"Daddy, how does this look?" I hold up my masterpiece, a turtle with only three legs.

He walks from his desk to mine. I was finally able to get me a desk after asking Mommy and Daddy for so long. They say the art room is now complete.

Mommy is busy outside watering flowers, while Daddy would rather work on art with me.

Walking to where I’m sitting, Daddy’s eyebrows rise as he picks up my painting. "Why does it only have three legs?"

Looking down, I pucker my lips and try to think about it. "I don't know. I saw a dog with three legs. I think it was the other day."

Daddy sets down my picture, and it makes a crinkling sound as he nods his head at me. "Well, I love it. But you shouldn't rush. Take your time. You can take a lifetime on this one picture, May, and it would be okay."

I look down at my turtle that I chose to color green and yellow only. "But I like how it looks," I whine.

Daddy looks at me and laughs, causing creases at the side of his mouth to form. "It does look beautiful, May, but there’s always room for improvement. Let me show you."

Reaching, he takes a new sheet of paper, and grabs my paintbrush, slowly dipping it into the already soaked watercolor. He paints a few slow strokes across the paper using the same dark green I chose, shaping an outline of a turtle. "Do you see what I'm talking about?"

"I did do that!" I cry.

Daddy lets out another laugh. "Here let me really show you." He places the paintbrush in my hand, I clench it, and then he puts my tiny fist between his. Slowly, he moves my hand back and forth across the paper, this time picking out a blue for the inside of the shell. He constantly dips the brush into other colors such as purple and pink, using slow, precise strokes to fill in the spaces.

His hand stops moving, and he smiles down at me. "Do you understand now?"

I look at the paper, and then back at my masterpiece. They are both three-legged turtles, but this one looks prettier. Mine still has a lot of open space inside of the turtle where I missed the color. "I do!"

Dad’s the one that first introduced me to art. I know almost all kids color with crayons, but he showed me more than coloring. He taught me shading and techniques that my tiny brain latched onto. We moved on from coloring and drawing to working with paints, ceramics, and other materials. He showed me that we could use anything around the house and make it a project.

 

***

A few days ago, my dad was admitted to the hospital for trouble breathing. He was diagnosed with cancer.

My dad has been sent home to die. That’s his sentence. Death. At. Home. Hospice is being sent out to help with anything that he needs. It’s a good thing they will come and help, but then it’s a reminder of what’s to come next. I don’t know what I feel, but it’s a mixture of anger, sadness, and numbness.

Two days ago, my mom came into my room with her black hair disheveled. Mom told me she was calling nine-one-one and for me to get ready to go to the hospital. Dad was having trouble breathing. The ambulance came and took him, and my mom and I followed the ambulance in her car. Tears constantly ran, smearing Mom’s mascara. I sat there thinking that the hospital would help Dad get better.

We got there, and from one second of looking at my dad, the doctor immediately knew there was something wrong. Hell, anyone would have known there was something wrong. She probably knew the instant she laid eyes on his thin frame that it was cancer. The chest x-ray proved that there was a tumor in his lungs.

I stayed positive when the doctor said the word tumor. I kept thinking to myself this situation has a light at the end of the tunnel. He could have surgery and get the tumor out, and everything would go back to how it was two years ago when my dad was still my dad. Hope was still on my side.

Nope. That didn’t happen. Dad was carted away several times for tests to be run. Mom had a look of shock spread across her tired face when she heard the cancer had spread to other organs. Dad seemed surprised that it was cancer. He was in denial this entire time.

The devastation was done, and that was that. Cancer had already won. Mission accomplished. My dad’s insides were being eaten away until there would be nothing left. The doctors still wanted to probe inside his stomach, but Dad turned them down. I would have, too. If nothing could be done, then why did they want to cut him open?

Dad finished his third blood transfusion when he started to get antsy and asked to head home. His hand would constantly tap the arm rail, and he looked back and forth between Mom and the door with his eyebrows permanently drawn downward. Why was he so anxious to go home? I have never seen Dad like this before, but I understood. I wouldn’t want to spend any more time in a hospital either.

