WRITINGS FROM THE SCHOOL OF ENGLISH
Why I Bring Them NATASHA WILLIAMS | VERMONT My father answered the door standing naked except for a wet diaper sagging down to his knees. A multicolored DNA helix tattoo I didn’t know he had was etched on his sagging chest. “Oh, you’re here,” he said offhandedly, as if we had disturbed him. As if he hadn’t called us for help. My daughters, eight and ten at the time, by then stood next to me and averted their eyes. “We’ll wait outside,” Cora said. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I shouted, stepping inside. “You asked us to come! Why would you come to the door looking like a pervert? Put something on for Chrissake,” I said, pulling a shirt out of his dresser and forcing it over his head. Then yanking the soaked diaper down to his knees, I roughly pushed his feet into a dry Depends, wondering if this punishing act could be considered care. “Get me my cigarettes, would you Baby?” he asked, sitting dressed now, diffusing my anger with his dependence. Acting like every moment offered a cycle of restoration, like we have and will always take care of each other despite his transgressions. I handed him cigarettes and signaled through the window for the girls to come in. Usually, he was coherent, insightful even and he loved his grandchildren. Cali was part of a modern dance troupe; she danced like she had lived years beyond her age. And Cora played Piano concertos without the music because it lived in her once she learned a piece. My father always came to their performances and clapped like he had witnessed something great, with great big claps till everyone else had stopped. But if he wasn’t taking his medication or was having a bad day he might yell at us about the snipers in the yard or show up looking homeless. My daughters came only because I compelled them. Because this is how families take care of each other. I wanted them to feel as fortified by his view of them, as I did as a child. To see the valiant parts of my father, the way he appreciated the success of loved ones, even in the face of his own dissolution. Like the time we sat around the table for his birthday dinner and my balding husband complimented him. “Frank, I sure wish I had your thick head of hair,” my husband had said. “Well Ken, I wish I had your life,” he’d responded, and we all laughed grateful for the life we had. I brought them because, despite his schizophrenia, I wanted them to know their grandfather. I signaled for the girls to come in SUMMER 2022 | 43
