No Title 1.

The number displayed on her mobile phone wasn’t one she could recognize as local. She answered it, a little irritated because it was disturbing her very limited and much needed lunch break time, doctors in the rural health centers didn’t get much alone time, what more for her, a junior houseman. Even the nurses had more time to breath compared to the young exhausted trainee, no more than 24years old. But she has never been one to complain, she loved her job, she loved the fact that she was using her life to help others in a meaningful way, and maybe, even in a small way, she actually liked the hectic schedule because it kept her from dwelling in the past, from feeling too much, from hoping.

Still, she answered this intruder interrupting her meal of cold coffee and plain bread. “Hello?” she said, waiting for the intruder’s reply.
The voice was familiar in so many ways, but yet, so different. It had the same rugged tone she was so used to, and the accent that she could never forget even if she wanted to. But yet, all these familiar traits were masked by something else, something foreign, like a blanket overlaying it. And when she figured what that blanket was, she was shocked. She had heard this same kind of voice over and over again in her short 8months career working in the wards, the desperate voice of someone saying a last goodbye. Of course in her profession she was trained to deal with these things, and she could, perfectly, until it happened to her. Until it happened to her father.

It was her father’s very own voice speaking through the receiver. Only it was soft, almost gentle, and it shocked her that her rugged-no-nonsense Papa would talk like that. And what shocked her even more, were the few words he had for her.
With his new found voice he whispered “Doreen, I’m going to miss you so so much.”

And that was it, just those 9 words he had for his oldest daughter. No shouting or sarcasm, no dictation or rough orders. Just a gentle voice. But she hated it, to her it was the voice of a defeated man. And a defeated man just wasn’t her Papa. NO. Not her Papa who was the most street smart man she’d ever known. Not her Papa who could build a table and bench with scrap wood and his bare hands. Not her Papa who owned the largest and most meaningful home library she’d ever seen. Not her Papa.

She was angry at the way he was talking and even more at the things he was saying. It was all ridiculous to her. Through the phone she demanded to know where he was, to which his only reply was “It’s not important. Take care of yourself and your sisters.” “So typical of him” she managed to say to herself despite the angry tears blurring her vision of her surroundings. The next hour was a big blur as she made hundreds of phone calls to relatives she hadn’t kept contact with to locate her father. Just as she expected she received more than a friendly helping of sarcastic and occasionally angry remarks reminding her again and again how self-absorbed she’d been all this while. “To loose track of your own father! This is insane” But she couldn’t agree more with them, she deserved everything they had to hurl at her, and more. How could she have let things get this bad?

She finally confirmed that her father had checked himself in for heart complications at a government hospital in the next state. Being new in the area, she didn’t know her way around. “Again Pa was right, I should have paid more attention to my surroundings and got more familiar when I arrived and not lock myself up in my shell. Argh. Even not being here he can still nag at me.” She rang up some of her colleagues asking for a lift to see her father. Too busy. Turning to her friends instead, she was sure they’d understand her urgency. But she only got her heart broken over and over again as each of them gave an array of excuses why they could not drive her 550km across the country on a 15minute notice.

Taking a few of her belongings from her desk, including a small empty picture frame, she was lost when she walked out of the hospital aimlessly to the nearby road. Sitting down on the bare tar, she was going through a kaleidoscope of emotions, many familiar ones and a few she’d never experienced before. Messed up with confusion and fatigue she couldn’t even bring herself to cry. She just sat and waited. For what she didn’t know, all she knew was that she was not going to make any progress tracking down her Pa in her current state.

Maybe it was insanity, maybe it was her letting her guard down, maybe it was an act of desperation, but she flagged down a group of teenagers in a four-wheel drive and hitched a ride from the strangers. She didn’t care that she was being irresponsible, she didn’t care that she was obliging others to go out of their way to help her. Manners? Courtesy? She’d shown plenty to her colleagues and friends but when she really needed their help, their non-actions showed more than any amount of manners and courtesy could tell.

The hours in the back of the bumpy four-wheel drive were painful, but made a little more tolerable by the bubbly group of youngsters trying to cheer their new guest up. Telling her about their hometowns, travels and future plans. Of course they could tell that she wasn’t paying attention, only being polite. But they were more than happy just to fill in the awkward silence.

After some minor confusion panicking, they made it to the hospital she had sourced out. Thanking her gracious hosts, she made a mental note to thank God for the lively angels He had sent to keep her company and in a way, kept her sane through the journey.

It wasn’t the antiseptic smell that made her stomach churn, she was already used to the smell that was common in all hospital. But it was the apprehension of meeting her Pa, she didn’t know what to expect. The last time she saw him he had been fine, as tough as he had always been. But the phone call made it clear that many things had changed since the last time.

Entering the ward, it was hard to stop the wave of shame and guilt from taking over her. There surrounding her Pa were all their relatives, she could not even remember the last time they had such a big gathering. Everybody was here. Her sisters were there too, but she could not bring herself to look at them, what kind of example had she set for them all these while disappearing like that? What made things worst were all the warm wishes, expensive gifts and nutritional preparations that were piled up for her Pa. While she empty handed.

Pa called her closer. Every step she took was now a conscious effort on her part, because somehow walking had become as hard as lifting boulders with her feet. When she finally got a clearer look at her Pa, to her relief she realized nothing had really changed. Of course he was thinner, and paler, but she could still see the twinkle in her father’s eyes, one that told the world not to mess with him even though he was a small man, and she could still see the pride he carried with him, the same air of dignity won her respect. She was relieved, Pa wasn’t lost after all. The both of them had never been good with words. She knew that. Family talk had always been about no-nonsense practical stuff, non of the cute affectionate exchange. But yet it still surprised her that even in these circumstances all Pa could ask her was how work, when only hours ago, he had almost driven her mad with worry. But that was him. That was her practical Pa.

He didn’t fill her in on his condition, neither did she ask. Even a doctor at 22, her Pa could still make her feel like an odd little girl just by interrogating her on what she had been up too, how was the new hospital, how was the car engine performing, when was she going to get that hair cut he ordered for her unkempt hair long ago? And like clock-work she answered his questions obediently, for a moment forgetting the urgency of the visit and just enjoying being his little dorky girl all over again. That was when she spotted on his bedside table the little wooden house she and a sisters had made for him way back when they were young as a father’s day present. They’d used ice-cream sticks and on the roof stuck a picture of their father and of their mother. And on either sides of the house wall, were photos of the 3 children. Only after seeing this odd little house did she pluck up the courage to present him with her gift which she had carried with her from the hospital. A humble photo frame she had made for his last birthday but did not make it back home to hand it to him.
“Good craftsmanship” he said. Exactly what he said when they presented him the wooden house years ago. She smiled, for once feeling real pride.

That night after he had strictly ordered everyone to go home and rest, she sat in the cafeteria and wrote her letter.