See What I See Read Online Free Page A

The sounds of work are there. I go online and Google “advanced cirrhosis” and “dilated congestive cardiomyopathy.” I learn that without a liver transplant, which he isn’t going to get, Dad’s liver is giving out. And his heart isn’t that strong either. He’s dying. And he’s alone.
    Suddenly it’s not all about me. Art school is important, but there’s another reason for me to be here. Dad needs me. It takes a long minute for that to sink in, and then I make my decision and hatch my desperate plan. I know what I’m going to do and I know Dad will be furious, but I don’t care. He can’t send me away because I won’t go. Whatever he says.
    When I open the door to his studio, he swings around, fuming. “You have no business interrupting me. This is exactly what I was afraid of. Now get out.”
    His paintings are gathered around him like children. There are a half dozen, many unfinished. Looking back at me from the easel and leaning against the wall are portraits. Dad has managed to discover ugliness in nearly every one of the people he paints. If they’re fat, the fat hangs in ghastly folds, the faces puffed and bloated. If they’re old, their sagging skin is a purplish white, their elbows and knees sharp angles, and their toenails curling and yellow. Children have blank, cruel faces, as if they’re plotting evil mischief. I know these devastating portraits are amazing. I know they made Dad famous. But I hate them for what they do to people. What is he trying to say with them?
    I’m not sure where I get the courage to follow through on my plan. It’s more than my need to paint and my longing for art school. It’s more than wanting to get close to Dad, to know him after all these years. It’s even more than seeing my picture stuck in his mirror. Dad needs me because he doesn’t have anyone else. I plunge in. “I read the letter from the doctors about your not getting a transplant. Even if you won’t admit it, you have to have someone to take care of you. Let me stay. It’s not just me feeling sorry for you. I’ll get to go to school. It’s an even trade.”
    He shouts, “What do you mean sneaking around and prying into my affairs? I should never have let you into this house. You can get out right now. Sleep on the street, for all I care. I don’t need you and I don’t want you here.”
    It’s now or never. I take a breath. “If you don’t let me stay, I’ll tell Mom and the newspapers and your gallery how sick you are. You won’t have your show.”
    He grabs a tube of paint and flings it at me. It isn’t even a near miss. His laughter comes out choked, as if it got strangled in his throat. He sinks into a chair and puts his hands over his face. When he takes his hands away, his face looks naked and I see more than he wants me to. Then he grins at me as if he’s discovered some wicked secret too good not to share. “No question you’re my daughter. Here’s the bargain. I’m not driving anymore. You do the shopping, get me to the doctor, prepare my food, and answer my emails. You keep out of the way. I don’t want to see more of you than I have to. You’ll speak only when spoken to, and you can get out of my sight right now.”
    â€œFine,” I say. “It’s a deal.” I slam the door behind me and scurry back to my room. I have what I want, but what else do I have? I’m letting myself be locked in with a man who’s going to die, a man I don’t much like and who doesn’t like me at all, a man who hates having me here.
    I hear Lucinda Williams singing “Are You Alright?” on my cell ring. It’s Mom’s favorite song. “So are you all right?” Mom asks when I pick it up.
    â€œSure,” I say. “I’m all settled in and everything’s fine.” I gulp down a sob.