When she was 8, she became aware he was different from other daddies. He was gone a lot. He laughed too hard and at all the wrong times. He always carried a bottle in his hand. He never came to school plays, never drove her to McDonald’s for a treat, never told her she was good at softball.
When she was 12, her mom said enough was enough and suddenly he wasn’t there at all. She realized she missed him sometimes — discovered there were little things about him she’d never really thought about. Like the way he always had a stick of gum for her in his pocket; like his silly grin, his spiky hair.
When she was 17, she got a job at Sonic. Within a few weeks, he started coming around — usually drunk, smiling, hungry — looking for a free meal. She would grab a break, bring him a hamburger and ask him where he had stayed the night before. She began to worry. She and her mom sat together during the 10 o’clock news on channel 9 each night just in case…
When she was 18, it finally happened. Stumbling along a busy street just after dark, he lurched into traffic and was hit by an SUV. The driver waited with him until the ambulance and police arrived. ”He came out of nowhere,” the driver said. She and her mother saw the newscast and wondered as usual. The police knocked on the door minutes later, directed by a phone number crumpled in his pocket. He is alive, the cop told them, but he is seriously injured. The two women prayed it was the wakeup call he needed.
When she was 21, she stopped believing his life would change. She was deep into her junior year of college — a major in social work, a minor in criminal justice — and didn’t want to think about him anymore. For a year after the accident, he’d been in rehab, trying to hold his memory together in a skull that was broken into what seemed like puzzle pieces. Then he got kicked out of rehab for drinking and had circulated through a series of recovery centers, more for the warm bed and food than to overcome his addiction.
He showed up at Sonic one night, and she watched wearily as he crossed the parking lot, weaving and waving in her direction. She fed him a hamburger and watched again as he drifted back to the street. Later she heard he was at a mission downtown — Kansas City Rescue Mission. She shrugged and thought, “Here we go again,” and turned her attention to school.
When she was 22, she learned her dad was graduating the Mission’s recovery program. She battled skepticism, and opted for hope. ”Maybe it’s real,” she thought. She watched his progress from a distance, then closed the distance mile by mile as her hope grew. She stopped worrying about him and began to talk to him … about sports … about school … about God. She hugged him.
When she was 23, she counted two years of sobriety then swept away her last dusty thoughts of worry and wonder. He told her he was fine and screwed his face into a look of disgust when she asked him if he would ever drink again. As he prepared to leave KCRM and move to his own place, she hoped it would be close to the home she shared with her mother — maybe he’d could come for dinner once in a while.
He is still broken in so many ways, but she wants to be near him. He has spiky hair and a silly grin and gum in his pocket. He loves her and worries about her. How is school? he asks. Are you dating? Is he good to you? This is how she remembers and she thinks to herself, I am his daughter.
MO
Read more stories like this one .at the Kansas City Rescue Mission's blog.
