Barnes

The air was cold, and snow stuck to my eyelashes, but I saw you. Brown brow furrowed, sweat glistening, furiously scrubbing as if trying to remove your own skin. The silence was deafening, so I busied myself studying the EMT logo and name tag attached to your black and white uniform. Barnes was your name. You were about six foot one, average build, brown hair and eyes, and pale white skin. Except your hands. They were bright, blood red from all the scrubbing. As you worked, you quickly glanced up at me, just once.

In that fleeting moment, I searched your eyes and remembered not seeing an ounce of shame or compassion in them. Just fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of being feared. Fear of my dad and his HIV+ status. It was written all over your panicked face, Barnes. Clinched left jaw and all. Still a naïve child of 11, I was initially filled with hope after you loaded Dad into the ambulance. You’d moved quickly, efficiently, and seemed to really know your stuff. You didn’t come off gruff or unprofessional. When you said, “Your dad’s in good hands,” I believed you.

But as you heard the news, I watched you. I saw the color slowly drain from your face. You took one deep breath, then two, looked left, then right, as if expecting someone to save you. A knot began forming in my stomach as you sprinted toward the snow at the end of our driveway and furiously buried both hands. What’s worse is that “Harris”, your partner, followed your lead. I’d expected more from her. Her mousy brown hair, kind eyes and crooked smile had fooled me.
I heard you ask her, “Did you hear he has AIDS?” I winced when she replied, “Yeah, gross, huh?”

Me, his 11-year-old daughter, the youngest one in the black hoodie, watched as you two tried to scrub the HIV away. Do you remember me? I remember you. Your face is forever etched in my brain. Hard, angry, full of rage. Veins bulging as you spoke in a hushed whisper. Try as I might to forget, I remember.

You couldn’t wait to leave, so unsure of your destiny, as you jogged past me. You slid on the ice, past the looks of horror on our tear-streaked faces. Did the falling snow hide our humiliation? The door handle made an awful clanking noise, piercing the awkwardness, as you viciously pawed at it. I heard you say “fuck” under your breath as you reached out a second time. When the engine roared to life, you exhaled a big breath and looked disgustedly behind you. That’s why I panicked.

As I rushed to the ambulance for what would become the last time I saw my dad alive, I had a sinking suspicion. I already knew. I found him face-down on the gurney, silently crying because he knew, too. I yelled at you to help him, to correct his position, but you nonchalantly dismissed me and sat staring intently out the window. Me, my older sister and aunt carefully flipped him over and strapped him in. We covered him with blankets and held his hand. We sat silently and said goodbye to who he was, the dad, the soldier and the man. I think I knew deep down that I’d never see my dad again after that night, but I see you. In my nightmares, when snow sticks to my eyelashes and when I see a passing ambulance. I’ve replayed that day over and over, scene by scene, marveling at what for you must have felt like an eternity.

My father took his last breath on December 27, one day before his 34th birthday. The memories of our last holiday together are forever tainted thanks to you, Barnes. I wonder if you went on to cause any other families harm. As for me, I’ve lived an almost insurmountable life of grief, loneliness and misery. Afraid to let others get too close, or to tell too much, lest I be judged and treated like my dad. It’s been sad, but it’s safe. Pain doesn’t always last.
I’ve decided to forgive you. No, not for you, purely for me. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not turning the other cheek. I just want to be free of the memories that continue to torment me: the sound of your voice, the pleading look in my father’s eyes, the screech of the sirens, the crunch of the tires.

The silly girl in me used to rationalize your cruelty. “Maybe he didn’t know.” “Maybe it was the snow.” Nope, it was you, and I forgive you. I forgive your ignorance and slip of the tongue. I forgive your raised voice. I could tell you and Harris both were young. Hell, I was only 11 and incapable of saying what I really wanted to, what I actually thought of you. Just know that I forgive you.

Maybe, if I keep saying it, it’ll make it true.