No Contact

St. Anthony's smelt of death, as all hospitals do, despite their efforts of masking the pungent odor with pleasant fragrances. Flowers adorned most surfaces, a tranquil waterfall filled with koi smelled of bamboo, and the central air conditioner pumped a light aroma through its system. I steadied my breathing, commanded my gut to calm down, and I approached the receptionist's desk. 

"Name," the lady—Rhonda as I quickly noted—said in a way of greeting. Her long, square nails incessantly punching in the letters on her keyboard. Her pink bubblegum popped as she looked at me with tired brown eyes. 

"Edward McNair," I managed to get out as she immediately searched the hospital's database. 

"Room 203, second floor." Rhonda quickly went back to her computer screen. 

I didn't bother trying to thank her and made my way to the elevator. Although it would not be a long ride to the second floor, my thoughts churned around in my head. 

I got the 'I'm dying' text Tuesday after coming home from work. My keys were still latched in the lock and I read the two words about a thousand times. My father had a penchant for delivering bad news in impersonal ways. Although, I think receiving the news this way was much better than when he told me my grandmother died over the phone. His voice still and devoid like a shallow lake while I bawled on the receiver. I was twelve years old. 

A tight knot formed in my chest, bringing me out of the memory. My lungs squeezed together as I started walking past descending numbers. I dig out my Prozac from my purse. I shoved two tablets into my mouth despite the label's warnings and hovered outside room 203. 

Through the opened door, I watched the shriveled up body of my father. He laid prone on the bed, his chest lifting and deflating like a balloon before it rose again. I never thought my formidable, 6'3 father would be reduced to skin and bones. When I was about five, I thought him and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson were brothers with the exception of the copper skin tone of my father. Edward McNair embodied the same self-congratulatory personality and cockiness. Now, he was a shell of his glory days. Just like The Rock perhaps. 

"Hi, you are?" A perky blond nurse with a clipboard came up beside me. She had bright eyes, dewy tan skin, and lavender colored crocs and scrubs on. I swallowed the lump lodged in my throat. 

"I'm his daughter." 

"Oh! Mr. McNair was telling me all about you. I'm the evening nurse, Allison. Please, make yourself comfortable. I was about to get his pain medication." With that she scurried down the hall and I felt the knot in my chest twist around with shame. 

I pictured Nurse Allison having a worry-free childhood. Given her sunny disposition despite the depressive atmosphere, I imagined her having a mom that always greeted her with kisses and a father that enjoyed actually being around. There was a chance I was wrong though. I tended to hope people had better upbringings than I did. 

Knowing I couldn't linger outside the room much longer before a hospital worker became concerned, I knocked before I stepped in. My father's crusted eyes cracked open before they closed once more. He took a deep breath before he spoke. 

"You actually decided to show up." 

I winced before I responded with, "Well, you said you are dying." 

"I am," He wheezed out before reaching for the bed controls. "Maybe dying is nothing special and just full of pain. Such is life." 

Adjusted upright, my father still had to do the tough guy act. Although, how tough can you be when your skin is ashen and cracked and IVs are pumping fluids through your veins? I pulled up a nearby chair, close enough to the bed but still with a good distance between us. 

My father looked at me like he was taking inventory. His light brown eyes examined my features, and I felt like an insect under a magnifying glass. The main thing he noticed was, "You've gotten fat, Maya."

"Thanks, Dad," I grumbled and crossed my arms over my chest. "I didn't come here to be insulted."

"An observation, not an insult. God, you've always been so sensitive," he sneered before the coughs came out his mouth. Once he composed himself, he continued. 

"It's been what? Three years since I last saw you in person? You look the same with that frizzy hair and those wide dark eyes. Just your weight has changed. You should cut back on the carbs." 

"Noted," I answered and he pursed his lips closed. 

He kept his gaze in my direction as he reached for the water on his bedside table. His right hand shook a bit as he lifted the glass to his lips. He muttered a curse below his breath. 

"Do you want me to get a straw?" I started to stand but stopped when he cut me a look. 

"I don't need a damn straw. I can still drink fucking water on my own." The words laced with ice much colder than the water dribbling down one side of his mouth and onto his chin. 

It was then that I saw one side drooped lower while the other remained unmovable. He caught me looking and sat the glass down. I watched as he tried and failed to work his face muscles. My father never failed, well at least that's what he always led me to believe. Foolishly, I still wanted to believe that he never failed me. 

"It wasn't a major stroke," He stopped as his face pinched up. "I strain a lot and I'm in a hell of a lot of pain, but I can manage." I could tell he wanted to convince himself but was failing to do so. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" It came out harsher than I anticipated, but it matched the boiling anger inside me. 

I was aware that strokes could be severe, deadly even. I remembered my mom telling me that one of her coworkers had several mini ones happen to them. However, I knew people could survive afterwards. If there was one thing I inherited from my father was his willingness to keep up the appearance of being fine. I was failing at this moment. 

"You told me you were dying," I started. 

"Would you have come if I told you otherwise?" 

"No," I plainly answered. 

That is what no contact meant although, my father didn't take the hint. I had ignored all his calls, texts, and emails up until the other day. I was completely content without him and I knew it was driving him crazy. Everything outside his realm of control had to eventually conform to him. 

"Exactly. Besides, I wanted to see you. I miss my only child." 

The earlier knot was gone now. He lied when he couldn't show up to one of my dance recitals when I was eight to go to a casino instead. Made up some excuse about why he couldn't visit me in the hospital when I was fifteen and my appendix had exploded. He's been a liar my whole life, yet a part of me still wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was my father after all. 

"This is un-fucking-believeable," I proceeded to stand. 

"Where are you going?" 

"There's no point in being here if you're fine." 

"So, you want me to actually be dying?" I heard the octave in his voice rise. For someone that is sick, he managed to always find a way to yell at me. 

"I never knew my own daughter, my flesh and blood, to be so cruel." 

"I learned from the best." 

His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. I learned the signs of when he was about to throw a tantrum from an early age. I braced myself for the impact. 

"You have no right to kick me out of your life. Not after I spent everyday breaking my back at work to get you into the best schools. I gave that bitch extra in child support to make sure you had enough food to eat and new shoes. Did all that to help keep you alive and for what? Just for you to say 'Respect my boundaries, Dad'? What bullshit." He was screaming at this point

"Of course what I want wouldn't matter to you. Nothing I have ever wanted mattered to you. Don't make it seem like you were going above and beyond for me. You did the bare minimum."

He went quiet for a moment and I used to be scared of that because I always got swept under the current of his tirades. Yet, my therapist helped me learn that not feeding into a verbally abusive, narcissistic parent could do wonders. I gathered myself and looked him directly in his eyes. 

"I'm leaving now. Don't contact me again." 

His face turned a beet red. 

"The hell you are! You're an ungrateful piece of shit, Maya. This is the respect I deserve? I am your father and will obey me! You're not a victim. You've always been full of—wait, where are you going?! You can't leave me. Fuck y—," 

I slammed the door behind me, the sound reverberated off the walls. I let out a long-held sigh. As I walked down the hallway and towards the elevator, the anxiety I had was long gone.

My father would live, but he was dead to me.