Small Gifts

I'll never forget what you've done for us, my friend Henry's daughter said to me, There's no way to say thank you.

I considered this for a moment, marveling at how beautiful, articulate, bright and together she was and remembering how much we had in common. Her stories of childhood are mine - the knock down drag outs, the criticisms, the mixed messages, the search for sanity and trust in an alcoholic household, the emptiness of being caught between two parents who's personal war never ends. Your dad was there for me in all the rough times, I tell her carefully, I'd be a pretty poor friend if I wasn't there when he needed a little help. She smiles a sad smile, brushes her hair away from her face. Her daddy stirs in the hospital bed and asks for juice and we both move toward him - he gives us a crooked grin, one side of his face still paralyzed from the stroke, and says quite clearly, You can never have enough orange juice. He holds the cup in his good hand and drinks steadily, not something he could do a week ago, then replaces it on the bedside table and tells us thank you. It's a small gift but a precious one, each minor step toward recovery a blessing and his little girl, now a grown up child with her own life and family and everyday troubles, smiles at him and leans over to kiss his cheek. She takes a seat next to me and leans back with a soft sigh. He's so much better, she says gratefully and I nod.

I've followed her life since she was in grade school, in part because of my friendship with her daddy, in part out of worry but mostly because it so paralleled my own. Her mother, a cold and distant figure with an explosive temper and a viperish tongue, determined to control and manipulate her husband and child for her own ends, overflowing with resentment, jealousy, rage and bitterness at her lot in life - her daddy, a quiet and gentle mediator and peacemaker, ground down by years of domination and abuse until he surrendered to the solace of alcohol (or work, living apart and other women) and gave up on his own needs. These were things I knew about and it pained me to see another child caught up in the same private and isolated nightmare. Bad marriages, I had discovered, were often like quicksand - victims were unwilling to leave familiar territory and even in the midst of drowning would not reach for an outstretched hand - love may turn to dust and disrespect and lies but the grip and comfort of sickness seeking sickness hardens like cement. Children of such marriages are held fast, learning early and easily not to trust, not to tell their secrets, not to expect anything. They dream of escape only to find that geography changes only the scenery and that you are drawn back to what is familiar even when it's the same old sickness of enabling and rescue and codependence and misery.

This strong and pretty child, this educated and bright young woman, is now living apart from her husband with a divorce in the works. She's gotten away but she hasn't escaped.

So we sit side by side in a hospital room, sharing stories and watching her daddy sleep. There are close to 40 years separating us but it makes little difference - we are survivors and all in it together.