I people watched while spending time at the hospital, and that place is a sad, sad world. Yes, I saw plenty of newborn babies being carted off to their new homes, but the precious specks of life were overshadowed by all the sickness that surrounded the halls. People were wheeled in but never wheeled out.

The damn smell of the hospital, that’s a mixture of too many cleaning products combined with sickness, will never fade from my memories.

We finally arrive home and after pulling into the driveway, I hop out and hurry to the passenger side to help Mom get my dad out of the car.

“May, can you grab his cane from inside the house for me?” Mom looks exhausted from Dad leaning on her. He has been using the cane for a while now because he’s become so fragile and weak.

For two years now, my mom and I have known something was wrong with him. He has been dropping a lot of weight—at least sixty pounds. Dad was about two hundred to begin with, and we recently found out he only weighs one-hundred and forty pounds. I knew he lost a lot, but I didn’t realize it was so significant. Maybe it was because I saw him every single day. Suddenly, I noticed how thin he had gotten around six months ago. His arms were smaller than mine, and I can’t even describe the feeling when I first noticed this. It was sorrow mixed with disbelief that made my chest feel hollow.

“Sure. I’ll be right back.” I unlock the door inside the garage and locate the cane that’s propped beside my dad’s recliner, as if it’s waiting for its owner to return. The dragon head on top seems to be mocking me.

Stupid cane. I want to take it and break it in half over my knee and burn the remains to ashes. My dad was older when he and my mom had me, but I feel like he’s still too young to use a cane.

Carrying the wooden cane gently to my mom, I try to soften my angry thoughts. It isn’t like the cane knows what I’m thinking since it’s wood and all, but I still feel bad about being so angry. After all, it has helped my dad get around when he couldn’t walk on his own.

When I return to the garage and close the door behind me, I can smell cigarette smoke. Please tell me my dad isn’t already lighting up a cigarette? But I know better than to think that because cigarettes have been a top priority even more since he’s been sick.

I stomp directly to him. “Dad, you can’t be serious, can you?” I hand the cane to my mom, who is sitting next to my dad in a ratty fold up lawn chair that should be thrown in the trash. They are seated at the small, wooden table that my dad made a long time ago. Over the last few weeks he has used it to play solitaire, solve puzzles, or create his artwork.

“May, if I want to have a cigarette, I’m going to have one. Okay?” Dad looks at me with a tired expression and then back toward the table, where a partially finished puzzle sits next to his sketchpad.

His green eyes are missing the miraculous glow that used to be there. Now they are dim and faded, losing all their shine.

“You heard what the doctors said, and you shouldn’t be smoking anyway. You should have quit a long time ago when I begged you to.” I point at Mom. “Like she asked you.”

He has been playing the on and off game of smoking cigarettes his entire life. There has been a remarkably higher number of on moments.

I pushed and pushed for my dad to go to the doctor to see what was going on. I even told my mom to make him get a checkup. Mom tried, but when he said no, she said that was his choice. I don’t understand why my dad has always been against going to the doctor. She cried every day, knowing something was wrong with him. I wish she would’ve put her foot down and made him go. I, on the other hand, had the optimistic attitude of believing that it was something that could be straightened out with medication—that it was a misunderstanding or something that was easy to fix. Why he wouldn’t go doesn’t make any sense to me at all. My dad’s always been a mystery and keeps his thoughts to himself. He’s a book of blank pages that needs magic to make the words appear. Why wouldn’t he just go to the doctor?

“Look, for whatever time I have left, I’m going to do what helps me relax. Got it?” he snaps.

My mom looks at me with tears welling up in her eyes. “Can you head inside and make us some lunch?”

Maybe I shouldn’t, but I blame my mom as much as I do my dad for not pressuring him to see the doctor sooner. For whatever stubborn reason, I know he wouldn’t have done the chemo treatments if he had gone sooner anyway.

“Sure, Mom.”

