Page 42 of Because of Dylan

Robert: Hope you are okay. It’s been a few days since we met.

Robert: I would like to see you again. Maybe grab breakfast?

He wants to meet again—for breakfast this time. Seems like all the meetings revolve around food. Like the universe is trying to compensate for all the days and nights I went hungry. The universe can be a bastard sometimes.

I think of everything that the therapist said … and about the odd conversation I had with Professor Dick last night. I don’t even know where that came from, but the thought hit me with such a clarity, with so much depth and certainty, I knew it to be true the moment the words left my lips. I’ve spent my entire life chasing my past like a dog chasing its own tail.

The therapist’s words come back to me again:That which never changes.

The truth is I’ve been waiting for my father my entire life. Even when anger replaced hope, and resentment replaced longing, that want was still there—dormant, silent, biding its time until it showed up again.

Can I fit my father into my life now? Is there room for him in it? Is there room for me in his life? He seems to believe there is. He seems to believe that we can heal and make up for the lost time.

I search for the pain that shadows all thoughts of my father—the barbwire that wraps itself around my heart whenever I think of him—and it’s not there.

What happened to it? Where did the resentment go? I want to deny this vacancy in my chest where anger once existed. It’s too soon, too fast for forgiveness. I’m not ready to let go. I want to chase the hurt, bite its tail, hold on to the familiar pain.

I stand there staring at a screen long gone dark. Is my misery a habit? My bitterness a choice? A companion I choose to keep at my side?

It hits me like an avalanche.

A sob rises up my throat, and I clamp my mouth shut, press my lips together, keep it all in.

This is not the place.

This is not the time.

I won’t sully the NICU with my dark and dirty past.

I put my phone and bag in the locker behind me. Scrub my hands and arms until the skin is pink and tingles. If only it was this easy to wash everything else off of me.

I dry my hands, put on a gown, shoe covers, a cap. Walk into the room. Look at the dozen or so babies. I envy their innocence, their raw potential, their unmarred lives.

Nancy smiles at me. Baby Jay in her arms is a reminder that not every life starts unmarred. It humbles me. I force myself out of my pity-party for one and allow my love for this child no one wanted to swallow me. I take Baby Jay in my arms, immerse myself in the warmth of his small body and breathe in his sweet scent. I listen to his little cries, close my eyes and sing.

* * *

Two hours is not nearly enough. My time is up.

I leave the hospital and get to my car, shivering while I wait for the crappy heater to come to life. I grab my phone, my father’s text messages still on the screen. I unlock the phone to respond.

Becca: Breakfast would be nice.

Dots dance on the screen. The inside of the car is still not warm enough. My hands shake while I wait.

Robert: Wonderful. How about tomorrow? Around 9:30? I can pick you up.

I’m not ready to be this close to him, to be confined to the small space of a car without a way out. The sting may be gone for now, but who’s to say it won’t come back?

Becca: Thanks. But I can drive. Where do you want to meet?

Robert: How do you like the Waffle Bear? I got reservations.

Waffle Bear? That place is impossible to get in. You have to wait hours for a table. And they don’t take reservations.

Becca: I’d have breakfast with the devil if he got me into the Waffle Bear. How did you manage that? I thought they didn’t do reservations.

And a part of me wonders if I'm having breakfast with the devil tomorrow.

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