Page 51 of Burn Point

The gardens, as she had called them, were in a courtyard of sorts. I pushed open the door and followed a paved path along a row of rose bushes to an area that opened to a small pond amidst a green patch of grass.

A man sat in a wheelchair, his head resting on the padded headrest, arms crossed awkwardly in his lap, legs bent with his feet braced in the footrest of the chair. His thinning hair was brushed in a combover, and his light grey sweats were loose and baggy over his frail frame. A seatbelt held him secure.

His eyes were closed, mouth slack.

I approached silently in case he was sleeping. As I drew closer and sat on the bench near him, he roused a little.

“Daddy?” I whispered, my voice catching.

His eyes opened, and his head tilted up at an angle as he looked my way.

The eyes of my childhood hero landed on me, but this broken stranger looked nothing like the strong man I remembered. My heart cracked and I swallowed back a gasp.

“Are you an angel?” His halting voice was familiar, his words a blast from my past.

“I’m not an angel, Daddy.” I responded with the words of my youth, emotion making my voice tremble.

A misshapen grin transformed his face. “Oh, yes, you are. You’re my angel.”

His speech was slow and measured, as if he had to concentrate on pronouncing each word, but I understood him. I’d thought I’d never hear him call me his angel again. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I launched from my seat and hugged the first man I ever loved.

“Hey, kiddo,” he whispered to my hair. And just like that, I was a teenager again.

I pulled back and swiped my tears away. “Hey, Daddy.”

“Pull me closer and sit with me a while.”

I did as he asked and pulled his chair closer to the bench. He reached a hand toward me, and I clasped it like the lifeline I didn’t know I needed.

His gaze roamed my face. “You sure turned out beautiful.” His halting speech pattern quickly became normal to me. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me everything. I’ve missed my sweet girl.”

Tears filled my eyes again.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry for not being here.” I choked on the words but needed to say them.

His gnarled hand squeezed mine.

“Shh, baby. It’s all right. If I’m honest, I didn’t want you to see me like this.” His words broke me.

“I love you anyway, and I’m just so sorry that I’ve missed all this time.” The full weight of all that I had neglected squeezed my heart, and I struggled to say what needed to be said. “I’m so ashamed that I didn’t come sooner.” I pulled his hand up and pressed my lips to his fingers. “Please forgive me.”

He pulled his fingers free and cupped my cheek. “Nothing to forgive. You’re here now.”

I pushed Dad’s wheelchair down the long hallway back to his room, laughing at his silly dad jokes, marveling that he still remembered them to tell them even after all this time.

He made a motion to stop with his hand—I was quickly learning his communication methods—right in front of the nurse’s station.

The two women looked up at him, smiling. “Hi Waylon, who is this?” The one closest to us asked.

“My daughter. Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She sure is. Looks like you are a lucky fella today. You’ve got a visitor waiting in your room.”

My eyebrows crept up my forehead.

Dad clapped his hands together, so I rolled him to his room for his next surprise. I pushed us through the doorway to see my stepmom, fluffing the pillows on his bed.

His room was a standard hospital room, with a large mechanical bed along one wall. The windowsills were filled with potted plants and picture frames. There was a dark brown wooden armoire in a corner. The wall beside it held a bulletin and white board combo that had photos and card mementos. A colorful fleecy blanket covered the foot of the bed, giving a splash of color against the white linens.

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