There was an IV line going into the top of my left hand, and another one attached to the intersection of my shoulder and neck. A line even ran between my legs, where I should have had underwear. But I had no panties, and I had no regular clothes, either; just a dismal cotton gown, and underneath it, electrical patches sticking to my chest, with more lines connecting to a piece of equipment that I recognized from my father’s hospital stay as a heart monitor. Oh, God, had I turned into my father?No, I realized with relief, my fingernails still had the same ballet-pink nail polish I’d applied at the start of the Hawaii trip. And my father was sitting on an uncomfortable chair in the hospital room across from me.I could see him; I could see my father. My vision was back. My stomach still hurt, though, and my throat was sore.I croaked aloud, ‘I see!”“It’s about time,” my father said, breaking his chain of movements to come to the bed and embrace me.“I’m feeling better, too—oh, my God, so much better.
