Father's Touch

"I don't want to see you."

Six words that finally hit the nail on the head, a coffin that was now sealed on all ends and ready to be buried. Words that made me feel like I needed the earth to open up and swallow me, because surely what I had tried to manage, this rocky relationship with my father, couldn't be salvaged after these words that he just threw at me, looking at me squarely in the eye, emotions and sensitivity out the door.

I was 21-years-old, but I wanted to cry out like a baby deprived of food. It wasn't like we had ever had a rosy relationship. My father had never paid either myself, younger siblings, or my mother attention. He bragged to people that we were abandoned. My mother left him when I was 15, because she couldn't take the violence, beatings, and drunken fights anymore. Besides, he wasn’t taking care of our needs. What was the point staying married? We gladly left with her, as we hadn't been spared either. We had equally received our share of beatings and abusive words thrown at us. He didn't bother to look for us or ask how we were, but when I found out where he was, I foolishly decided to pay him a visit. Things were rough. In my imagination, he would stare at me in surprise as a slow smile spread across his face, open the door, and hug his daughter whom he hadn’t seen in a very long time. We would probably shed tears as we held each other tightly, while he wailed loudly about the lost time. Then, we would sit down and have a beautiful conversation, and then, he would go home with me to see my mum who had never remarried and my siblings. What a beautiful reunion! What silly imagination I had! 

This was instead my reality. The reception I got was the words thrown at me. As I walked out of the building, I angrily wiped the tears away. I blamed myself for the self-delusion. Secretly, I needed to see him, the man who was my father. I had hoped that he had changed. He was supposed to be my knight in shining armor, but once more, he had turned me away. I compartmentalized my emotions, and placed it in a box never to be opened again. I simply had no father. I wouldn’t hurt myself with this, no matter how much I longed for a relationship and acknowledgement from him. It wasn’t worth it.

Nine years later, I was on my way home on a Friday evening after close of work, sitting in a tightly cramped bus, a cold bottle of coke in my hands, my sight fixed disinterestedly on the images that flitted past, when my phone rang in my bag. I lethargically pulled it out and pressed the accept button. "Why haven't you come to see me? I can't walk,” a voice said.

The beat of my heart increased. I couldn't speak. I knew that voice. The passage of time hadn’t erased it from my mind. The rough timbre of the voice lashed out at him, causing me to blink intermittently. It was him! He ended the call a few seconds later, after I had spoken some gibberish which I couldn’t remember for the life of me.

And just like that, my world was turned upside down, as the questions whipped across my mind in quick succession. Why couldn't he walk? What had happened to him? So now he knew how to call me, right? I remembered writing my number down on an old newspaper lying face down on a table in his room, before I walked away years ago, in the hope that he would one day call. So, was this THE CALL? A cry for help? I recalled times when I was sick and called, yet he ignored me. I recalled when I was hungry for food, for his love and attention, but he turned his back on me. Now that he was in trouble, did he think I would come running to help him?

Even though I chose to ignore him, my peace was lost. I was plagued with thoughts of how he was coping and what was happening to him. I was hurt and angry with him, but at the same time, concerned for his well-being. How could I have all these conflicting emotions? How could I feel any semblance of care towards him? Where had the feelings come from? Had they being buried somewhere deep inside me, waiting for a situation like this, so they could manifest? I was afraid to say it. It hurt to believe it. But I cared!

A week later when he called me again, I found myself telling him that I would come visit him. On my way to his place, I refused to think, lest I turn back. I would work with how I felt now, and leave the past where it had always been; in a box. I got to his home and opened the door he had shut in my face without flinching. I saw him helpless on his bed, his eyes red-rimmed, and the aura of hopeless around him. I choked on a sob, held my emotions in check, and went to him.

I took care of him for five months. It was a painful journey that I still can’t find the right words to express what went down. Suffice it to say that, it was heart wrenching. He said very few words, and depended on me for everything. The man who had harassed and abused us was now at my mercy. Sometimes I was filled with so much anger. What right did he have over me to pull me to his side like ants crawling towards a sugar cube? What hold did he have over me? I couldn’t explain it, couldn’t pay him back in his coin. 

A week before he passed away, I spoon fed him and prayed with him. I called him a good boy and he laughed loudly with glee. He called me his daughter, and I still can’t find the words to express how I felt. It is a moment I would never forget. 

When he died, I cried my eyes out. I couldn’t eat. I mourned for him; the man who was my father for so short a time. Whatever properties he had left I couldn’t throw away. That was what I had left of him. When his corpse was laid down into the ground, I stared numbly. The phase was over. He was finally gone. But was the pain gone? The neediness? The longing? No! It was like a permanent fixture. I took care of him because I needed some semblance of connection with him, yet I was near him but far away. I never said I love you and neither did he. I never hugged him or kissed him, yet I gave him my time. 

In the end, I was still raw, needy, unsatisfied, and filled with an ache that couldn't be quenched for my father's love which was totally lost to me. All I had done was for my FATHER’S TOUCH, yet I hadn’t held it long enough. I would continue to remain that little girl innocently waiting at the door for her father, her knight in shining armor to make his way towards her, so she could scream “Daddy”, and run towards him. 

All, I had done was for a FATHER’S TOUCH.