Searching Dad’s face one more time, I shake my head as I walk toward the door. I take the knob in my hand, slamming the door as hard as I can, and it reverberates throughout the house. I don’t feel bad the slightest bit for rattling the walls.

Grabbing the bread, I look at the printed date, and it expired a couple of days ago. When I inspect the bread, it’s mold free, so I grab the ham and cheese, adding mayo to my dad’s sandwich with a little bit of lettuce. Mom likes hers with mustard and fully loaded with lettuce. I normally load up on multiple condiments for myself.

After I finish making the sandwiches, I bring them outside to my parents. I sit beside him. He’s already sketching flowers in one of his drawing pads. It’s obviously for my mother. She has been infatuated with any kind of flower as far back as I can remember.

Mom stuffs a bite of sandwich into her mouth and then sets it down. She brushes her hands together, watching the crumbs fall to the ground like pieces of snow. “Thank you for making the sandwiches, sweetheart.”

The anger that has built inside me over Dad’s refusal to seek help withered away after he received his diagnosis. Now my emotions are nothing but a hollow void sitting and waiting to be filled back in with a shovel. My emotions have always been able to understand things in a way where people might consider them robotic. I still cry and get upset, but I know I’ll be able to heal from this quicker than most.

“You’re welcome.” I look at Dad’s sandwich that has two small bites taken out of it. “Aren’t you going to finish that, Dad?”

He gives me a half smile, but the smile is missing anything real behind it. It’s false advertisement for happiness. “I’ll save the rest for later.”

We both know he won’t finish the sandwich. His appetite has been non-existent the past six months from being sick. I know with the news he received that he probably doesn’t care about food.

I decide to head inside to call my best friend Jessie, who has been texting me non-stop over the past couple of days. I could text her back, but sometimes you just need to talk to the person on the phone. She’s one of the only people that I can really confide in.

The couch is already calling my name, and I crash into the soft cushions, pulling the fleece blanket that’s disheveled in the corner over my legs. Scrolling through my recent calls, I click on Jessie’s name.

After two rings, she answers. “May?”

Huffing long and loud, I hear my frustration echo into the phone. “Hey, Jess. Sorry that it took so long for me to get back to you.”

“No, no. Don’t worry about it. What’s going on? How’s your dad? Do you need anything? I know I’m already playing the question game, and you’ve probably had enough questions to last a lifetime.”

A small snort escapes. “You have no idea, Jess. First, Dad does have cancer, and second, talking to you will help me right now.”

I break it down from the beginning. She already knew Dad was taken to the hospital by ambulance for trouble breathing, but that’s as far as I got. I tell her everything from finding the tumor to there being nothing that we can do.

“He has basically been sent home to die,” I sob.

I hadn’t cried this entire time, until now. I don’t want to lose my dad. Dad and I don’t talk a lot, but we don’t really have to. I understand him, and he understands me. I love him so much.

Dad and I may have not had a lot of conversation, but we did a lot of things growing up besides art, too. I remember after Dad would get home from work when I was younger, we would solve puzzles. Except I would gather about fifteen puzzles and empty them all out into one big pile. We would then split the puzzles and try to find all the pieces to match up to their picture.

There was even a time when I collected tons of those rubber bouncy balls, and we would invent games using those. To me it was the best experience. I have to hold onto that.

I haven’t thought about those small details in years, and I don’t want to forget them either. I admire him in so many ways.

“Do you want me to come over?” Jessie asks.

I do want her to come over, but I want to spend time with my dad today. “How about tomorrow?”

“You got it, girlie. Let me know the time, and I will be there five minutes before.”

This is true. She always arrives exactly five minutes before she’s expected anywhere. “Okay, how about noon?”

Jessie agrees that will work, and I end the phone call. I walk back to the garage to see how my parents are doing, and they are already halfway to the door.

I’m a child that still believes in miracles and that life will find its way back to normality. It’s two weeks until I turn seventeen, and that’s two weeks until nothing changes. What was I hoping for anyway? Maybe to wake up to Dad being okay? A birthday is just another day. I guess I was kidding myself that a birthday wish could cure my dad’s cancer.

