Ingrata

After hours of staring at the ceiling, with tears streaming down the corners of my eyes, I now find myself clutching an electric shaver to my chest, my old man’s. Then, inches from my forehead, a dusked vision of him using it to trim his balls flashes before my eyes, sending me into a brief mental retching.

Dad had died years ago, but his foul humor creeps back up every so often, like mold. Everything about him was uncouth—he burped and sneezed with his mouth wide open, and laughed at slapstick like it was high art. He cleared rooms with his flatulence—so revolting. He bragged about charging people more money and one-night stands over dinner, faked disabilities for discounts, and drank Alphonso until the bottle claimed him.

If “brought up” meant getting hurled empty bottles and curses along with them, then yes, Dad raised me.

My eye flinches as I glide the shaver up a little. The bangs come off. There’s definitely no going back now from this makeover. The cutter goes up to my crown and another ten inches of my thinning hair slides off my shoulders. When I press it onto my temple, my ear starts to tickle a little as the device buzzes softly over my muted screaming and I stare at myself in the mirror asking what I had done in my previous life that I was reborn into a wasted one.

I move on to my other sideburn and back, and the grooming feels more effortless this time that I finish the task right off. The mirror slowly unfogs as my nakedness presents itself. The mascara has created a deep purple streak down my face as I check myself closely. When I try to rub them off with my knuckles, it doesn’t escape me that my lashes have come off and my reflection is now of a brown, long-neck, skinhead girl with only old pearls around her neck.

There’s a covered rattan hamper behind me where I have placed a red cellophane plastic bag on top. I plop down the basket like a sack of potatoes and tear the bag open to pull out a burgundy-shade wig. It almost drops on the tile floor littered with my chunks of hair. I attempt to smoothen the synthetic fibers and finally place the piece over my shiny head.

“Look at you,” I scoff at myself, feeling the need to confront the person before me, for I recognize her less. Frail-looking, the clavicles protruding, and the face looking five shades yellower.

My phone dings. I glance down and it’s my driver Eddie’s signature all-caps message hovering on top of my wallpaper: IM DOWNSTAIRS.

Someone’s excited, I quip in my head. “Still need 5 minutes,” I type and send it back to him.

Within seconds, I hear a hurried knock on the door and it’s him. “Let’s go. You’re already late,” he says as soon as I pull the door open.

“What’s your hurry, sir? My funeral is not until next week.”

“Very funny,” he answers wryly. “I just don’t like being late to an appointment.”

“I also don’t like having liver cancer, yet here we are.” I chuckle, a little too impressed with my comeback.

Eddie, evidently not amused, shakes his head at me. “Jill, stop that.”

“What, I can’t joke about this? Come on, at least give me today,” I say with a grin.

“Whatever. What the hell are you wearing?”

“Oh—” As soon as I realize he’s talking about my wig, I lift the thing off my head, and Eddie makes this ugly, horrified face that I always find hilarious.

“Why was this necessary?” he asks of my hairless decision with exasperation.

“I don’t know—just getting in on the theme?”

“It’s surgery. Not chemo.”

“I know that,” I said, “But I’ve been told I look like my bald ol’ man a lot. Best time to find out now, in case I die at the table.”

“Jill—just stop. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“Gonna be fine—did you know that was what they told him minutes before his operation, too? Guess what—21 hours later, a doctor emerged from the operation room to tell the clan that Dad had suffered multiple organ failure, because the new liver—my liver—wouldn’t ‘switch on.’”

“Jill.”

“Funny how fate works, huh? Or is this karma?”

“Jill—”

“Stop telling me to stop. I’ll say whatever I want: my good-for-nothing drunk father gave me this cancer, even after I had already given him part of my liver, thanks to my so-called family, who emotionally blackmailed me into doing it.” It takes me a second to realize that I’m almost shouting, when a raw, pulsating tear splits my throat. I feel my heart hammering against my ribcage like it’s trying to break free. My throat swells to the size of a golf ball, while my hands tremble wildly.

A thick blanket of silence floats in the room, when Eddie finally inhales to speak. “Jillian,” he says, only his voice breaks a little. It echoes, swirling around me calmly, peacefully. “It’s time to go.”

“I’m scared, Eddie.”

“I know.”

“What if I don’t wake up?”

“You will.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ll make sure.”

“Why did I shave my head, Eddie?”

“It will grow back. Just—”

“Hm?”

“Promise me, when you survive this, you will start to forgive your father, and move on.”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“I don’t owe him anything, especially my forgiveness.”

“But you owe it to yourself.”

We arrived at the hospital without any further delay. After getting dropped off at the entrance, I bring myself to the nurse’s counter of the Surgery Wing, where I eventually meet my doctors to prepare me for liver transplant.

Nobody tells you about the dead time before surgery. You’re in a cold bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking this might be the last time you’re conscious. Nobody’s there to crack a joke or hold your hand. Families are pointless, no less in here. It’s just you, your heartbeat, and the kind of silence that feels like waiting for a verdict—to die or live as a deteriorating shadow of your former self.

Eddie became my savior at the right time. I hired him a few years after Dad passed away. He drove me everywhere. First, to therapy—two days a week, uptown, where people didn’t know me. Then in the last couple of years, to the hospital for appointments, tests, evaluation, and more stupid tests.

But, Eddie didn’t mind. It’s his job and he’s good at it. His loyalty is to his work, so he can put food on the table for his family of four. In return, I tell him where to go next and pay his salary on time. That’s how I feel relationships should be. It’s about setting expectations fairly. When your expectations are mutually set, the relationship goes smooth-sailing. Simple. Peace of mind rules.

When I get to open my eyes to the ceiling again, it feels like it’s been days. But the nurse who brings me food and checks my vitals says it has just been over twelve hours.

I then softly ask for Eddie. He has my phone and change of clothes, and all the political news and gossip he hears on the radio. He loves the car radio too much, and now I can’t wait for his latest blow-by-blow to entertain me. The nurse shrugs, claiming she hasn’t met such person, and leaves swiftly.

I’m still feeling groggy and unable to prop myself up in a sitting position. So I just lay there for a while. “Where is that guy?” I wonder.

The door swings open. One of the doctors—Ferriols, I remember—steps in, says the surgery went well, and that if all goes smooth, I’ll be out in a few days. It’s supposed to be great news, so I respond with a smirk. He looks almost too calm, like he’s practicing bedside manner on me. Then he asks if I have family or friends to contact.

“Just my driver, Eddie,” I slur a bit. “Eduardo Buenaventura. You can yell his name, he’s probably loitering around the corridors.”

His brow furrows. He flips through his notes, steps out to whisper with the nurse, back and forth. And back and forth. My ears itch with each silence.

Finally, Ferriols comes back in and clears his throat. “During the surgery, the liver donor suffered cardiac arrest. He didn’t make it. His name—” Ferriols pauses as he checks his pad again, “Eduardo Buenaventura.”

A high-pitched sound then goes, and it grows louder, morphing into a whir. The shaver again—Dad’s ghost, buzzing at my scalp like he still owns me. I press my palm against my head, as if I can shut him out. Nothing but skin.

“Doctor Ferriols,” I say.

“Yes?”

“Call his wife. And his kids. They’re… good friends of mine.”

My lips twitch like I might laugh, but I stifle it. No sound comes, just the buzz in my ears and a memory of Eddie’s calming voice when he spoke my name one final moment. For the first time in years, I almost wish my father were here, so I could tell him what it feels like to lose someone who mattered.∎