THATCHER
I start pacing the halls of the emergency department, waiting for Emma to get dressed. This whole thing is getting really intense. After she fell asleep and her parents left, I drove around the city for a long time, just trying to calm down. No wonder she's secretive and private, if her parents are like that. I know I don't look like my brother Tim, between all my piercings and tattoos and facial hair. But who the fuck wants to look like that? Fuck Emma's dad for thinking that's the only way to hold value in the world.
I've got a piece of my glass in the damn MOMA for fuck's sake. I'm not sure why I care so much what this guy thinks of me. I see assholes like him all the time. Emma and I have 3 weeks of this left and then we're going to part ways. She and I are about as different as two people can be. I don't see us hanging out socially after this whole thing is said and done.
I'm about to turn around and walk back to her room, make sure she's safe to walk to the car, when I see something that makes my blood run cold. I feel my throat closing, my heart racing, the muscles in my limbs spasming as I clutch the wall.
My father is lying on one of the beds in the ER.
I stand opposite his room, staring at his form on the bed. I know it's him, even though I haven't laid eyes on him for over a decade. He sank into a depression and buried himself in a bottle when our mom died, leaving us home with only Tim to parent us. But you don't forget what your dad looks like. Momentarily breaking my trance, I huff out a laugh, noticing my father and I have the same hairdo and facial hair these days. I hope my fucking beard doesn't look like his, though. Christ, I can smell the urine on him from across the hall.
I'm clutching the wall, breathing heavy, staring at him, when a nurse comes walking down the hall. "Oh," she says. "Hello! Are you here to take Ted home?"
"Excuse me?" My eyes go wide. Take him home?
"You must be related to him," she says. "You look exactly like him." She sighs. "He's what we call a frequent flyer. We never see any family in here with him."
That shakes me back to consciousness. "Yeah, because he fucking walked out on his family and drank away our livelihood." I punch the wall, not caring that I'll have bruised knuckles and won't be able to shape glass today. Fuck. I haven't let myself feel angry at him for a long time.
"I'm sorry, sir." The nurse grits her teeth. She must see a lot of angry family members here in this department.
"I'm sorry…Robin, is it? You don't need to be hearing that from me."
She nods and makes her way down the hall. Lord. What am I supposed to do now? I can't just fucking walk out of here now that I know my fucking father is lying across the hall from Emma.
"FUCK!" I let myself scream just once. Hardly anyone is around at this time of day. Nobody even looks at me, except him.
He opens his eyes and turns his head my way, and our eyes lock. I stand, breathing through my nose, staring at the man who walked out on our family, who forced Tim into a role he shouldn't have had to worry about until his own son was born. I've thought about this moment, about what I would do if I ever saw my father again. In some versions of my fantasy, I beat the shit out of him. Sometimes I cuss him out, screaming in his face until my veins throb and my voice is raw. Most often, I make eye contact and then walk away.
Today, faced with the reality of seeing him, I stand frozen and silent. Staring.
"Son." His voice is hoarse, wavering. It snaps me back into full consciousness.
"It's Thatcher," I spit at him, still shouting from across the hallway.
His eyes flare for a moment. "You think I don't know which one you are?"
"I think you don't think about us at all," I shout back at him, and a passing employee shoots daggers at me with her eyes. I step closer to my father's room, hovering in the doorway. "I think you lost the right to speak to me casually when you walked the fuck out of our lives."
He closes his eyes. "I know I don't deserve your kindness right now."
"You're fucking right you don't." I make to walk back toward Emma's room, but his next words freeze me in my tracks again.
"I'm dying, son."
As I stand there breathing deeply, the thin metal frame of the dividing wall supporting my full weight, Emma emerges from down the hall. She gives me a watery smile and makes her way toward me, tentatively. "Sorry about earlier," she says. "Who's this?"
I don't look at him. I take Emma's elbow and guide her toward the exit. "Nobody," I tell her. "Let me take you home."