WHY I BRING THEM | NATASHA WILLIAMS

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

and they joined me standing in the living room like his royal subjects. A king now, seated by the window, perched on the edge of his recliner, a lit cigarette between his thick nicotine tarred fingers, my father held court with my daughters, his courtiers.

“Girls, I was hoping you could help me with this predicament I find myself

in.”

“What’s that dad?” I asked, putting myself between them.

“You see, I emancipated my goldfish from my fish tank into the church wishing well next-door. Then I noticed a great blue heron at the water’s edge looking for something to eat.” He looked at Cali, mischief in his eyes, cocking his head to the side to convey his sense of irony at the unintended consequences of his good deed. “I’m afraid he may not survive. Do you think you girls could help me rescue him?”

“Why did you put the fish in the well in the first place?” Cora asked.

“I was hoping it would grow big and bring prosperity to the townspeople,” he said, like a prophet off his meds.

Happy for a mission, the girls agreed, and we went outside to gather our tools. Since Cali was an avid pond skimmer and net fisher, we had what we needed in our car trunk. Fishing gear in hand, we walked slowly, to keep pace with his ailing knees to the church next door.

My daughters and I stood at the wishing well dipping our nets as he found a seat on the bench, watching us as if our efforts were his own.

“That a girl,” he encouraged us universally, our net empty except for a skim of slimy green algae that covered the well.

After several attempts, ready to give up, I said, “We’re never going to find a tiny goldfish in this slime, Dad. Plus I’m sure it’s better off here, than in your smoky apartment.” “We can’t leave the fish to be eaten!” Cali said

“I’m sorry, love, we can’t see anything below the surface.”

Undeterred, she flashed me a look and continued dipping her net into the bright green overgrowth. Until finally, our doubt her biggest obstacle, she tossed her net to the side in frustration.

My father watched Cali until she looked him in the eye. He patted the seat next to him. “I’m disappointed too, Baby,” he said gently, making the connection I loved him for. It’s not that he wanted to make it all better, but simply that he recognized her disappointment and was able to join her in a way that made it possible to leave the job undone. She took his hand as he hobbled back to the apartment, leaving the lost fish to work its magic. This is why I bring them.