Three Months

Chapter Six

In front of me stands my dad in all of his apologetic glory. Earlier today, he had come into my room and asked if we could talk. At first, I was slightly afraid but once I saw his eyes, I knew that things would be okay—if not annoying.

            He’s the same way I am. Or maybe I am the same way he is? I don’t know, but either way, we’re both an open book. One look at us and you can guess his emotions. That’s probably the reason that I could tell when he sided with Mom. There would always be that indecisive shimmer in his eyes, and that was when I knew that he wasn’t going to agree with me. 

            “Paisley,” he had said, “it’s come to my attention that I haven’t been a very…fitting…fatherly figure later.”

            The only thing that had popped into my mind at that time was: you think?

            But after he said that, I knew that may—just maybe—things would start looking up for me. Perhaps my condition will bring my dad and I together in some way or another. He’s coming to realize that I need his support and love if there’s any possible way that I’m going to make it through this.

            Now, Dad is staring at me, waiting for me to reply to his earlier statement. I don’t exactly want to hand him my forgiveness on a silver platter. No offense to him (okay, so I do intend to offend him) but he hasn’t been Father of the Year Award worthy these past few months.

            I can basically see the inner battle in my dad’s head: talk to her and sort things out or is everything already gone to dust?

            There’s no way I’m going to just talk and say that everything’s okay, and that I know what he wants to say. No. If he wants to all of a sudden come back into my life as my father, then he needs to work for it. Throughout this whole terrifying situation, he hasn’t been there once. He and Mom had always waited in the waiting room. They never bothered to talk to the doctor to find out what they could do to help me through these tough times.

            No matter how much I want to, I just can’t forget it.

            Finally, after seeming like a million years, my dad speaks up, looking at me with remorse in his eyes. “I want to start over with you, Pais. I haven’t been a very good father lately, and I feel bad.”

            “Shocker,” I mutter, not looking at him but instead my ceiling. There are glow in the dark stars taped to the ceiling, and I remember putting them up with Dad when I was little. He told me that even when he wasn’t there for me in real life, he’d be there for me in spirit. All I had to do was look at the stars.

            “I get it, I get it,” he says. He tries to sit down at the end of my bed, but I give him a look that says if-you-sit-down-I-will-throttle-you and that gets him to slowly back away. “I’m a terrible father.”

            “Yep,” I agree. “You are.”

            “And I’m sorry.”

            “Mm,” I say noncommittally.

            There’s an awkward silence that passes between us, and I don’t know if that’s all he’s got up his sleeve in trying to get me to forgive him or if he’s secretly got a gigantic speech planned out in his head. Yeah, I doubt the latter. It’s just that from what I know about my father, I know that he gives up easily.

            He’s a major pushover, and he always lets the other person get what they want, especially when that person is my mom. When it comes to her, he’s as pushy as a door.