Call Me Pretty Princess

Frank Wilson doesn't have a single friendly bone in his body. He hates talking to people. He even hates being around them. Frank also hates getting up early on Saturdays, his only day off from suturing and making diagnoses. But there is nothing more he hates than getting up early to go and talk to people on Saturdays.

He doesn't go because he is a guest speaker at a university or because he is presenting a new medical instrument that is convenient for doctors and beneficial to patients at conferences. He goes because of his late daughter, who passed from a tumor. He feels guilty that he was not able to extract the tumor before it grew at an abnormal rate and size.

If only I could've caught it early on. I could've saved her life, and I would've had a second chance with her, he thought in his mind in repetition until he had no more room to store his thoughts.

At some point, he decided to go to a support group for parents who have lost their children to cancer. Normally, Frank kept his feelings locked away in a jar in his closet as he had been taught at a young age that "we don't talk about that kind of stuff."

His father, a member of the Silent Generation, always said, "What goes on in this house stays in the house," even if his wife and children were victims of domestic violence. There was no need to go and tell the person next to you because that wasn't their business to know. Whatever you had trouble with, you confided in your parents, not a therapist.

Of course, this is a new generation, and some people in their sixties and seventies are becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable. They are not as ashamed to admit how they feel about certain things affecting not only them as an individual but as a collective society.

For the first time, Frank had the opportunity to share his thoughts and emotions on his daughter's passing. He also had the chance to listen to stories by other parents and how they dealt with or coped with their child's death. He felt touched by their words of hope and encouragement. While Frank found comfort in some, he also found disdain in others because of his beliefs and his strict upbringing.

Then, he reminded himself why he was there in the first place: to talk about everything that had been bothering him for the past four months following his daughter's death. In order to do that, he would have to deal with his pet peeves.

So, there he was on a Saturday morning, seated in a circle of folded chairs with other parents in a stuffy junior high gymnasium where he had to talk to them. It was the middle of winter, and every being that had a pulse was dressed in garments of wool and fleece, gripping a hot styrofoam cup of coffee that they helped themselves at the refreshments table near the entrance.

"Everyone, we have a new addition to our group. I would like for you all to meet Frank. Everyone, say hi to Frank," a male facilitator with a shadow beard with a bit of stubble announced in a modulated voice.

To which all the dissonance of greetings was directed towards a groggy and disheveled Frank, who looked like he had not applied a hairbrush to his gray ungroomed bed hair that resembled thin hay. His cheekbones were sunken, and he appeared haggard with bags under his eyes that made him and a raccoon look like cousins. He was in a sweatsuit and sneakers. Never in a million years would anyone see Frank Wilson in either, not unless he was in a marathon, and he never ran marathons.

It was ironic that in such a short time, someone's life could change, and Frank was a living example.

"Hello, everyone. My name is Frank. I'm a surgeon on leave, and I lost my Ally to cancer. Ever since she passed, I locked myself in my bathroom for a month. I slept in the tub day and night and only got out to use the toilet. I didn't eat much—maybe I had one meal a day, which is why I am the size of a string bean. My wife's been feeding me a lot of carbs, trying to bring my weight up again and—”

“I’m sorry, if you don't mind me asking, why did you lock yourself in the bathroom? Why did you sleep in the tub?”

“Well, because when my Ally and I would play hide and seek when she was five, the bathroom was the last place I would look to find her. She’d lie down in the bathtub, waiting for me to find her. And when I did, I’d pick her up and kiss her all over her face.”

✣✣✣

“Mr. Wilson, you may see her now," Ally's nurse called from his ill daughter's bedroom.

Frank thanked the heavens that he was finally permitted to remove his behind from the hard wooden rocking chair where he had spent fifteen minutes scanning every detail of his daughter's adult life in framed photos. In these images, his daughter stood in front of historical monuments around the world, holding up hand-painted signs whose words were too little to read. But it didn't take rocket science to know they were protesting about something.

Out of all of them, Frank's eyes latched onto the photo on the last row to the right. In this photo was Ally in front of a brick building, standing behind a podium with a megaphone to her mouth, strands of long hair flying in her face, and her fist soaring in the air. It screamed, "Don't mess with this one; she's got fire in her belly!"

Her eyes were squinted, and her eyebrows were furrowed with disdain and ardency. Determination was written over her face, and whatever she was fighting for, her father knew it was for a good reason.

When Allison had something to say, she made sure she got her point across, whether you liked it or not.

“Oh, would you look at that? Even in death, you're being fed like a queen." Frank taunted his sick, bedridden daughter, wrapped in bundles of blankets with pillows surrounding her as she was being fed soup by a young woman in scrubs.

"Please don't start, Daddy," Ally said, sounding weak and hoarse.

Her eyebrows, which were once laced in passion, were nonexistent and expressionless, and her hair was brown, short, and synthetic than her previous long blonde hair.

Before putting his hands in the pockets of his khakis, he ran his fingers through his salt and pepper short hair and brought them back to his bare chin. Once his hands were in his pockets, he rocked back and forth in distress though he tried not to show it.

"No, why not? Let's get the show started before the curtain closes?" Frank threw darts at his daughter with his harsh words as he fought back tears.

