Spring 2023 Contest — Finalist
Frankenstein Dad
It was a beautiful spring morning in Chicago in 1969, and I woke up eager to head to the neighborhood park across the street from my house. As a ten-year-old city kid, you could always find me at the park, weather permitting.
Walking into the kitchen, I noticed my Grams purse on the counter. Expecting to see her with a cup of coffee chatting with my Mom, I was surprised to find her sitting alone, reading the paper.
"Hi Gram, where's Mom?" I asked as I hugged her.
"Your Mom and Dad had to go to the hospital. Your Dad had an accident, but he is going to be okay. What would you like for breakfast?" she asked, avoiding having to provide details that were still unfolding.
"Pancakes, please, Gram!" I told her as the phone on the wall rang. I sat down at the table to eavesdrop on her conversation.
My Dad had gone to test drive a high-performance motorcycle for sale a few blocks from our house. He lost control of it at fifty miles per hour, hitting a street light head-on. He was launched fifteen feet in the air, and upon impact, he took out eight feet of a chain-linked fence with primarily his head before coming to a stop.
Dad had lied to Mom and told her he was going bowling. Knowing how angry Mom would be that he lied, he refused treatment and went home. His injuries were primarily internal, but by the time he stumbled in, his head had swollen to twice its size, and the whites of his eyes were blood red from internal bleeding. Mom looked at him and called Gram to come and sit with my little sister and me, who had been asleep for quite some time by then.
Mom rushed him to the ER. Dad required life-saving cranial surgery as soon as a team of surgeons could arrive. Surgery was completed nine hours later, and Dad's life had been saved, but his recovery would be grueling. Mom stayed close to the hospital while Gram cared for my sister and me during Dad's stay. Each day when I would wake up, I needed to know how Dad was. Gram would always answer with, "he's coming along."
I got no details from Gram during the time they were gone. I had to depend on listening in on Grams's conversations to get information.
I found comfort in going to the park every day. My friends were there, and they cared. None of them had ever gone through anything like this. I had created quite a detailed story during the two weeks Dad was in the hospital. "He looks like Frankenstein with all the stitches, bandages, and blood everywhere," I shared as they hung on my every word.
The day arrived when Gram announced to my sister and me that Dad was coming home the next day. I grappled with conflicting feelings. I was so glad Dad was alive, but I didn't want to have to look at his injuries.
I tossed and turned that night. When I woke in the morning, it was a rainy dark day. I couldn't find refuge with my friends at the park. Mom phoned Gram to tell her they were leaving the hospital and heading home. We sat by the window, waiting for them to pull up. Our car crawled to the curb before coming to a very soft stop. Mom frantically got out from behind the wheel and ran around to help Dad as he struggled to remove his seat belt. His head was wrapped in layers of bandages and gauze, causing it to look immense.
He shuffled blindly through the grass in excruciating pain. As we watched with bated breath, the poor man hung onto Mom for dear life. He couldn't afford to fall; "God," I prayed, "don't let him fall." I had never seen my Dad this broken and helpless.
What flesh I could see was black and blue and swollen. His eyelids looked like two hunks of raw liver protruding from the bandages. His lips reminded me of the bright red wax lips we used to buy at the candy store. He resembled a life-size Mr. Potato Head with oversized removable pieces that someone had put on crooked.
They made their way to their bedroom, and Mom got Dad settled. My sister and I sat on the floor in the hallway outside his room, whispering back and forth, terrified of what we had seen. Once Dad was comfortable, Mom's voice cut through our whispers as she called us in to say hello to him. I would have been happier to slip a card I had made for him under the door, but Mom was demanding a face-to-face meet and greet. My stomach dropped. We had to go in.
My sister and I reluctantly stood up and moved to the door's threshold. We froze. Unaware of our presence, Dad struggled to get the straw in his bottle of 7-Up to his mouth. Watching the man who cut my meat struggle to drink from a straw disturbed me. I immediately felt the swell of a cry wash over me, causing me to swallow loudly as I fought back tears. Dad stopped the painful mouth maneuver, hearing me swallow. He lifted his big wobbly head and looked out past his liver-lidded eyes at us, frozen in emotion.
"Cu ower her gurs," (Come over here, girls) he painfully mumbled, wincing as he tried to extend his arms towards us fully. I nudged my little sister to go first as I walked behind her to his bedside. She always fought me to go first in everything; neither fought this time.
"I luk bah?" (I look bad?) He asked, his speech distorted from the swelling.
"Yeah, Dad, you look uglier than Frankenstein on Creature Features." I nervously admitted fighting harder than ever not to burst into tears.
“Nuhhhhh-uh, Fahkesay?” (Nuh huh? Frankenstein?) he asked.
