See What I See (8 page)

“Us?”

“Chaldean.”

“Isn't that a narrow point of view?”

“Not if you know my dad's history. Dad came here from Iraq in the sixties, when he was just a boy, after Saddam killed his dad and his uncle. He's never really recovered from that. He and his mother and grandparents were brought over by some relatives, but we still have family who left Iraq and are living in Lebanon and who desperately want to come here. It's my duty to be successful and to make some money so we can help them like someone helped us. There's no place in that plan for me to get diverted by girls who aren't Chaldean.”

“But if your family has been here since the sixties . . .”

“Oh, we're integrated, we're part of the city's multicultural mix and all that, but Dad has a lot of respect for the old traditions. He doesn't want us to lose our identity. Anyhow, he's got nothing to worry about, since the last thing I'm interested in is getting involved with someone.”

So I'm warned. “Don't you resent having to do what your family wants?”

“Nah. I'm happy studying medicine. The rest of the stuff I try not to think about.”

“At least you get to go to school.” My voice catches in my throat. I can't help it.

Thomas puts his hand on my shoulder and pats me like you would a kid. “Kate, I really admire what you're doing. If it's any comfort, your father doesn't have long.”

Strangely that's no comfort at all, and I have to grit my teeth and hold my breath to keep from breaking out in sobs. I blink and concentrate on the view out the car window. I don't think this is what Thomas meant, but I'm beginning to see countryside sneaking into the city. There are empty lots where houses have been torn down, and Queen Anne's lace, knapweed, wild asters, and goldenrod are blooming in the lots. The country is taking over the city.

When I ask about the empty lots, Thomas says, “Urban prairie. Houses were abandoned and then used as drug houses. Eventually they burned down or were torn down by the city as a nuisance.”

A few miles away is a large medical complex. Thomas shows me the medical school, and I'm happy that he wants to share his world. Then we head east and cross a bridge over the Detroit River.
BELLE ISLE
, the sign says. Beautiful Island. The island, a couple of miles long, is a kind of wilderness inhabited mainly by Canada geese with their long black necks and white chin straps. Flocks and flocks of them are on the grass and swimming in the river and in the canals that wind through the island. Some of them might be the same geese that fly over our trailer up north and nest in a nearby lake. I envy them their freedom to go where they want to.

“Belle Isle is crowded with people in the summertime,” Thomas says. “On hot nights families come here and camp out to get a little cool air from the river.” From the island you can see an impressive outline of Detroit's downtown, the tall buildings resting against blue sky. In the distance is the bridge from Detroit to Windsor in Canada. In minutes you can be in another country, and I wonder how that would feel.

On this October afternoon we seem to be alone on the island. It's a ghost park. Scattered through the woods are the black skeletons of dead trees. Along the canals the tangled boughs of ancient willows blow in the breeze. There are empty picnic tables and a deserted playground, the orphaned swings moving in the wind. I resolve to come back here and do some sketches for a painting.

“This is where I do my thinking,” Thomas says.

“What do you think about?”

He's quiet and I'm afraid I'm being nosy, but after a minute he takes a long breath like he's getting ready to plunge into the deep end of a pool. “My father wants me to marry a girl who recently came over from Lebanon. She got in with a student visa. She's a trained scientist and is doing graduate work. If I marry her, she'll be a U.S. citizen. That will help her to bring over her brothers and sisters. Like our family, they're refugees from Iraq and living in Lebanon. Mary's a very nice girl, and Dad's not pushing it, but I can feel the pressure.”

“It sounds like we're both getting pressured to do the right thing, even when we don't want to.”

“It's different for you. Your life will only be on hold for a short time with your father. If I get married, that's a lifetime.”

We circle the island and then turn toward home. I'm thinking of what's ahead for Dad, and I say, “Doctors must have to get used to the idea of a patient's death. How do you do it?”

“It's not easy. The longer you've treated a patient and the better you know the patient, the harder it is. And sometimes it doesn't take that long to form a bond; a patient will just grab you. When I was on duty in the oncology clinic I had a boy with a brain tumor and very little chance of making it. He was the same age as my brother. He was a baseball freak and we'd talk about the Tigers every day and argue about the batting lineup. If I had some extra time, I'd watch the game with him on the TV he had in his room, and I bought him a Tigers cap to wear over his bandages. I haven't been able to watch a game since he died.

“I'm not going to tell you it will be easy with your dad, Kate. The longer you stay here, the more you do for him, the more you'll be invested in keeping him with you. So you're taking a chance. You're making it hard on yourself.”

“Are you saying I should go home?”

“That's up to you. I'm just trying to prepare you.”

I still think there must be some way of protecting myself. Some way to make this easier. I resolve to be impersonal, like a nurse taking care of a patient. Make it a job. Keep my distance. I'll keep reminding myself that for years Dad had nothing to do with me. There's no reason why I should lose sleep over him. But I don't know. Somehow I don't think that's going to work.

Thomas drops me off in front of Dad's house, and I thank him for the great afternoon. I've told him about Ruth and the Good Deed Girls, so before he drives away, he leans out of the car and says, “Get your Good Deed Girl to stay Saturday night and I'll show you my favorite part of the city.”

“That would be great,” I say, and begin making plans for my first Detroit date.

Back inside I check to see if Dad is working, and he is. He hasn't even missed me. That's fine. We'll be like those planets in their own orbits. I go into the kitchen and spend an hour laboring over my special minestrone, made with lots of veggies. That will be nourishing for Dad. When I'm finished I make custard, even more nourishing. If I keep him alive, I won't have to worry about death.

