Taming Mr. Robinson

I always wake up before 12 noon, but as my heavy eyes finally react to the sunlight, the red numbers on my bedside digital clock cause me to blink severally.

2pm? It’s 2pm?!

I sit up in shock as I stare at the clock a little longer before I notice Tyler’s note next to it.

HEY, SLEEPY. THIS IS BECOMING EXPECTED BUT I’LL STILL SAY IT ANYWAY. WASH UP, EAT UP, REST UP...AND SINCE YOU MISSED SEEING DAD, MAYBE YOU CAN FIND TIME TO GO THERE BEFORE YOU LEAVE. STAY SAFE. TEXT ME. I LOVE YOU.

Sighing, i slowly get up, just to feel a sharp pain at the left side of my head. I sit down back on my bed abruptly as I grasp my head with a groan. Dammit, how long did i stay up crying last night?

My entire body feels sore and my eyelids weigh a ton, my hair is in a messy knot somehow atop my head and I can sense my energy draining but i get up anyway, avoiding the small mirror on my wall as I make my way out of my room to the bathroom down the hall.

Shower, eat and leave. I have two more hours before visiting hours at the nursing home and 4 more hours before work. My movements are slow but calculated and I’m done with bathing and brushing in 30minutes.

I slip on a pair of jeans and a top as I pack some old pictures and an old vintage pocket watch I had bought into my purse. Its almost 3 by the time I’m ready and I decide to have a hasty breakfast/lunch, but as I swing the fridge door open, the sight of the nearly empty fridge tears at me as I stare at the plate of Ty’s leftover pizza, except there is no pizza in it, just an empty plate. Tyler must have eaten the rest for breakfast. Then below it, is a half full milk container.

This is bad.

I’ll have to get groceries between my stops at the Nursing home and the club. Without a further thought, I lock up the apartment and leave.

I never like it here.

The Nursing home always looks like a last level before death, and the thought of spending it with people that are too old to live for long is just disheartening. I keep my head down and make my way straight to the receptionist where the normal, slightly chubby brunette is sitting. She is on the phone but I’ve been here on a weekly basis so she is more than familiar with my face and points out to the back door where its open and I can see the slightly graying golden-brown hair that belongs to dad.

I nod a hasty thanks to her and scurry to the back.

Then I stop. I always do this. Pause behind him for as long as my wits would let me. Waiting and wondering. Will he sense my presence? Will he hear me this time? Will he mistake me yet again?

Most importantly, will he remember my name?

He has his back to me, sitting on a white chair with a round table in front of him. The other two chairs are empty and I hesitate a little longer. Please. Give me a sign. Something...anything.

I don’t know how long I stand behind him before I give up and sit down on the chair directly on the opposite side of the table. I had scraped the chair loudly for him to notice but he still has his gaze raised well above me, staring at the garden trees and hedges blankly.

Taking a deep breath, I smile at him even though he hasn’t noticed me yet and drop my purse on the table.

”Hey, dad. How are you feeling?” I ask, but his blue eyes don’t dart to me, but maintain their focus above me. They look bored and blank but I maintain my smile nonetheless.

”Tyler says hi. He had lectures and couldn’t come, but you met him yesterday, yeah?”

Silence. I should be used to this by now but I always hoped for a difference each time I came. Hoped that the medications were at least working. Hoped that he wouldn’t call me--

”Amelia?” Dad’s voice bores into my thoughts and I realize he is staring at me pleasantly.

”No. No, dad, it’s not Amelia. It’s me. Marcella, your daughter.” I say, almost like a rehearsed line because I can’t count how many times I’ve had to say that sentence.

”Oh, Amelia. I’ve missed you.” He says and his shaky hands move slowly across the table to grasp my hands. I look down to see how unsteady his pale hands are and I swallow back my tears and hold him back.

”Where have you been? I waited forever for you.” He says and I just squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to burst into tears and crying out that this IS ME. Marcella Jensen. Your daughter.

He always did this, every time and it was almost normal. But why does it endlessly tear me apart to see him this way? To see him vulnerable and still waiting. Waiting on Amelia.