"Dad, it's bad; your head is awful, and it looks like it hurts," I commented.
Preoccupied with putting things away, Mom returned to his bedside with pain medicine.
"The ice cream truck will be at the park shortly, and it stopped raining. There is a dollar by the door; take your sister and get some ice cream with your friends," she instructed.
As my friends and I sat on the swings eating our ice cream, I gave them Dad's homecoming update.
"Oh, I wanna see his head when he gets the bandages off!" one kid shouted, licking a creamsicle as it dripped down his arm.
"Yeah, me too!" a few others chimed in.
I had a brilliant idea. I could make some money. With a crowd this interested, I could charge for viewings once Dad got his bandages off.
"How many of you would pay me your ice cream money to see my Dad when the bandages are off?" I surveyed. All of my friends raised their hands.
I did the calculations. With the five dollars I could collect, I could go to the corner store and buy Dad a welcome home gift, and if I was frugal, I could snag myself some candy too!
I finished my ice cream sandwich and made the announcement.
"Tomorrow, when my Dad gets home with his bandages off, for fifty cents, you can come to see his head. Be at the swings in the morning with your money, and I'll give you the time."
"What time will you be home with Dad?" I asked my Mom the following day as she helped poor Dad dress.
"Probably right after lunch, and I will ask you both to be very quiet when we get home. No friends over to play today, okay?" Mom asked.
"Okay, Mom, we will be quiet, and I won't have friends over to play," I promised.
I ran to the park. I hadn't lied to Mom, we would be very quiet, and my friends weren't coming over to play; they were paying to view Dad. It was a loophole, and I felt entitled to use it.
They left for the doctor, and I ran to the park to let the kids know. We played until we saw the Impala pull up to my house.
"C'mon! Line up behind me!" I instructed. Ice cream money clenched tightly in their little mitts, they all fell in line like obedient ducklings. I quietly led them up our front stairs and down the hallway leading to Dad's room. Like a Black Ops Navy Seals troop, I used hand gestures to prepare them for entry. No one made a sound. Mom helped Dad to bed before heading into their bathroom, shutting the door behind her, unaware of what I was up to.
"One-one thousand, two- one thousand, three-one thousand is all ya get to look at him; watch my fingers, I'll count," I whispered.
The first four kids filed past Dad and left the room as the remaining entered the room. Dad opened his eyes unexpectantly. Five of us were caught staring at him. He motioned for us to come closer to his bedside. Scared, we obediently walked over to him.
Hard to turn his head, he moved only his eyes deep inside his liver-lids; his green eyes seemed even greener next to the contrast of the red tissue that framed them.
"Wendi, I have no idea what you are up to, but I want you and your friends to take a good look at me and remember that I was riding a motorcycle without a helmet."
He shivered from the intense pain as a tear rolled down his cheek. He whispered," Now get out of here and take your friends with ya."
My friends returned to the park, and I took my five bucks in quarters and headed to the corner store to buy Dad's gift and some candy if I had enough. I found a small black onyx seal balancing a round thermometer on its nose. I remember thinking it was the perfect gift for someone recovering from a near-fatal motorcycle accident. If I were half dead and in excruciating pain, I would want to know the temperature of my room at all times.
I rushed home with a mouth full of Bazooka Bubble Gum and placed the thermometer on his dresser. He didn't acknowledge the gift, but that was okay. Dad fully recovered, and the thermometer sat on his dresser for four decades.
In 2010, Dad, now living in Dallas, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I flew down to visit him for what would be the last time. One night as we listened to the radio together, I noticed the black onyx seal thermometer on his dresser.
"Dad, you STILL have this?" I asked as I walked over to examine it. A flood of icky feelings swept over me as I suddenly remembered how awful that time in our lives was.
"Of course I have it! I still feel bad for what I put you all through." He said with sadness in his voice.
"Do you know how I got the money to buy you this?" I asked.
"Yes, Wendi. I was on morphine, but I remember it well. I remember you collecting your money in the hall, whispering instructions to your friends, coming home from the corner store, and setting it on my dresser as the waft of Bazooka Bubble Gum fell onto the room. I didn't let on like I knew what you were up to, but I was astounded that you were pulling it off. Your mother would have killed you had she come out of the bathroom as your friends filed past me. That's why I opened my eyes and got the rest of you out of the house. Scared the shit out of all of you; the looks on your faces were priceless," he giggled softly.
I flew back to Chicago, and he passed nine days later. A week after he was gone, a package arrived from Dad. I began to cry at his thoughtfulness as I opened it, wondering what it could be. Wrapped in tissue paper was the seal thermometer with a note:
"There isn't anything you can't get through, kid. See ya on the other side- I love you- Dad."
