The sound of the phone ringing woke Henry up, but it was Melanie who answered.
"Hello?" she said, and Henry rolled over to look at the red numbers on the alarm clock next to the bed. It was four-seventeen in the morning. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes tight.
"Oh. Oh my God," Melanie said. "I'll tell him. Thank you." She hung up.
"Oh, Harry, it's your daughter," she said. Henry sat up.
"An accident..." she said, and ran a hand through her long, bleached hair. "Harry, they said it looks bad," she said, and for some reason her voice dropped to a whisper as she went on.
Henry got out of bed and pulled on his clothes in the dark.
"Where?" he said at last, and Melanie gave him the name of the hospital.
It was cold enough that the steering wheel burned under his fingers, but he had not taken the time to find a coat.
Henry Callahan was a film critic, popular enough to have a syndicated newspaper column and a half-hour show on PBS. He was six feet tall, a slightly pudgy two hundred and six pounds, and had brown hair turning to gray with dark green eyes. He was divorced. He had two sons and a daughter. He had not spoken to any of them for over four years. He was fifty-nine years old and drove a blue Mercedes.
A terse exchange with a business-like nurse yielded the location of his daughter's room. It was still before dawn, before even the twilight which precedes it, and Henry was mostly alone in the halls. His stiff leather shoes made a dry clacking sound which reverberated faintly. He found the room at last and knocked hurriedly.
Leah opened the door, stepped out into the hall, closed it behind her. She pressed her head into his chest, her arms encircling his bulk.
"Henry," she said, "We're so scared."
He hesitated awkwardly. She pulled away from him, leaving small wet spots on his pale blue shirt. She wiped her eyes and gave him a quivering smile.
Henry swallowed. "Are the boys here?"
"Just Paul," his ex-wife told him. "Brian lives so far off now. He's on his way, though. Said he'd make it by six."
Henry glanced at his watch: five twenty-one. "Is it..." He paused. "How bad is it?"
"It's bad," she said in a whisper.
Henry nodded. "Can I- is it okay for me to go in?"
Leah brushed a lock of her hair- still as black as it ever was- out of her eyes. She smiled again, thinly, and gestured to the door. She put her hand on Henry's back as he went by, rubbing him gently.
Henry entered the room slowly, doing his best to mute the sharp sound of his shoes on the spotless white floor. Paul was there, sitting in a chair by the window. He looked different. His hair was clipped short. He used to wear it like a young George Harrison. There were deep lines in his face now. He looked old.
Paul didn't seem to notice him at first. His eyes stayed locked on his sister. But then some sudden move or too-loud step drew his attention, and his head snapped up. He stood quickly, cut his father off just before he reached the bed.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Paul hissed through clenched teeth.
Henry stepped back, giving ground in alarm before steadying himself and gathering his dignity. "She's my daughter," he said. "I'm here for Liz."
He looked away from his oldest child to his youngest, eyes taking in the extent of the damage. God. It was horrible. Her forehead was an unbroken bruise, more black than purple. Lacerations- glass?- spiderwebbed across her cheeks. Henry felt sick.
But then Paul was in front of him again, imposing his body between Henry and his daughter as though to protect her from some harm. "Why are you here?" he demanded.
Henry said nothing. His jaw began to work from side to side, but he didn't seem to notice it, nor the way his thumb was slowly rubbing the side of his index finger.
"Jesus Christ," said Paul, and for a moment his defiance seemed to relax. He looked in Henry's face, and his father thought he looked unbearably sad. "Why couldn't you have been different?" he asked, and Henry wasn't sure if he heard anger or pain in the question.
Henry knew exactly what he would do. He would draw himself up to his full height- Paul was always a small boy and neither adolescence nor adulthood had changed him in that regard- and summon up a gallant and wounded anger. He would proudly but nobly protest that he had always done what had seemed right to him. He would confess that he had made mistakes but insist that they were always honest mistakes, errors in judgment but not failings of character.
Then he would step forward to his son and they would throw their arms around each other and reconcile tearfully. Though, of course, they would not weep unduly. Then they would stand together in watch over Liz, joined in due time by Leah and Brian, and there would be peace between them all and Henry could put that part of his life behind forever, lay it to rest and give it an honorable burial. He would return to Melanie and his new life with a sound, untroubled conscience and a fine, manly self-regard. He knew this, but knowledge failed him. The angry dignity he counted on was not there to be found.
"I just never really gave a shit," Henry said. He reached out a hand to touch Paul's shoulder, felt his son stiffen as he did. He squeezed lightly and turned to go.
Leah caught him as he went, whispered soft, fast words of comfort and pleading, but he would not be held. He shook her off, kindly but firmly. There was nothing else there for him.
Quick and purposeful strides brought him back to the first floor. He hesitated by the entrance, but he didn't know why. Perhaps a half-formed expectation that he would find Brian on his way in kept him there, and the hope that one son might champion him against the other, mollify and soothe him, reconcile him to the presence of their prodigal father. But at last, he had to leave. There would be no miracle.
And, indeed, there was none. The days went on and on, and, at length, Liz woke up. She was always tired at first, somewhat disoriented. Henry heard the day's news from Leah, generally in the late evening while Melanie would read or watch television in bed. Time, as it does, went on, and Liz grew stronger, clearer. She would talk to her mother and her brothers, sometimes even to friends who would come to see her. And then one day she asked why Henry had not come to see her. They told her he had, and she seemed satisfied by that. But she wasn't, or wasn't for long, and a few days later she asked for him to come. It was Brian who shared the news with Henry. So Henry came on the next morning to see his daughter, and his sons were there, and Paul said nothing, but Brian said it was good to see him and Liz called him "Daddy," and that seemed good to him. He left with a promise to return, and when he got back home that night he kissed Melanie and told her it had been a good day.
