should’ve spoken to the doctor. Instead, work and gallivanting with some rich CEO were top of my priorities.
Sandy squeezes my hand tightly. We walk to the bottom of the stairs and help my father stand. We struggle to walk him through the house and down the three small concrete steps into the garden. He apologises with each shuffle forward.
The garden is bright with sun shining on the yellow ash leaves on the trees and in piles on the ground. Birds are chirping and fluttering down to nibble nuts from the bird table my father and I haphazardly handcrafted one spring day when I was nine or maybe ten. We thought it would last a year or so at best but here it is, wood flaking from its roof and remnants of bottle green paint scattered around its legs, but still standing strong.
My father is more content than I’ve seen him for too long. He closes his eyes and leans his face to one side, pointing it in the direction of the sun. He sits on the wooden bench that he claims to have rescued from a secondhand market shortly after buying our town house. He once told me, “There’s life left in it, all it needs is a good home.” He was right, as he always was.
“When I feel a
The smell of bacon drifts into my bedroom and I resolve to get up. Perhaps I’ll discuss Gregory with Sandy later. That is, I would discuss Gregory if there was anything to discuss but there isn’t.
Following the smell leads me across the landing into my father’s bedroom. Sandy’s perched on the foot of his bed and they’re laughing together. Leaning against the frame of the door I watch them, enjoying listening to the incredibly sweet sound of happiness.
“What’s going on here?” I ask jovially.
“Scarlett, Sandy was just telling me a joke,” my father says, his shaking hands resting on the bacon sandwich in his lap.
“You know who I am?”
My father’s brows furrow before turning to a smile. His eyes sparkle as he shakes his head like I’ve made a joke.
“Well, what would you like to do today?” I say, instantly cancelling any plans I could have had, unable to contain the excitement that bubbles to the surface in my words.
“Perhaps we could just sit in the garden together?” my father offers. “Whatever it is that’s had me locked up in this bed must’ve been good. I still don’t feel one hundred percent and Sandy tells me I’ve been here for a little while now.”
“Okay, great!” I beam, washing over his questioning tone.
Running from his bedroom and back to my room, I throw on a pair of leggings and a shirt from my wardrobe, tie my hair roughly in a knot on top of my head and quickly clean my teeth.
“Ready!” I yell a few minutes later, bouncing to his bedside.
My father chuckles. The sound is so magnificent and playful it makes me laugh.
When my father is dressed, Sandy and I help him from his bed. He’s gracious as we lift his upper body forward, despite each vertebrae cracking through its own inertia. Only his eyes expose his true pain. He’s become shockingly weak. His legs are skinny and frail and no longer meet in the middle when he stands upright. His trousers, once perfectly tailored, sag from his lower back. His arm feels so thin in mine that I’m afraid it will shatter if I hold on too tight. We walk with him to the stair lift, each linking one of his arms in our own.
“Why is there a bandage on his arm?” I whisper to Sandy as we send him on his descent.
“He has a bed sore. I can’t get it to heal because he forgets that he shouldn’t put his weight on it.”
“Does he need medication?”
“The doctor came out during the week and gave me the dressings I’ve been using and some cream. He told me to persevere for now.”
“Oh,” is all I manage to utter.
I should’ve been here. I should’ve spoken to the doctor. Instead, work and gallivanting with some rich CEO were top of my priorities.
Sandy squeezes my hand tightly. We walk to the bottom of the stairs and help my father stand. We struggle to walk him through the house and down the three small concrete steps into the garden. He apologises with each shuffle forward.
The garden is bright with sun shining on the yellow ash leaves on the trees and in piles on the ground. Birds are chirping and fluttering down to nibble nuts from the bird table my father and I haphazardly handcrafted one spring day when I was nine or maybe ten. We thought it would last a year or so at best but here it is, wood flaking from its roof and remnants of bottle green paint scattered around its legs, but still standing strong.
My father is more content than I’ve seen him for too long. He closes his eyes and leans his face to one side, pointing it in the direction of the sun. He sits on the wooden bench that he claims to have rescued from a secondhand market shortly after buying our town house. He once told me, “There’s life left in it, all it needs is a good home.” He was right, as he always was.
“When I feel a
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