Free To Hold by Alessandra Torre Page B

a visitation day — this day to be the first of many, depending on my father’s condition. What was unsaid: how long this agreement would matter. How long I would have a father to visit. I was blinking back tears when the nurse called my name.
    I didn’t call ahead and warn my father of my arrival. I had intended it to be a surprise, a wonderful burst of light that would make his day. I walked into the room, my eyes clear, my smile bright, one designer heel stepping in front of another, past an intubated woman and through the curtain that hid my father.
    He glanced at me briefly then stared. Puzzlement first, and then a crumbling, body caving as he reached out shaky arms, fumbling hands, gripping my shoulders and watery eyes staring into my own. “Candace,” he whispered, confusion in his tone. “Oh, Candace.” His arms held me close with a fierceness that alarmed me, his need so great, a man who had been neglected for too long. A sob caught me off guard, loud in the room, ugly in its wail, and it took a moment for me to realize that it was coming from my body. I was suddenly wracked with too many emotions, guilt dominant, squashing all of the rest in its fight to the front.
    This man, who had been so strong on our phone calls — so light-hearted and nonchalant.
    “Sweetie, I’m fine.”
    “Don’t worry about me, I’ll fight this.”
    “The ladies at the hospital have been spoiling me rotten.”
    This man, who was gripping me as if I was his lifeline. His only child, a child who had abandoned him in his time of need. I’d been four short hours away, lying to my father, inventing a life that didn’t exist so that I could excuse my lack of visitation. Ashamed of my job, ashamed of my life, my selfishness had left him to die a lonely death.
    At that point, that horrible moment when I realized all the ways I had failed him, I knew I made the right decision. I would sign my soul to the devil if it meant that I could, in some way, right my shortcomings as a daughter. He was my father, and I vowed to become more worthy of his love.
    At seven, Pam comes in, gently knocking on the door. I sit, watching my father sleep, a tray with our dinner sitting to the side.
    “I’m sorry, but time’s up. We have to start night rounds.”
    I nod, stretching as I stand, meeting her kind eyes with a grateful smile. “Thank you Pam. For everything. He speaks so highly of you.”
    She beams, clasping her hands together before her generous bosom. “He is one of our favorites, and lucky to have a daughter like you.”
    I force a smile, hoping that it looks authentic. This staff knows me as I am now. A devoted daughter, willing to authorize any expense to ensure her father’s comfort and well-being. The previous, state-run facility knows the truth. They know that he was alone during the first six months of his sickness. They know the lonely old man whose insurance was running out, the one whose daughter didn’t bother to visit, or even send flowers. Actually, according to the blank faces and irritable responses I received on my first visit — they don’t know him at all. He was a bed number, one of hundreds. The week that I spent there, before Nathan was able to move him, made me appreciate Crestridge so much more. I appreciate their false view of me, and the genuine care, love, and attention that they show to Dad. With every visit, with every bond that renews between him and I — the guilt lessens. I can’t make up for six months of neglect. But I am trying as hard as I can.

CHAPTER 3
    Word: 3 letters; comprised of two vowels
    Clue: the part of the mind that mediates between the conscious and the unconscious
    A s the private plane moves closer to home, my nerves tighten. I can physically feel them, a bundle of nerve endings being twisted, tighter and tighter, bulging and straining, testing the limits of their strength. I spend all week looking forward to Wednesdays. And I spend all week nervous about Wednesday night.
    I walk