I saw his profile as I entered his room at the nursing home; he was staring vacantly at the TV screen, watching yet another movie that my stepmother brought for him to while away the time.
Me (on the left) with my two brothers, circa 1964
It had been several years since I'd seen him. Due to the pain of childhood, I stayed away as much as could. I'd vowed never to see him again, but my partner begged me to go see him, to set my mind at ease. He may be gone soon, my partner reasoned - and I don't want you to have any regrets.
My partner, logical and loving as he is, had a point. I reluctantly agreed to drive the 200 mile distance and see my father again.
My stepmother had warned me about the Alzheimer's setting in, and I knew when I walked into the room and my father greeted me by my brother's name without hesitation -- that she was right.
The nursing home had become a necessity since he'd stumbled down the stairs going outside for a cigarette and had broken a hip that was mending slowly.
He wouldn't be able to answer my questions, even if I were to ask them. I'd have to find closure some other way.
Dad, why did you take me to that vacant lot across the street and do those things to me when I was five?
Why did you make us take our dog Sandy to the pound to be euthanized rather than try to find a home for her when we had to move suddenly?
Why did you continually tell me I was worthless? Why did you tell us we would never amount to anything?
Why did you break my nearly-blind brother's glasses in a fit of rage?
Why did you cheat on our mother multiple times? Did those women make you feel like "a man"? Did you "feel like a man" when you beat Mom to a pulp? When you had her committed to a mental institution, or when you forced her to have lesbian sex at gunpoint with your girlfriend of the moment?
No, I'll never hear the answers from your lips. Not the answers to these questions, or the fifty million other questions I have had stored up to ask you over the years.
You wouldn't remember, anyway.
But guess what, Dad? I did manage to salvage a bit of self-esteem. I did manage to survive. I'm still here and a productive member of society. I realize why you did a lot of what you did now - due to your own upbringing - but it would have been nice to have heard an apology from you. Now I know that I won't get it - but that's okay. I'll live.
I hugged him goodbye and wished him well. He called me by my brother's name again and told me to drive safely.
I will, Dad. I will.