memories of my father

I Was
Dancing

by francine schwartz

[selected as an Editor's Choice, Bewildering Stories First Quarterly Review, 2008]

When my hand was in his, there was nothing in the world that wasn’t ok. His hands were usually cold, just like mine. Something that amused us both and made me happy, because I was “just like dad.” When I felt sad or afraid, all he had to do was tell me that everything would be all right, and I knew it would be. That big delighted smile of his whenever I entered a room was the same smile I would see all those years later. That smile that seemed to leap right out of his handsome face like a rabbit from the brush. I’ll never know for sure if he knew exactly who I was when I went to visit him that last time. I have every logical reason to believe that he didn’t. But somehow I know that he did. He recognized something that he had known and loved for more than fifty years—and no doubt the idea of me even before that.

The shock of seeing him the way he looked then—so thin and fragile, is something that haunts me still. It was difficult to even touch him. I was afraid I would bruise him, hurt him somehow. It was as if he were made of thin, delicate rice paper, and that he was hollow inside--like a paper lantern that floats effortlessly in the afternoon breeze. I feared crushing him.

He spoke to me conspiratorially about how they were rounding up all the Jews and he wanted to know how in the world I had gotten in. I told him it wasn’t like that anymore, that the world had changed and that Jews were safe in America. I even joked there were plenty of other problems here, but that wasn’t one of them. He asked me how I knew. I told him that what he was thinking about was another time, another place—when he had been a soldier during the second world war. He stared at me for awhile without speaking. His eyes, which used to be a beguiling shade of sea green, were dull and distant. I wondered if he had gone away, then suddenly he mumbled, “Well, look around you. Do you see any here?” There were no other people in the room except us.

We called my mother using my cell phone. If he had ever used one before, he made no appearance of it. After I had said a few words to her, I held the phone to his ear. He was delighted, just knowing she was on the phone. “Josette, your sister is here.” he said, smiling. My mother doesn’t have a sister.

When my mother entered the room about a half hour later, his eyes lit up—at least as much as they had when he saw me. “The belle of the ball,” he said. “Look at her.” She later told me that in the late afternoons when she would say goodbye before heading home, he would often blame her for leaving so soon. “You’re off to go dancing with your boyfriend.” he would say. But sometimes he simply said, “Please take me with you. I don’t want to stay here.” That was difficult. Because she wanted to.

He asked me what my father did for a living. I smiled and told him he knew perfectly well what my father did. He reminisced about an aunt I was supposed to remember, but didn’t. He was wearing a fleece vest I had purchased for him, a vest that he had pulled out of the closet that morning—on his own. I doubted that he realized it was me who had purchased it for him. I wanted him to know. My mother, as if sensing that, reminded him.

Eating was a struggle. And with him being as thin and weak as he was, it was important for him to eat. Both my mother and the nurse were urging him to eat. And now me. The food looked terrible. He didn’t want it, and what made it worse is that nearly every bite or swallow led to hideous coughing and choking. He asked for water, which the nurse explained would make him choke even more. I’m sure this scene had gone on before all too frequently. Finally someone brought him a small paper cup of water to which she added a powder that acted as a thickener so that he could swallow it more easily, without choking. He drank what amounted to a teaspoon or two. And then he looked at me like his very old friend and confided, “All I want is a drink of cool water.” He drew out the vowels in the word “cool” as if savoring the thought of it. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. The tears that had been there from the moment I first saw him were beyond my ability to hold back.

“Oh God, I’m choking on something,” I explained feebly, smiling through my tears. I got up and headed towards his bathroom, coughing several times as if trying to dislodge something. In his bathroom, still coughing, I ran some water in the sink. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyeliner was a bit smeared so I rubbed some of it off with my fingers. I saw the reflection of his bed in the mirror. The room was a dull wash of beige and white, accented by a streak of white sunshine that highlighted the particles of dust dancing above his bed. He would die here.

His face, which had been so handsome and strong, was now gaunt and feeble. A mean trick of time. If only I could reverse it. I thought of when his coming home meant hugs and laughter and sometimes even presents. I smiled, remembering. He taught me about honesty, about not taking things for granted, about not making assumptions. He taught me about driving defensively and thinking about the poor. He taught me about saving for a rainy day. He taught me about conscience.

But our ideas diverged. I was liberally minded and a free spirit. He was a child of immigrants. I was a child of a regional district manager for a highly successful retail chain. I had my own ideas, and he held on to his.

But on this day—when I watched his pained existence, I knew full well that all he wanted, even more than the cool drink of water, was a ticket out. And I wanted to give it to him.

When I hugged him goodbye, careful so as not to crumple him, I’m sure he knew it would be the last time. He looked at me as if he were seeing all the me’s that had been since the day I was born. It only took a few seconds, but I’m sure that he saw all that. And I saw the face of the man I had loved all my life, even though I’d forgotten about it for awhile.

“Goodbye, dad,” I said. He held me very tight and didn’t say anything at all. He didn’t have to.

A few weeks after he died, I had a wonderful dream. My dad, looking exactly as he had when I was sixteen and he was in his mid fifties, was standing in a room smiling at me. He wore a white suit and stood very tall and proud. His silver grey hair was slickly combed back. He was strikingly handsome and looked so happy. The room was something between a theater set depiction of the outdoor entrance to a club, or simply a big auditorium decorated for a festive event. Sparkly lights, moving spots. It felt nice there. He emerged from behind a door. Or maybe he just appeared. I don’t remember exactly. Dreams have a way of dissolving, even when you swear you’ll remember every last detail.

“I’ve been dancing. I’m happy now,” he announced—his sea green eyes flashing and that smile that swept my mom off her feet the first time she laid eyes on him in Paris. When she was interviewing for a secretarial job and he was the army colonel hiring.

I smiled back. There was nothing that needed to be said. I knew he was all right and he’d come back to tell me. Must be because he wanted to let me know—like he always had, that everything was all right.