D
ad doesn't get up today. When I take him breakfast, he waves it away, keeping only the coffee. I notice that his skin, and even the whites of his eyes, is tinted pale yellow like a late-afternoon sun. Cadmium yellow light hue to cadmium yellow medium. “How do you feel?” I ask, and he responds by ordering me out of the room.

I call Erlita's cell. “That's just part of the illness, honey. You got to expect ups and downs. He short of breath?”

I think of how he shouted at me. “No,” I say.

“That's good. I'll be by tomorrow.”

I want to get out my paints, but somehow Dad's not painting makes it impossible for me to work as well. It's like we're tied together. I don't want that. I get busy with Dad's emails. I compose an encouraging reply to Ian Morgan's one-word query, “When?” by telling him Dad's making great progress, but he wants everything to be perfect. Immediately Morgan shoots back an answer as if he had been sitting at his computer waiting for my response. Maybe he has. “I'm not interested in perfection,” he sends. “I'm interested in the art of the possible.”

I check the back porch. The cat food is gone this morning, and I see tufts of cat hair caught on the mat outside the door. I don't know why I'm so pleased.

Dad's back in his studio. He hasn't bothered to shave and he's barefoot. I tell him what Morgan said. “Can't we just send a couple of pictures to keep him satisfied?” I ask.

“They're not ready.”

I know he'll be furious with me, but I home in on two paintings that look finished. “Why couldn't you send these?”

“If you think you can tell me when I'm finished with a painting, you can go back to your wilderness.” But I see he's considering what I've said. He goes up to his room and comes back with a fleece jacket.

Dad says, “If you're so anxious to send these off, you can give me a hand.” I take one painting and he takes the other himself, shuffling ahead of me to the garage, where he's set up a kind of carpentry shop.

“When you start out,” Dad says, “you'd better be able to knock your own frames together and know how to ship your pictures. There won't be any money to have someone do it for you.”

I'm amazed he's talking with me as if I'm really going to be an artist one day and need to know these things. Is he actually taking me seriously?

We wrap the two paintings carefully and crate them. I hand and hold. He pounds and saws. He likes what he's doing, and I remember he started out as a carpenter during his early years in construction. What would have happened if he'd kept on with that instead of becoming an artist? Would building a house give him the same satisfaction as completing a painting? Just before he pounds in the final nail, he has a change of heart. “Maybe I should take the one of the parking lot back to the studio. I'm not sure.” I want to stop him, but what if he's right and I'm wrong? He reaches for a crowbar to pry open the crate, but he's exhausted and can't find the strength to pick it up. “Running on empty,” he says. “Send them off.” He disappears into the house.

After they're labeled, I call for a pickup and email Ian Morgan: “Two paintings on their way, and they're fabulous.”

The answer comes back. “‘Fabulous'? We're not talking about a new pair of shoes. Excellent or well-done, perhaps. Surely your father's work deserves a more exact description.”

I send off: “Alarming, terrifying, the world we refuse to see.”

Back comes: “No need to overdo.”

I check on Dad. He's sound asleep. When I bring his supper up to him, I have a hard time waking him. Then he grumbles about everything. He says, “I'm not hungry. Take the food away. It's too hot in here. Open a window. Stop hovering.”

I bite my tongue and get out of there. He's asleep again before I close the door.

In the morning when I look in on him, I freeze. There's blood all over his pillow. “Just a nosebleed,” he says, and tells me to get out. Maybe I should call Thomas and cancel Saturday night, but I don't want to stop having something to look forward to.

When Erlita comes, Dad's had two cups of coffee and some toast. He's hard at work in the studio. After checking on him, she finds me in the kitchen and answers my questions. “Nosebleeds aren't unusual with this, and neither is sleepiness. A little more jaundice, but that's to be expected. Now, I haven't forgotten you. My girl is all set to come and sit with your daddy. When do you want her?”

I hold my breath. “Could she come Saturday night?”

“You've got it. And don't you worry. That little girl can handle anything that comes her way. I taught her well. I don't want her out late, though. We go to early service Sunday.”

I paw through my clothes. Pathetic. We never dress up at home. A night out might mean a blouse with your jeans instead of a T-shirt, but that's it. I scoop up the possibilities and head for Lila's.

Lila lives in the back of a storefront that has an
ALTERATIONS
sign hanging in the window. The sign is carefully lettered and decorated with flowers and birds. Lila must have done it. Inside there are racks of clothes her aunt, Ernestine, is working on. The clothes on one rack look sad and hopeful at the same time, as if they're waiting for Lila's aunt to perform a miracle. On the second rack the clothes appear happier, with shorter hems and the wrinkles ironed out. Aunt Ernestine greets me like a long-lost daughter and brings Lila and me cookies and milk. She's wearing a pincushion tied to her arm and a tape measure around her neck. After she leaves us, I can hear the hum of her serger.

“You've got yourself a date? And you're wearing that?” Lila shakes her head. “What else you got?” She snatches a denim skirt from the pitiful collection I've brought. “Let's see.” Lila empties out a drawer and retrieves a spool of lace, which she pins along the hem so it looks like there's a petticoat underneath the skirt. She takes a T-shirt and cuts a scoop neck, then gathers the waist. More lace. While Auntie is stitching it all up, Lila borrows her scissors and goes for my hair. I scream and run, but she chases me around the room. “You've got great hair, but no one can tell if you just pull it back and tie it up like it's been kidnapped.”

I sigh and close my eyes.

“What's going on at school?” I want to know and I don't want to know.

“Halloween's next week, so we had a pumpkin-carving contest. You wouldn't believe how much work everyone put into them. So creative. So much fun. There were prizes, and then we took them to a children's shelter.” She sees the look of longing on my face. “You start thinking up a good idea for next year, girl. I just know your grandfather's going to get better.”