Was All He Said

He never said it, but I knew. It was what he did. It was who he was. Everything he did screamed it. Yet, he never said it. Not to me. Not to mom. That’s why she left him. Left us.

After she left, his grief was profound. Words were spare. I spoke enough for the both of us. He threw himself into being there for me. The way she accused him of never being there for her . She couldn’t handle the quiet. He was there, she just couldn’t see it.

The way he patiently taught me how to ride a bike. I fell. A lot. He picked me back up, kissed my booboos, dusted me off, then set me back on the bike. He’d simply say, “You got this.”

Grim faced and determined, I swipe away my tears, nod my head, then clumsily work the pedals. The cycle repeated itself nearly a whole day. A day he could have worked at his workbench or anything else. Yet, he gave it to me.

When I rode, wobbly at first, those few tentative feet without tipping over, I cried out, “you’re right, daddy! I got this!”

He’d smile and watch me ride in circles around him. I rode until after the porch lights flickered on. He had me put my bike up so I could eat our simple dinner- one of the four things he knew how to make without burning the house down, he’d say.

At bedtime, he’d sit beside me as I said my prayers and say “amen” when I was finished. He never missed a night tucking me in, kissing my forehead before turning out the light.

As I grew older, I got busier. School plays- he never missed a performance even when I played a tree, softball league, soccer, speech and debate teams- he never missed any. Not a one.

I never heard him whistle or cheer. But if I looked where he always sat I could see him quietly standing there, smiling and clapping his hands.

He never balked when I asked for money for field trips, driving school, or even prom. He took me to my hair, makeup, and nail appointments, took our pictures. His hands shook

His little girl was growing up.

He waited up for me each night til I got home from practices, work, or dates. I was late once. He didn’t scream or yell or ground me. The sad look in his eyes was enough. I was never late again.

Unlike other kids my age, my daddy never interrogated prospective dates. He’d shake their hands and nod.

After my first serious relationship broke the day before Valentine’s Day senior year I stayed in my room. I didn’t eat. Hours into my misery a quiet knock came at my door. I was tempted to tell whoever it was to go away. Instead I I padded over and peaked my puffy eyes and ruby nose through the small crack. There stood my dad on his only suit and tie holding a bouquet of pink roses.

I opened the door all the way. He set them down on my desk and wrapped his arms around me, “Get dressed”, was all he said.

I put on the dress that I had planned on wearing for my date. Giving me his elbow, I hooked my hand around it, he guided me to the car, opened the door for me, then drove us to my favorite restaurant. He had tipped the maitre’d to get the best table before anyone else.

The fine white china gleamed, the silver shone freshly polished, and the crystal drinking glasses sparkled in the dim glow of the chandelier.

The waiter, festooned in a penguin-tail tuxedo, bowed to me as he held out my chair. My daddy’s eyes never left my face. His eyes had creases I had begun to notice, only when he smiled. They twinkled with delight at my open enjoyment.

I wasn’t one of those girls, embarrassed to be seen in public with their parents. I proudly walked with my dad into school, at practices, rehearsals, even at the mall. My daddy was my whole world. And I was his.

On graduation day, I nervously fidgeted with my papers. I was valedictorian. My hands shook, rattling the papers. Daddy reached out his calloused hands and held mine, slowing the shaking. He looked me in the eyes and whispered, “you’ve got this.” Giving them one final squeeze as the principal announced that the music was about to start. Taking a deep breath, I looked at daddy and whispered back, “I got this.”

When it came time to move into my college dorm- at a school a state away- he helped pack me up. He slid me some money for fuel and food. His eyes were sad, although he smiled and said, “I’m proud of you.”

“But what if I don’t like it? What if I don’t make friends?” He clasped my flapping hands as I became more worked up. The shaking and torrent of words and worries slowed.

“You’ve got this. I’ll be here when you get back. I’m a phone call away.”

I gulped, tears rolling down my cheeks. Looking at my dusty sneakers, I whispered, “I got this.”

Hugging me tightly, before helping me into my car- the car we had fixed up together and changed the oil the day before. He firmly shut the door, told me to buckle up, and drive safely, let him know when I got there.

I promised I would.

He stood at the end of the driveway watching until all he could see was the dust cloud on the dry dirt road.

I pictured him standing there, quietly waving goodbye. I had to blink a few times so I could see. It wasn’t goodbye. I’d see him at Christmas. It felt so far away.

Three years later I had my bachelors degree and determination to be somebody. I moved closer to home, but not too close. He helped me move my meager possessions into a tiny flat I rented along the river. It had a view. That was all it had going for it. No dishwasher, air conditioning, on site laundry, or parking garage. Yet, it was mine. No roommates. No curfew. Freedom. And it only cost me $1500 a month. Plus utilities, car insurance, and groceries.

Daddy asked me if I had food. I looked at my kitchen and shrugged. Without at word, he left. I figured it was just a “dad question” and set to unpacking a few boxes.

An hour later my doorbell buzzed. I had a doorbell! We hadn’t had one growing up. No need, the door was rarely locked.

My dad stood on the other side laden with groceries bags. Dropping them unceremoniously in the kitchen he left again. I stared at the bags. I grinned. Food. My own food. The door opened again and again. Six more more bags of groceries. He shrugged, cheeks flushed- though I couldn’t tell if it was from the exertion of trekking up and down the stairs or from slight sheepishness. He confirmed the latter, “I didn’t know what you’d want or need, so I got it all.”

I laughed and threw my arms around him. His blush deepened.

“I got to go home. Take care. You got this.” He nodded and told me to lock the door.

