Forgiven Hurts

“Didn’t you bring a different dad last year?”

My classmate Susie, trotting alongside me at the Linda Vista Elementary School Father-Daughter Day Picnic, had noticed. I was mortified—even though Bill, my surrogate dad, was young and buff, sitting straight in his saddle chatting with a real father.

Last year, I’d brought Curt; both he and Bill were firemen my mother had hired from the station across the street to accompany me to the annual event. My father wasn’t available; as usual, he was golfing.

My father disappeared most weekend mornings before breakfast to golf. Sunday afternoons, we tiptoed around the house as he watched tournaments on TV, the announcers’ hushed tones filling the house with suspenseful murmurings. Family vacations revolved around golf expeditions to Palm Springs, Santa Barbara and San Diego.

On our black & white TV set, Father Knows Best and Leave It to Beaver featured all-knowing dads who coached their kids about the nuances of life. Their kids respectfully listened to their advice. My father was distant, different; we called him “Papa,” which led to other kids asking if he were my grandfather—or a movie star. He was 44 when I was born, but in fine shape and handsome.

Papa never tossed a ball with me or taught me how to ride a bike; I still remember the time he read a book to me, skipping whole paragraphs, unaware that I was reading along with him.

Years later, as my father lay dying, I sat on his bed, in the same home where I grew up and left without ever hearing the words “you’re special” or “that’s my girl.”

His absence left a hole I’d filled with anger and self-destruction as a teen and young adult. But, as I read to him and held his hand through the long days of that blessedly cool fall, I wondered at the extinction of those all-powerful hurts.

I, too, was a parent now, and had learned all too well that the god-like shoes parents must fill often go empty.

My father sat up suddenly one day, hospital gown hanging off his thin shoulders, eyes shining with excitement.

“You and I should play!” he exclaimed, as if he was 52 again and I was seven. He pointed out the window into our backyard where an ancient swing set stood waiting for a father to push his giggling girl; where a rusting basketball hoop hung forlornly from the peeling stucco of the garage. Papa stared inquisitively at me, as if he expected me to fetch a ball and together, we’d go outside to share the childhood he had ignored so many years ago.

“Oh, Papa,” I blurted, “I’m all grown up now.”

He looked at me for a few minutes, comprehension delayed by morphine. And then, his faded blue eyes filled with tears and he reached out bony arms for me. I cradled my Papa and our tears formed a river of forgiveness that ran between us.