Owning Olivia

“They’ve stabilized him, but he’s barely conscious. When I left, the nurse had just finished inserting a PIC line. Looks like he had a pretty nasty infection before any of this even started. Your paperwork is all set, they just need a signature and you can go right in and see him.”

I put my hand on my chest and felt my heart pound through my jacket.

“Thank you so much, Kyle.”

“Don’t thank me. Silas called ahead and worked it all out. He told them to spare no expense when it comes to your dad’s treatment or recovery. He’ll foot the bill as long as Paul’s compliant.”

My heart thudded even harder like it wanted to break away from its confines. We rushed through the doors and were blinded by the bright lights. Kyle held my giant bouquet of wild roses while I frantically signed all the papers that were shoved in my face.

“Piece of work, that guy,” Kyle said with a smile on his face. “One day he wants to kill the guy, the next he’s inviting him over for PB&J?” He was poking fun at his best friend, but there was so much affection in his face as he did it. Kyle was proud of Silas, and I was too, in my own special way. I knew this leniency couldn’t be easy on him. He hated Paul and his generosity wasn’t for my stepfather, it was reserved especially for me.

“I’m right outside this door if you need anything. I’ve been ordered to stay put until you’re ready to go home.” Kyle gave me a two-finger salute and I was whisked away behind screeching curtains, a doctor’s mask covering half of my face.

I’d been watching Paul deteriorate for years before my very eyes, but nothing could prepare me for the way he looked now. What had once been a proud and smiling man who doted on my mom, was now a shriveled shell, the ghost of who he once was. Paul was breathing with a ventilator and his skin had gone ashen. He’d aged decades overnight and somehow I felt as if instead of doing my best to care for him all these years, I’d failed him.

I couldn’t replace my mom, I couldn’t give him the escape the drugs did. I was only good for mopping the floor and printing out receipts for the vendors. The shitty bar I’d spent half of my life breaking my back over would now be history, without the two of us she was sunken ship, already deviated way off course. But good riddance, maybe it was the bar that had pulled Paul into the underworld of dealers and drugs.

I pulled out a chair and sat down next to the only man I ever remembered calling ‘dad,’ he still had bruises from Silas, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Black and blue track marks littered both arms, he had abscesses and scabs that had been picked to infection. Tears spilled down my cheeks anew and I felt no ill-will toward him. Just sadness and loss. How did we even get here? Along the way we dropped the ball and I was too young to pick it back up. Paul should have pulled himself together, especially after jail and rehab, but it was said and done now, no re-dos, no more second chances.

I grabbed his hand and held it in mine. He had worker’s hands with knuckles that bulged from arthritis. I ran my thumb over the wormy veins in the back of his hand, he’d shot those up too, no place was sacred on him.

“Hey, Dad, it’s Olivia,” I said quietly, speaking through the tears and the runny nose. “I wasn’t gonna leave you. Silas is taking care of everything so all we need is for you to concentrate on getting better. You don’t have to worry about anything, but yourself.” My voice sounded unconvincing even to myself. Because I could tell by just looking at him that he wasn’t going to make it.

“I’m sorry. I love you,” I said and sniffed to keep my nose from dripping. I leaned over his breathing tube and laid a kiss on his clammy forehead. There was no color left in his skin and it scared me. When I went to sit back in the chair, I felt him weakly squeeze my hand.

“Dad? It’s Livie. Can you hear me?” He squeezed again, so faintly it was nearly imperceptible. I smiled through my tears and wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve refusing to let go of his hand.

A doctor walked in with an administrator carrying my uncivilized roses in a glass vase they must have rounded up. They looked like they were climbing out of it trying to escape.

“Yours?” the young man asked me. He adjusted his thick rimmed glasses. “I’ll just set them on the table.” I got the feeling they didn’t do flowers in the ICU, but they were going easy on us because we were a sad spectacle.