Friday, June 25, 2010
The Car Daddy
The Hyundai dealership in Fairfax, Virginia stayed open late that night, just for me. Just so I could call you.
"Should I buy it, Daddy? It's brand new and bright red."
"I'll look it up in Consumer Reports, honeypot. Call me back in five."
I wheeled your chair through the doors of the Wishing Well Manor. Took you outside where the forsythia branches waved and the dogwood blossoms pinked up the world. I set the brakes on your wheelchair. Right in front of my new-to-you Dodge.
"I named her Snow White," I said. "'Cause she's--"
You weren't looking. Your head hung down as you scratched the wheel chair tray with your too-long fingernails.
I put my hand over the divot in my throat as I walked towards the door of the Wishing Well. An orderly let me in since it was after hours.
"I won't be coming 'round anymore, Daddy," I said, inside my head, as I walked to your room. "To show you my cars."
I blinked at the pinky-orange exit sign at the end of the hall.
"There'll be no more visits to the Wishing Well," I said softly, so as not to wake the residents.
I felt hot tears, headed for my mouth.
""Cause . . . there's no more Daddy."