“Your father wants to come in and rest in front of the TV for a while,” Mom says.

I hold the door open for them, and Dad walks slowly to the recliner, carefully lowering himself to the seat.

“Jana, can you grab me a water out of the fridge?” Dad asks.

“I’ll get it.” I speed walk to the fridge, pull one out and hand it to my dad quickly, as if he’s going to dehydrate. Looking at him, I can see he’s completely exhausted from the short walk inside. He’s winded, and there are small beads of perspiration resting above his brow.

“Thanks, May,” Mom and Dad say simultaneously. Then they both let out small laughs. I can’t help it, a smile tugs at my lips. The moment may be a strange time for smiles, but it comes nonetheless. Then a tiny storm of coughs trigger and unload from Dad’s chest. Rushing over, Mom props Dad forward, striking his back several times with the palm of her hand. The sounds stop, and he leans back in the chair, letting out a long sigh.

We watch TV for a bit after that, and Mom constantly looks at Dad with worry. Dad looks at Mom and me with a blank expression. “I think I need to go and rest for a while in bed.” He didn’t get much sleep at the hospital, so I understand completely.

“Sure, Eugene. Rest as long as you need,” Mom says.

Dad tries to stand up, but he falls back into the recliner. He tries again and falls back down once more. The frustration on his face grows more by the second. My mom reaches him before I do and helps him out of the chair.

“Here let me help you.” Taking hold of his arm, Mom pulls him up to stand. His weakness has consumed him, and I feel helpless for not knowing what to do.

Moving from my seat, I wrap my arms around his waist before he walks to his room. My stomach drops in an instant from not being able to feel anything but his bones. “Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight,” his voice comes out raspy. Mom takes him to their room, holding onto him with everything that she has.

The phone rings while Mom is still in the bedroom, so I walk to the kitchen table where her cell phone is still tucked safely inside her purse. I hurry to pull the phone out and look at the name of the caller. It’s my Uncle Jim. Maybe I shouldn’t answer it, I think. He’ll ask too many questions that I don’t have answers to, but then I change my mind. After all, he is my dad’s brother.

“Hello.”

“Hey, this must be May.” Before I have a chance to answer he continues. “Is Eugene around?”

I have seen Uncle Jim twice in my whole life. He lives in Arizona, and I really don’t know a lot about him other than he calls my dad maybe twice a year. Those days would be the usual birthday and Christmas. The other times my mom has to do the calling.

“You barely missed him, Uncle Jim. He went to lie down.” I slowly drag my hand down my face, not wanting to talk about Dad. It will only make tears spring from my eyes. I had enough of that earlier on the phone with Jessie, and there will only be oceans upon oceans of tears to follow once Dad is gone.

“Well, can I speak to Jana then?” I sigh in relief that I can avoid further conversation. Uncle Jim is always awkward on the phone. I don’t feel like dealing with that at the moment.

I hear Mom leave the bedroom as the door squeaks gently. “Let me get her. I heard her close their bedroom door.”

Mom walks into the living room, and I hold the phone for her to take. I mouth that it’s Uncle Jim, and she looks up to the ceiling with a “not now” look. But she manages to take the phone from my hand with a look of exhaustion mixed with frustration. He sits in silence with me on the phone for the most part, but when he talks to Mom, he rambles on about nothing. Maybe I should have told him that she was busy.

She probably thinks it’s better to talk to him now instead of later because he’ll call back. Since he heard about Dad going to the hospital, over the past few days he keeps calling to check in on him.

Turning on the TV, I half pay attention to it and half eavesdrop on the phone call. Mom is sitting at the kitchen table sharing every detail with him. He doesn’t seem to understand, and she has to repeat the story again. Mom didn’t want to give him all the details until they knew exactly what was going on. She knew he would get all worked up.

She’s in the middle of telling Uncle Jim about hospice coming out soon to help with Dad when a loud boom echoes from my parents’ bedroom. My entire body freezes and molds into the couch, too afraid to move.