No One in This World Can Love a Girl More Than Her Father
And in many other worlds she left me.
“A father holds his daughter’s hand for a short while, but he holds her heart forever.”
― Unknown
“My heart has joined the Thousand, for my friend stopped running today.”
― Richard Adams, Watership Down
“What separates privilege from entitlement is gratitude.”
― Brené Brown
We lost her in the autumn of her third year.
My only daughter, she brought the sun and the stars the day she was born.
I whispered “I love you” in her ear as she let out her last breath and felt her go limp in my arms.
I held her through the night, guarding my baby girl against the cold and the dark, though I could not protect her from the final darkness.
I had tried so hard to save her, but the blight took our crops and there was not enough food to go around.
Came the morning I awoke to the boys watching us, the hunger in their eyes stronger than their sorrow.
For a moment, in my groggy state I thought, no, prayed, I’d imagined her passing, but the cold stone pressed against my heart would not let me delude myself.
I swaddled her in her mother’s shawl—the one she wore the day we baptized her—placed a crown of clover in her hair and on top of it a lace bonnet.
Then the boys and I buried her in the low-lying heath under the ash tree, next to her mother’s grave.
“Miss Schmidt is a fat cow,” she said as she burst through the door.
“And all those kids are stupid.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“They told me to go home. To go home and not return,” she replied indignantly.
“But why,” I said somewhat dishonestly.
“They told me I was different. That I didn’t belong. That I should go home and not return.”
I heard the rumors. We all had.
And though I’d hoped that’s all they’d remain, in my heart I knew this was coming.
But she didn’t.
Still, she never again let us know she cared.
She carried on like normal, using the books our neighbors managed to smuggle from the school to continue to study her lessons, and every day at two on the dot, unasked, she would practice scales for an hour.
That was her strength.
And she remained strong, even when the soldiers broke down our door in the middle of the night, ordering us to report to the town square in one hour, with no more than one suitcase each.
She packed her books, a coat, and a porcelain baby doll her aunt had sent her from America.
“Maybe you should leave the books,” I told her.
“But daddy, I don’t want to fall behind on my studies,” she said.
I knew she was scared, we all were, but she never showed it.
Not when they lined us up in the square. Not when they marched us to the station. Not even when they packed us like cattle in the rail cars.
“Why is everybody crying daddy?” she asked me.
“They’re old honey, and scared,” I said.
“You’re not scared are you daddy?”
“No,” I lied. “I’m not.”
“Me either,” she said.
When the train stopped, soldiers and ugly men with stars on their arms began pulling us out onto the platform, tearing our cases from our hands.
“My books,” she cried.
I grabbed her and pulled her close to me.
“Shhh, sweetheart. Don’t worry about the books. Keep quiet. We’ll find them later.”
As we got to the end of the platform a huge beast of a man stood facing us, casually waving his hand from side to side.
“Left. Left. Right. Left,” splitting the human line in either direction.
When he came to me he yelled, “right.”
Holding her hand tightly I pulled her in my direction.
“Wait,” he shouted as a guard broke our clasp.
“How old are you?” he asked her.
“Seven,” she said proudly.
“Left,” he yelled as the guard pushed her away from me.
“No,” I shouted and lunged for her, but was rebuffed by a swift kick in the ribs.
“Daddy,” she cried, then caught herself.
I tried to call to her but had no air in my lungs.
“Don’t worry daddy. I’ll be okay,” she said as they led her away. “Try to find my books if you can.”
That was the last time I saw her.
We didn’t need her in our life, at least not now.
My wife and I were too young to have a kid.
Someday we would, of course, but for now, we had too many things we wanted to do, and a child would just get in the way.
So we made the decision, and in the cold sterile environment of a hospital room, we moved forward without her.
We figured we’d try seriously in a few years, but there was no rush. We had plenty of time.
At first, we didn’t even worry about it. It would just be a matter of time before it happened.
But a few years turned into five. Then five into ten.
We were both worried, but neither of us wanted to let on to the other, so we stayed silent, until one day it was too late.
We knew she’d never be.
Sometimes, mostly at night, I think about her.
She would be almost 30 by now. Tall like her dad. Auburn hair like her grandmother, and fair skin like her mother.
She would be funny, smart, a little introverted, but the type of person people are drawn to.
Kids wait longer to get married these days, but I’d like to think that she would have already found a special partner.
A soulmate.
Someone who loved her as much as I would have.
Who knows, by now we might have been grandparents.
But we’re not. We’re alone. And I miss her.
Buying her a bike was a mistake. I knew I shouldn’t have.
But she was a good kid who studied hard and always helped her mom and me out around the house.
It was the least we could do for her and she was so excited when we went to pick it out.
“The blue one dad. The blue one. That’s the one I want. Can I get the blue one dad, please?”
The idea was that we could throw it in the car when we visited my sister near the coast.
Then she and her cousin could spend all day riding along the beach, where it was safe.
But it had been a busy year and I was working two jobs trying to make ends meet. My wife was working even harder, and though it was summer, there was no break for us.
