I sat by her bedside as she slept. Callie had only been in the hospital two weeks and already she’d been moved to Intensive Care. Her parents hadn’t been up here once. I’d walked in this morning to see her crying. The chemo was starting to work and her beautiful strawberry blonde curls where starting to fall out. In one hand she had a lock of her hair and in the other she had a picture I had taken two years ago at my mothers funeral.
It had been raining and Callie’s hair was plastered to her head. She’d been wearing a long black mourning dress, her mascara running down her face a mixture of the rain and tears. Her mother, on one of her better days, was standing next to her about four inches shorter. Wearing a pleated skirt and heels, hand on her daughters back. They were crying, looking over my mothers grave. Her father was standing off to the side. It was the only family portrait she had.
I let her cry, I felt her pain. I knew having an abusive father was hard but sometimes I felt like it was better to have a father who hit you then to not have a father at all. True Callie lived with her dad but he wasn’t actually there. At least my father cared enough to hit me. I walked in and she quickly dried her eyes. “They haven’t come yet.” A fresh tear escaped her tear ducts. “Why? Why haven’t they come yet? I’m there daughter for Christ sake!” Her voice rose and now she was screaming. Every word coming out dipped in anger. The picture was flung across the room, crashing and breaking by the ugly white bedding closet. I stood there letting her anger seep into me. Soon she gave up. She couldn’t make them come and neither could I. Flopping against her pillow, hands covering her face.
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