The sight takes my breath away. In my memory, he is strong, a bear with blond hair and paws that still threatened to engulf my hand on my eighteenth birthday. Despite his massive frame, he looks small—emaciated and frail.
Bandages almost swallow his head, and abrasions and bruises cover his face. The right side is so swollen that he wouldn't be able to look at me, even if he wanted to.
Although a sheet covers his body, I understand that it must be severely injured as well. Broken bones, bruises, maybe internal injuries.
I can't comprehend this. The situation is so surreal that I would rather convince myself that I'm dreaming.
With bated breath, I lower myself onto the edge of the bed and touch his fingers. "Hey," I whisper with a choked voice. "It's me."
The lid of his left eye lifts. "Ida?"
"No. Sky." My nose swells up, and suddenly pressure spreads in my head as if all the emotions I carry within me want to break free at once. Grief. Pain. Hope. And so much love. Despite the tough times we've been through, I love my father with all my heart. I owe him everything; he was the only one who was always there for me.
His lips move, but I can't understand him. So I lean over him, bringing my ear closer to his mouth.
"What are you doing here?" he rasps.
Everything in me freezes. "I want to be there for you."
His fingers twitch imperceptibly. "You wanted a divorce, so go away now."
"No, I'm not Ida. I'm Sky. Your..." Tears well up in my eyes. "Your daughter."
He looks at me unbelievingly with his uninjured eye. "Daughter?"
The pain that this question triggers in me catches me off guard. Apparently, he's confused; it doesn't mean anything.
"Yes, your daughter," I whisper tonelessly, as all the years we shared together flash through my mind. How he explained the intricacies of different fabric types to me when I was five. How he put his arm around my shoulders when I was eight, flipping through photo albums of past shows. And how proud he was when, at twelve, I helped him conceptualize a runway presentation.
My response gets lost in the room, unanswered, swallowed by the constant beeping of the machines around us.
"You shouldn't be here," he mumbles, and that's when I know he's recognized me.
Six years have passed, but time seems to have changed nothing. He is still infinitely disappointed in me.
I understand that. Truly.
But now things have changed. He might not survive this. What if he goes without making peace with me?
"I can't undo my mistake, but I swear to you that I've learned from it." I will never allow history to repeat itself. Never.
A weary sigh escapes his mouth. "Why should I believe you?" he whispers with fluttering eyelids, then exhales slowly. "Go, it's better this way."
The last words are nothing but a murmur; he closes his eyes, and his muscles go limp.
No, what's happening here?
"Father!" With bated breath, I whirl around to the monitor measuring his pulse.
His heart is still beating.
Thank goodness.
