Burning Pages

Between an engaging book and a ringing phone, you'd choose the former and ignore the latter - especially if it's an anonymous call. Reject and it'll stop. Still, it sounded too compelling.

"Abby, this is Auntie Grace…"

Your Dad's sister. Ever since your parents separated, you and your mom would scarcely get any call from them.

"It's about your dad. He's in the hospital. Maybe you could go see him and…"

*****

He's not the type who'd often call to check on you. When his financial support started dwindling, your Mom decided to "get a life" of her own and work. Away from her meddling (former) in-laws. It's not as if you had a say in her decision-making during those times, but it definitely did you a favor. Because it made you independent in a lot of ways. To the point of not needing your Dad anymore.

"Please?"

Why is it so nice for you to hear your Auntie Grace say that? You would've said no but... "I'll drop by later, Auntie."

*****

The hospital where your Dad's confined is the biggest in town, so you'd have to ask around where this particular ward is, his room. There are alleys and hallways, closed rooms facing each other - blind to the grisly queue of attendants hauling stretchers of dead patients; mute to the agonizing groans and moans of the terminally ill, and deaf to the silent prayers of those who accompany them.

*****

Your Dad's sleeping on his slightly raised bed - under a blanket tucked beneath his arms, covering part of his chest down his toes. He looks awful with all those medical pieces of equipment connected to him.

"He's been sedated," The nurse explained before you could even ask. "

He looks thinner and older than the last time. When, it doesn't matter anymore. Walking nearer, the veins in his arms and hands look conspicuously like a distorted cobweb of roots crawling under his pale, blotchy skin. He's breathing steady, though. You could even hear him snore.

*****

All this time you were in denial of this longing. Till you saw him. It reminded you of that little girl running to him and hugging him, and telling him "I'm here, Daddy." But he's sleeping. So you step on the breaks.

You used to get spooked at the mere mention of "hospital'' and anything that has to do with it - needles and syringes, medical personnel in full battle gear - the sight of which, stresses you out. The smell of disinfectants and lysolized everything is but a deception and a camouflage. All the real-time, real-life blood and gore that make you cringe don't happen in the movies. They happen here behind these walls.

*****

"Hey, Abby…" It's Grace again on the phone. She never fails to rattle your cage at any given time.

"I'm here, Auntie…he's asleep. Just waiting for him to wake up."

"I'll meet you there."

More than the desire to see her again is a long list of "hows" and "whys" desperately seeking answers. You've been practicing them in your mind. How you're going to toss every single query to her without a hint of resentment or disrespect on your part.

*****

You were around eight when he left. There were unanswered questions, of course. A lot of them. Eventually, though, it came to a point where too much asking drained the innocence in you. That you just had to stop and accept what was. He wasn't always there anyway, except for a very few occasions. He was, for the most part, an absentee father. Missing in most of your many firsts. You're a child trapped between two colliding forces - bearing the brunt of parental indecisions and wrong choices. You and your Mom have gone through fire and water by yourselves. She brought you up almost single-handedly.

Life hasn't been easy. Growing up as their daughter isn't childsplay. Yet you hurt for him. It breaks your heart to see him lying on that bed.

*****

After all the pleasantries which aren't all pleasant anyway, Grace hands over rather hesitantly, a small box tied in abaca. "Your dad has been wanting to see you and give you this but… well, look at him. So I figured… maybe it's time for you to open it now before it's too late."

Too late for what? There's an unsealed letter inside the box, neatly folded in four, on top of numerous photos. And it read:

My dearest Abby,

There's not a day that I didn't think about you. I'm sorry your dad's a lousy father, and I offer no excuse for that. Please bear with me while I try to fix your old man, till I find the balls to present myself to you as the father you so deserve. Just please don't hate me much. I love you.

Daddy

*****

Everything's a blur that you could hardly hear your Mom in that fleeting recall. A cue on what should be in a girl's (scout) handbag aside from the usual girly accessories. "An extra handkerchief could come in handy." She's right.

*****

Grace has been considerate enough to leave you be in private, in this moment of revelation and self-discovery. And taking the photos out of the tattered box one by one, your trembling hand goes in sync with the throbbing of your heart.

They're mostly photographs of you taken from a distance, from when you were younger till just a couple of years ago in your high school graduation. It's like flipping through the burning pages of your life's story. Surreptitiously captured by the father who chose to hide his light under a bushel.

*****

"Ahem… you okay, Abby?" Grace asks, breaking the ice. There's no answer to that yet.

"Auntie, what happened to Dad? When you told me he's in here, I didn't think it's this… I mean, he's only 45? 46? Too young to be this ill, right?"

"Abby… he has cirrhosis of the liver. Stage 4. Not the kind you get from alcohol abuse because he's not some hard-drinking bastard. It's more complicated than that because he has diabetes and hypertension. A transplant is an option, if we could avail of one, that is."

"Is he…"

"Gonna die? I hope not. Is he gonna get better? I'm hoping he will. You two have a lot of catching up to do."

"What about th… the letter and the photos, Auntie, why only now." At the eleventh hour.

"Oh, before I forget, This one's for you, too. It should've been in the box, but I didn't want to open it ahead of you."

"What is this…"

"A bank book. It's not much, but pretty close to the financial support you were supposed to receive every month since you were nine years old which, by the way, your mother has declined. It was stopped when you reached the legal age last year. It's neither inheritance nor compensation or anything like that. Consider it as a gift of love. From a father who's missing his child."

*****

The list in your mind is getting longer and longer. Each page unveils yet another snippet of the life you're living before that call from Grace. Your Mom hadn't spoken ill of your Dad. But neither did she try to negate the impression borne out by the vague memories you've had of him.

"I was thinking Mila has deliberately slandered him in your eyes…"

"No, Auntie, she didn't talk about him. Hardly."

"Is it any different? Has that helped you get a better understanding of...of things?"

"I don't know. She probably has reasons." Don't we all?

"Do you know that some of the photos in the box were sent to him by your mom?"

"So there was communication between them, you mean?"

"Apparently, not regularly though. And why not, they have a daughter together. He would even stalk your mom's social media accounts for any updates on you."

"So maybe I should thank Zuck, too."

Grace laughs.

"Come on, she says, pulling your hand. He's waking up."

*****