Abba was gone by dawn, not to return until after ten p.m.
But by the time I was aware enough to reflect on my family’s dynamics, Abba’s role was fixed, immutable as the law of gravity, and I had no choice but to simply contend with matters as they were.
Abba was a doctor who treated patients so sick that absolute dedication to their recovery was an essential feature of his job. On the whole, I was proud of his accomplishments. When his patients and their families spoke of his compassion in the most superlative terms, comparing him to a ministering angel, to a holy man, I’d drop my eyes with affected modesty and murmur, “Yes, thank you, he’s so happy to have helped.” But another part of me flinched with raw disappointment that I didn’t share in their good fortune. Because Abba was never home.
In the better years, when he still kept some semblance of a normal working schedule, I’d come down for breakfast at seven while he was fixed at the kitchen table, coffee rings strung like a necklace across the morning’s New York Times. Then, for 20 minutes or so, we’d collaborate on my current- events projects, or just shoot the breeze.
But by the time I was in high school, our early morning rendezvous were a distant memory; Abba was gone by dawn, not to return until after ten p.m.
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