The nurse sensing the tension in the room set the bowl on the nightstand and excused herself. Next to this nightstand was a group of baskets of assorted fruit, stuffed animals, and a bouquet of flowers that started from the floor and up to the floral couch in the corner. The entire side of the left room was covered in gifts fans sent his all-rounder activist daughter.

The scenery from her Malibu beach house gave her something beautiful to look at before she rested her eyes for the last time.

"Let's talk about the elephant in the room because we haven't spoken in fifteen years. Yet, this is how you bring me back into your life? To say goodbye? How could you do this to me? Why did I have to find out through a woman I've shared the same bed with for twenty-eight years, who knew about this for over two years?"

"Mom wanted to tell you, but I told her not to. I wanted to tell you in person." She responded.

"When? When you got sicker?" He snapped, stopping at the foot of the white wicker headboard.

"No," she used all of her strength with her elbow to sit up a little higher since she was at a low level.

"Can you afford good doctors with the salary you pulling in as an activist? If not, I could've gotten you to the best doctors in the country. I have connections, don't you know that? I know a few guys in Malibu. Hell, I would've flown in someone back home in Chicago." Now, his voice became sincere.

"Then, I wouldn't have wanted you to come." She expressed with a stern look.

"What?" His voice became high-pitched, as if he were hurt by her comment.

"Dad, you only see me when I'm sick, and when I'm sick, you play doctor. You don't act like my father at all."

"That's not true. When have I 'played doctor' when you're sick," he asked, resting his hands on the headboard and leaning on it.

"That night in third grade, you were supposed to come to my play, but you bailed because of a patient. When I fell off the stage because Cathy Pope pushed me, you sprinted to the school like a cheetah."

"But, you were injured. What did you want me to do, leave you there hanging?"

"When I was sixteen, and I got into a car accident, and you heard I was on the sixth floor, you dropped your scalpel and came down there to look at my chart and check my vitals."

"So, stone me. I'm the worst dad in the world for checking on my daughter after your idiot boyfriend crashed your car," he spoke in sarcasm as he rolled his eyes and folded his arms in exasperation.

"You didn't even look at me, Dad." She sniffed, slowly putting her arms up to her eyes to prevent the overflow of tears. "You asked me if I was okay for a second, and then you went back to your surgery."

"I was checking on my patient."

"But you didn't stay with me. You could've had someone else cover for you, but you didn't." When her arms came down, so did the tears, but this was not enough to make Frank falter.

"My patient was under the table; they needed me," he stressed in desperation, hoping his excuse was abundant to compensate for his past behavior towards his only daughter out of three children.

"I needed you, Dad. Right now, I need you."

"I am here for you, honey," Frank said, coming to her side and caressing her hand.

"No, I need you here as my father." She sighed heavily with a tear rolling down her eye. "I need you to call me pretty princess one more time."

"Pretty princess? I haven't called you that since you were three," he let go of her hand and sat down beside her.

"But, you stopped when I was twelve. That was the age I started experimenting with makeup, having menstrual cycles, and crushing on boys. That was also the age that you said I looked like I was trying too hard." Her voice started to shake, and her red eyes would not stop crying.

"I never said that." He retorted in a soft voice as he furrowed his eyebrows.

"Yes, you did. You even told me at fifteen to stop hanging out with Chrissy because she was a bad influence on me. You thought she was sleazy and 'asking for it.'"

"I was only looking out for you. You didn't know how the world worked when you were a teenager. The guys out there were animals, and they still are."

"But, you didn't need to call me those things, Dad. Do you know how bad you made me feel? You made me feel like scum. You didn't see me as your pretty princess anymore; in your eyes, I was every other girl who was looking for male validation to you."

"What can I do to make it up to you? Hmm. What should I do? Say sorry? Okay, Allison, I'm sorry." Even as time was running out, Frank was too stubborn to admit he'd hurt his daughter's feelings.

"It's too late now, Dad. Sorry doesn't fix the fifteen years we lost."

When Frank went to grab Ally's hand, she pulled away and looked at her hands in her lap. Frank scoffed, glaring, pursing his lips. He was taken aback, in agony about his daughter throwing in the towel, but not nearly in as much agony when Ally's nurse announced someone important rang for his daughter.

"Allison, Dr. Benson just called. He wanted me to tell you he's coming in next week for the final consent."

"Final consent? Ally, what is she talking about?" Frank's face contorted with betrayal and apprehension as he turned his head to his daughter.

"Thank you, Claire."

"Don't tell me you're doing what I think you're doing." He didn't want to believe it.

"You can't stop me, Dad. I've already made my decision. It's too late," she said in a calm tone as if she were accepting her fate.

"No, it's not too late, honey," Frank shook his head, tears finally falling like waterfalls.

"I'm in so much pain, Daddy. I can't hold on any longer. I've already said my goodbyes to Mom, the twins, and now it's your turn."

"Isn't there anything else I can do? What about sorry? I can say sorry a thousand times if you want. Please tell me what to do to make this all right, Ally. Tell me, and I'll do it." He reached out to her and grabbed her hands, bringing them to his heart.

"Call me pretty princess."