1,242 Miles

I have taken to falling asleep while staring at the fake flames in the fireplace.

I use two blankets: one to cover couch leather so it doesn’t touch bare skin, and one to bury my nose in.

I do not ever Google my symptoms, but I ask my husband to call 911 if my lips look bruised.

When the color of butter peeks through the window, the pounding starts on the porch. Tangled in an afghan, I trip towards the floor. Maybe I should have grabbed my bra, I think as I open the door, blinking against the morning. Enclosed and pulled close, I hug my dad back before I can register it’s him. I falter. Why are you here?

He is beaming, solid, and explaining. He used to surprise his mother all the time. He’s here to help. Kathy told him not to do this, but it'll be great. Whatever I need.

The web of sleep starts to slip away, and I sink. I will disappoint. My days are too slow. A cup of chamomile. A shower. Walking the dog past snowmelt. We make it through the edge of my yellow Oriole puzzle before he's ready to explore. My rule since the hospital stay has been “One thing per day.” I widen it to “What Dad wants today” in hopes of appearing okay.

He is a rush of adrenaline at a theme park. I am a spectator. Maybe we drive past waving cornfields. Or maybe it’s a year for soy, but I know I am too quiet. When my voice empties he brings me home. Tucks me in. Says he will see me tomorrow.

His headlights reverse, and I wonder what staying home sick would have been like with him. Would he have given me canned tomato soup or Cheetos puffs? Would we have sipped 7Up together, even though it made my nose tingle and ache? I could crawl under his covers while he drank coffee in the kitchen.

We almost finish the puzzle before his week is up.

As quick as the click of his tongue he's gone. I collapse into the fur of my dog. Snot and spit and sobs shake me until a paw rests on my lap. Matted white fur sticks to my tongue, while I replay the question again and again. 

Me: Why are you here?

Him: Because you need me.