I felt bad, so I told her she could ride it in front of the house.
Right in front of the house.
The uninitiated think they’re firecrackers, but for those of us who’ve lived with the sounds almost daily, we know it’s something more ominous.
Still, you got used to it. It’s almost a game, guessing which direction and how far away it is.
I was working in the back yard that day when I heard the sounds. They seemed close, but not uncomfortably so.
Not on our street for sure. Likely the next block over, near the playground.
Just to be sure, I walked out front to double-check.
My son and his friend from next door were playing on the lawn. Even at their young age, they know not to go into the street.
The chain link fence at the curb was no protection, but it kept them away from the road, and any lethal trajectory.
“Where’s your sister?” I asked.
“She and Claudia rode their bikes down the street,” he said.
My blood turned to ice.
“Which way?” I shouted.
“That way,” he pointed, towards the school.
I don’t remember much after that.
I do remember running as fast as I could and having the sensation of being stuck in mud.
I remember seeing Claudia peddling furiously towards me, screaming, with tears running down her face.
It was a mistake buying her that bike. You can’t ask a fun-loving, energetic 11-year-old girl to ride her bike only in front of the house.
That’s not even fair.
I could hear the sirens coming. And I hoped they wouldn’t be too late.
But when I saw the small body lying on the ground next to her blue bike, I knew they would be.
When the doctor gave us the news I didn’t believe it.
“That can’t be,” I yelled. “You’re wrong. Do the tests again.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “The tests are conclusive.”
“I don’t fucking care,” I said. “Do the tests again.”
My wife tried to calm me down, but she wasn’t in the best shape herself.
How could you be when you’ve just been told your nine-year-old daughter has a death sentence?
“Hi honey,” I said to her. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay dad. When can I go home?”
“Soon sweetie, soon.”
We took her home not long after. There was nothing they could do for her at the hospital. Her cancer was growing and it wouldn’t stop until it took her.
She knew it. She was smart, too smart, and had read up on her disease.
“Did you know that my cancer is one of the rarest types,” she said with almost a sense of pride.
“Yes, I do. Do you want an award or something?” I smiled.
“Yeah, an award. And some balloons. And a cake. Cancer balloons and a cancer cake,” she laughed.
“What flavor would a cancer cake be?” I asked.
“Something really messed up,” she said. “Like strawberry and asparagus.”
“Hah,” I laughed. “Or maybe vanilla, chocolate, and Windex?”
“Ahaha,” she screamed. “That would be the worst.”
She was always funny. Always kept her sense of humor.
Through the transfusions, and the radiation, and the chemo.
Even when her hair fell out.
“Hey dad,” she said. “I look like that lady on one of your old record albums.”
“Who?” I said.
“Sinbad, I think is her name.”
“Sinbad?” I said. “You mean Sinead O'Connor?”
“Haha, I guess,” she laughed.
That’s what I miss most now, her laugh.
There’s too much silence in our home.
It’s her 18th birthday and for the first time, someone sent her flowers.
That’s a special event in a girl’s life, and fortunately for me, they were from her aunt, not some guy, so I don’t have to murder anyone—yet.
At our house, a birthday lasts all week. My wife gets up early each day to make her a special breakfast and she can pick what we have for dinner each night.
For weeks now I’ve been asking her what she wants for a present, but the response has always been the same, “I don’t really need anything.”
“I know you don’t sweetie,” I say. “But this is your birthday. You don’t have to ‘need’ something. Pick something you want.”
Finally, on the morning of her birthday she cracked.
“Could I get some AirPods?” she asked.
“Of course you can,” I say excitedly. “After school we’ll go to Best Buy and grab some.”
On the way there we talked about a story she’s working on.
“It’s about a guy named Radio Man,” she says. “He’s from a different galaxy but his head is shaped like an old fashion radio.”
“Go on,” I say.
“He is the conduit between which the mutants—who live in the subterranean region—and the humans communicate.”
“Uh huh,” I say.
“I’m working on his design and backstory right now. He’s not from this world but he has a sense of humor and a quick wit.
“I like it,” I say. “I like it.”
We grab the AirPods and as we’re standing in line to check out she casually asks how much they are?
“A hundred and thirty bucks,” I say.
“What?” she gasps. “That’s too much. I don’t need them.”
“Honey, how much did you think they were?”
“I don’t know, maybe fifty bucks. That’s too much. Let’s put them back.”
I love that she’s cost conscientious, that she’s smart, that she’s creative, that she has a great sense of humor.
But not that she won’t treat herself from time to time.
“Sweetie,” I say. “You never ask for anything. You work hard in school. You are a good sister to your brother. You’re a good kid and your mom and I are very proud of you. These AirPods are the least we can do for you on your birthday. You deserve them so let’s get them and don’t worry about the price.”
I convince her, and she loves them.
Right now she’s downstairs, talking to her friends online.
She’s loud and there’s a lot of laughter.
And a lot of love.
The vagaries of the universe could have set me down at any time and under any set of circumstances.
But I am here right now with her.
The universe doesn’t owe me anything, and I owe it everything.