4. Don't Wait to Give Daddy a Hug

A little girl regretted later in life for having lost the chance to give her daddy one last hug. She really wanted to give her daddy a hug. What prevented her from doing so?

The night was soft and warm as I lay gazing at the ceiling. The whole house was quiet, except for the occasional coughing from my own congested throat, I lay on the sofa exaggerating my illness as children are likely to do. Tomorrow I would probably be dead. Mama said it would go away, but she could be wrong, couldn't she?

The hard blue lumps of the tattered sofa beneath my body were a great comfort to me. I was glad to be out of my own bedroom and nearer to that of my mother. After all, if I should choke during the night, she wouldn't be able to hear me. It was imperative that I be as close as possible. Mama understood that, or at least she pretended to. She had tucked me in methodically several hours before and she was no doubt confident that I was long since asleep, but I had far too many things to think about to go to sleep.

I was thinking of the hospital. We had gone there that afternoon to visit my father for Valentine's Day. We had to go the day before the actual holiday because Mama said we couldn't get out of school to go on Monday. The hospital was a huge place. It seemed to me like a giant castle which I would be lost in forever if I wasn't careful. Everything was white and I remembered seeing all kinds of ladies dressed up in funny white things with all their hair covered up with some sort of cloth. I asked who they were, but I don't think I should have because my mother looked rather embarrassed and hushed me. I found out later that they were nuns. I thought nuns were only found in convents. That confused me for a while, but I soon found something else to arouse my curiosity.

Daddy was in a high bed that was folded in half some way. I couldn't understand it, but I sure wished I could have one like that—then when Mama told me to lie down and go to sleep I wouldn't because my bed wouldn't let me. That would be fun, for a change. He looked alright to me. I didn't know why he kept going to that place anyway. He couldn't like it better than home because he didn't even have a television there.

I sat as quietly as possible. My trouble was that I wanted to hug him and I was afraid of what Mama would say if I climbed up on his bed to do it. I didn't know why she would mind—I only knew she would. Sometimes she said I was too rough. But I was such a little girl and Daddy was so big ... how could I hurt him? I thought there must be some other reason why he couldn't wrestle with me like he used to. Maybe he was too tired.

My parents talked for a long time while I looked out the window and played with my brother and sister. I didn't like that place and I wanted to go home. There didn't seem to be anything to do there. Then, all at once, we were leaving. Daddy called me to his bedside and told me to be sure to say my prayers. I said I would and kissed him quickly on the cheek. I remembered how smooth his face was that day and I was surprised by it. Usually his cheeks were covered with a fine stubble which always tickled me like the first grass of spring tickled my toes. That day his face had been like a shiny stone. The absence of the red growth had changed him somehow—he wasn't the same anymore. It was probably because of the hospital. They probably made him shave in that place. That's another reason why he should have come home; if he were at home he could do anything he wanted to—no one would make him shave. In any case, we were going then and I didn't have time to ask him about it. I was glad to leave that building. The people in there were sick ... except, of course, my Daddy. He was not sick at all.

As I settled comfortably into the depths of the sofa, I noticed a dust web in the corner of the low ceiling and it took my mind off the hospital for a moment. And as my thoughts returned to the long halls and treasure-filled rooms I was startled by the shrill sound of the telephone. That made me angry—now Mama would get up and find that I wasn't sleeping yet. Why did somebody have to call then anyway?

Just as I had suspected, the light went on in the bedroom. Mama came into the shadows of the living room, bringing with her the rays of yellow light. My eyes, now accustomed to the darkness, turned instinctively away from the light. Besides, I had to pretend I was sleeping, and it was easier if I turned my face in the opposite direction from my mother.

Mama spoke for only a few minutes, asking questions like when? and how? She shook me then and told me to go into my own room. I knew it—the telephone call would ruin everything. Then she woke my oldest sister. In a few seconds the whole house was buzzing with some sort of news. "At eleven o'clock." " ... it had to happen sometime ... we were expecting it ... " " ... too young to be dead." I heard these phrases, but I couldn't put together their meaning.

Mama came then and told me he was dead. My Daddy was dead. No! No! No! It wasn't true. He couldn't be dead. He was alive—he had kissed me only that afternoon. People didn't die just like that! It wasn't like stepping on a fly ... people took years to die ... they only died when they were old ... very old with gray hair and wrinkles and stooped-bodies. Young people don't die. Not people I knew ... not anyone I loved. Not my father! He was mine and no one could take my father away from me. He would live forever.

I hated that person who called. It wasn't true and that was a horrible thing to say. It wasn't funny. It scared me. Mama believed it, though. She shouldn't. If she'd only listen to me I'd tell her the truth ... IT ISN'T TRUE ... IT ISN'T!!

Just wait—next time Daddy came home I'd tell him about the person who called. He'd laugh and say Mama shouldn't have taken it seriously. After all, that couldn't happen. He wasn't even sick.

And do you know what else would happen when Daddy came home the next time? I would jump on his lap and hug him until he couldn't even breathe! And he wouldn't mind—because that's what daddies were for.

Abridged from Creative Young America in Prose and Poetry,

ed., Dean Curry,

Washington, D.C., 1981.