When the coast is clear, I open the door of my Corolla that’s held together with duct tape, zip ties and parts from the local junk yard.
The blowing rain slaps me in the face, joining the red mark already there. They both sting, one caused by nature, one caused by her anger. I remember the happy birthday song and the smell of disinfectant and the beep of the monitors, the drop of the chemo. I also remember the shame of the forgotten gift.
It’s a Kentucky fall day, which accounts for the damp, wet, drizzle that makes its way down the back of my hoodie, a sprinkling of Holy Water forgiving me of my past sin.
Through the droplets on my glasses, I look for a splash of color, but all I see is dying grass and mottled, gray tombstones. Hands in pockets, I survey the graveyard like a soldier on duty, head on a swivel, looking for my target.
All I had to do was show up; isn’t that half of life, showing up? I did. Hung over, disheveled, empty handed, looking like ten miles of clay road.
From the chair next to the bed, she looked at me with eyes red from tears, but narrowed from hate.
Daughters are different; she looks at me with a wan smile, bright eyes dimmed from the radiation. Nobody wants to be here, but only one of them wants me here. She still calls me Dad.
I slosh through row after row, a wind tossed ballon catches my eye. No one is here on this dreary day, but I still move as if being hunted, her gift within my grasp.
Happybirthdayhappybirthdayhappybirthday still rings in my ears, a beacon calling me to crash myself on the rocks near the shore.
I don’t even look at the name on the tombstone, I don’t want to know.
I grab the soggy teddy bear, clutch it to my chest and run to the car, run toward salvation.