I let my eyes roll up to the ceiling in contemplation. For some reason the ticking clock, and the smell of doughnuts disappeared, and I did… I remembered a happy time I had with him.

“Okay,” I said. “I have one.”

“Good. Let’s hear it.” She leaned herself back on that ugly chair, notebook in hand.

“It was in a hospital…” I began.

She looked confused.

“My dad loves motorcycles, he has three Harleys. He rides everyday, weather permitting.”

“Well that sounds exciting,” she cooed.

I grimaced.

“Anyways, one day… actually…” I paused, pretending I hadn’t recognized this fact before, and looked at the calendar hanging on her wall, “two years ago, today.
…He went out on a ride. It was a nice day out; sun was shining, no clouds… perfect day for him. Well, not three miles out of our neighborhood and he got into an accident.”

Dr. Adams gasped. “Oh no…” she said.

“Yeah… anyways… a pick-up truck hit him, head on.
My dad didn’t like helmets. He wasn’t wearing one, and he, and his bike flew into the street. Knocked him out cold, obviously.
He wasn’t dead, but just about.”

She reached towards the side table for her coffee, and sipped it; I could tell she was intrigued.

“About an hour later my mom called me, telling me what happened. She was hysterical, of course.
…I was at my friend Stephanie’s, and I remember I hung up the phone, and blankly told her that my dad was in an accident. She was the only one who knew of our relationship.
Stephanie didn’t say anything except, “You goin?” I told her “yeah.” And I left… for the hospital. I got there, found my mom and hugged her, my little brother too. They were both in tears, sobbing, shirts drenched, eyes blood-shot… and there I was, emotionless. My mom looked at me like I was crazy, but she didn’t say anything.”

I looked at Dr. Adams, “Should I continue?”

“Yes, please. Go on, Morgan. Finish the story.”

“Alright… well… the day passed and it wasn’t till like three in the morning that I could see him. I walked in the room he was at, and I looked down at my father lying on his back on that stiff, white cot, like a board floating atop the waves.
He was motionless.
I glanced up at the heart monitor just above his head. A simple looking black box hung on the pale wall, blinking a consistent pattern of neon green zigzag lines.
Beep…
Beep…
Beep…
He was still alive.”

I looked at Dr. Adams to see how she was taking all of this in. She had never known before that my dad was in an accident, nor had she ever heard me talk about him. I figured she was probably feeling pretty good about herself, getting me to talk and all.

I had paused…

“Morgan, keep going…”.

“Right… Anyways, I stood over his bed, I got as close to it as I could. I allowed the heel of my black moccasins to push his bedpan away from me. My sharp hipbone was pressed against the edge of his mattress.
The plastic covering crinkled at the touch.
He was unconscious, but his face looked just about the same as it did when he used to look at me.
His lips thin, like a line drawn straight across with a tiny pink marker. Wrinkles along his forehead, eyebrows burrowed, and eyelids squinting.
He wanted to hit me just as bad comatose as he did conscious.
And it was then I had realized, that that was the first time my father was under me, and I was in total control.”

I told the story with my eyes on the carpet beneath me, like I was reading from some Q card on some T.V. show.

I felt uncomfortable making eye contact with Dr. Adams; I knew she was judging me.

I continued…

“I had always hated hospitals, and I was no stranger to them. What with my little brother’s dehydration, my grandmother’s heart transplant, my uncle’s cancer, my mom’s liver problems and the two surgeries I, myself had… on my broken arm and tonsils… I had racked up a decent amount of hospital visits over the years. None of the previous visits had been happy ones, but as I stood there… over my father… I couldn’t help but feel a little different.”

I heard her close her notebook; I paused for a second, and then went on.

“I racked my brain for a good ten minutes, reviewing old memories… memories of him and I together. Kind of like how you were just asking me to do…”

I looked up at Dr. Adams for a split second; she wasn’t even looking at me. She was staring at the wall behind me;
I had a feeling this story wasn’t going to make her happy like she had planned for it to. She looked distraught.

“Anyways… there were no good memories. And so there I was, staring at his senseless body… gawking at the dark bruises coating his cheeks like blush… the long, crusty gash that wrapped around his neck, and the Frankenstein stitches that were weaved in and out of it.
…The layers of green gunk that bubbled in the creases of his swollen eyes, his dark eyelashes drowning in the stuff… the red slashes on his earlobes, the small nicks on his nose, his right leg, hoisted up on a canopy, wrapped in thick gauze… some of the blood seeping through at spots. … His sliced, and chopped, and minced right arm… and the discoloration that haunted all of the wounds like shadows…


and his severed fingers…


his immense, sturdy hands that once used to dominate over me…

the hands that he once used, to remove his brown, leather belt from the loops of his jeans, only to lash it against my bare back… punishments for things I never did understand…
the hands that pushed me into walls, slapped me across the face, punched me in the stomach… and the hands that touched me in places that had never been touched before…”

After I said that, I felt cramped. I had never let these words slip to anyone else besides Stephanie. I was scared.
Dr. Adams was looking at me now, staring at me, reading me like she always did. But this time, with tears in her eyes.

I went on…

“The same hands that bruised and scarred my body… were now completely destroyed. The hands that used to instill so much fear in my heart… were now nothing but broken bones and deteriorating messes.
Four fingers remained on his left hand; his pinky was nothing but a small, round nub. His right hand wasn’t so fortunate…

Two fingers survived. His index finger, and his middle finger… the rest were gone. The bike had flipped, and landed on them.”

I looked up at Dr. Adams again; I wanted to see her reaction. She was crying.
I felt weird.
My therapist was upset, and I was not.
At all.

She reached for a Kleenex, a box next to her coffee on the side table.
She blew snot from her nose.
I rolled my eyes, and proceeded.

…”His hands were wrapped in the same white gauze his leg had been wrapped in. When I looked down at them,
I smiled.
And I left.”

And with that, my “happy” story was finished.

“Okay, so, can I leave now?” I stood up and cracked my back and my neck. I wanted a pill more than ever.

“Wait,” Dr. Adams spoke, with teardrops caressing her cheeks and nose. “Did he die, Morgan?”

The timer sounded, and our hour was up. I was free to go, and I was already walking for the exit, my back towards her when I answered,

“No.”
And shut the door behind me.