What You Wish For

She never wanted to see her abusive father again

- RICKI DISTIN

"Am I speaking to Ricki Distin?" "Yes," I said into the phone. My voice was wary. I didn't have time for telemarketers. My husband, Denny, and I care for our adult son, who is disabled. Denny's mother also lived with us. Denny is a small-town pastor. Our plate is more than full.

"My name is Beverly," the woman on the phone said. "I have your father here.

He lived with our mother, but she's in hospice.

What would you like us to do with your dad?" There was an awkward silence. Oh, I didn't lack for ideas about what to do with my father. None of them were Christian. What I wanted to say was, "Do whatever you want with him.

Just leave me out of it." Instead I asked her, "Where is he?" "With us here in Florida," said Beverly. "He needs supervision. He has dementia. The doctor said something about Korsakoff syndrome. Alcohol-induced brain damage. Your dad can't take care of himself. Where should we send him?"

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother," I managed to say. "Let me talk to my husband. I'll call you back." One of my earliest memories of my father was of him hitting my mom and dragging her from a car by the hair. They were both heavy drinkers, and Mom was addicted to prescription pain pills. They fought constantly, and Mom gave as good as she got. Our house was a free-for-all, people wandering in and out, music blaring, wild parties.

I was an only child. I learned how to keep a low profile and fend for myself. Dad never outright beat me, but he came close. He yelled, shoved and slapped. I was terrified of him.

Mom died in a mental institution when I was in my twenties. Dad was cheating on her the whole time. He walked away the day she died and never looked back.

He didn't even bother to show up for her burial or pay for it. He managed to extend his cruelty to her past her death. Denny and I, with our young kids, were the only people there.