I was driving home from a particularly brutal day at work the night was black, cold, and raining. The kind of rain that soaks you the instant you step outside. The kind where umbrellas give up before they’re opened. I heard a loud POP, my car listed to the right, the iconic fwap fwap fwap confirmed my fear. I had a flat. I pulled over as best I could, threw on my hazards, and double-checked my locks.

Frustrated, wet, and tired, I called the only person I knew, daddy. It was 1 am. He drove to me without a word.

His breaths came out in puffs of white clouds. The temps were dropping, but he didn’t complain. He changed my flat, and insisted on following me home.

I thanked him and pleaded with him to stay til morning. He smiled and shook his head, “work” was all he said.

“Drive safely, let me know when you get there.” I said and went to bed.

A year later around Thanksgiving I told him that I had an announcement, but I wouldn’t say until I saw him. He was patient and didn’t pry.

“Daddy, I’m getting married!” He nodded with a smile.

He helped me find a dress. The sales girls were helpful, but only after the commission. They’d “ooh” and “ahh” when I’d try on the pricier dresses.

Dad just smiled and told me I looked pretty.

After weeks of trying on dresses at all the stores in the city, I had finally found THE one. I squealed and asked, “isn’t I’d gorgeous daddy?” I saw the tag. My heart dropped.

It couldn’t be the one. I shook my head and put it back.

“I’ll try again next week.” I held my hand out for my dad’s arm, he took it. We walked side by side to the bistro around the corner.

I smiled and chatted with him about my dreams. He’d nod and smile in return.

He dropped me off at my apartment in the evening. Exhausted, I stripped and put on my bathrobe while the shower temp adjusted.

I felt more human once I showered and brushed my teeth. Settling into my beat up recliner to read until my eyes closed. I was startled by a knock. Slightly annoyed, I pulled the door harder than necessary. A startled currier backed up and held the large box out as an offering.

Confused, I told him he had the wrong unit. I hadn’t ordered anything, let alone anything that big.

“No,” he insisted, “it’s for you. The man at the store said this was your address.”

My brows furrowed. He held the box out further still.

Sighing, I tried lifting the lid. “To the bride to be.” Even more confused, I told the boy to wait while grabbed a knife to open the box.

I gasped. A simple card lay across tissue paper. “For my baby girl” was all it said.

My eyes filled with tears. This further panicked the boy. I relieved him of his burden and kissed him on the cheek. He turned red all the way to the tips of his ears and took off.

I shut my door, carried the box to the table, and gently removed the contents. Lifting it carefully out of the box I whispered, “oh, daddy.”

At the back of the church while the wedding procession marched down to the altar, I trembled. He clasped my hands, tears in his eyes, he said, “you got this.”

I nodded. I was ready.

He walked me down the aisle and gave me away. A tear slid down his weathered cheek. He let it fall.

Ten years later my husband told me he no longer felt the same way and wanted a divorce.

I watched him drive away as my daddy drove in. He slowly embraced me and whispered, “you got this.”

I put back the pieces of my shattered life. He was always right, I got this.

I rose through the ranks at work until a car accident hospitalized me for seven months. My daddy never left my side. My job let me go, stating that it wasn’t because of my new physical limitations, but rather that my clients had been shifted to another’s caseload and they were handling it just fine. I was unnecessary.

Devastated, I called daddy. He listened as I lamented. He didn’t criticize or tell me to pull myself up by my bootstraps, he said, “I’m coming to bring you home and rehab you myself. We’ll worry about a job later. I’m glad you’re alive.”

When I was finally strong enough he helped me move back into a townhome. He’d come over frequently, fixing this or that. I never asked him, he just knew. I’d make him supper. We’d drink tea and play Scrabble into the night until he’d have to head back home.

I cherished those evenings. That night, I helped him into his coat. His shoulders felt frail. My heart jumped in alarm. When had my dad aged? I never noticed he had shrunken before my eyes. I hadn’t wanted to see. My daddy always looked the same- strong and solid.

I swallowed. He patted my arm as though he knew my thoughts.

A year later my phone rang. A woman asked if I was his daughter. Confused, I said, “that’s my daddy.”

“Well, you’d better come quick. His cancer has spread.”

Cancer? My daddy didn’t have cancer.

My knuckles turned white as I drove to the hospital. I ran down the hall to the nurses station. Room 2-334 B. I raced down the hall, ignoring the “caution, wet floor” signs and slid to a stop. Doctors and nurses shaking their heads and talking in hushed tones as they exited the room.

I gulped, I’m too late!

A nurse in black scrubs walked over to me. She smiled sadly at me, “ he’s been asking for you.”

Not dead! That was all I needed. I cautiously pulled the curtain aside to bed ‘B’. Tubes and wires protruded from the tiny form on the bed. The bald head was speckled with age spots.

“Oh, good,” I thought, “that’s not my dad, there’s been some mistake.”

The frail figures’ eyes opened and met mine.

Not a mistake. My chest squeezed choking me. He patted the bed. I carefully sat down.

He squeezed my trembling hand in his bony one. He reached up and wipes my tears with a calloused thumb. Motioning me to lay next to him, he hugged me as I cried.

The light outside the window faded as a golden rayed sunset melted into a purple night. I didn’t get up to turn on the lights. My heart saw him as he’d always been.

He wrapped me with his thin arms and held me to his side. I felt him take a labored breath, he whispered, “you got this.” As he sighed his final breath.

The nurses let me lay beside him for some time before gently telling me it was time. I stood beside his bed. Brushing aside a whisky tuft of white hair, I kissed his forehead for the last time and whispered, “I got this, daddy.”