Dear Universe,

I’m sorry I can’t tell you the truth.

I’m sorry for littering even though there was a trash can.

I’m sorry it rained on Saturday.

I’m sorry for not telling you what’s wrong with him.

I’m sorry I’d like myself more if I were different.

I’m sorry about this disease that isn’t hideable.

I’m sorry clothes aren’t optional.

I’m sorry the earth has only one follower, and the earth never follows the moon back.

I’m sorry this is a bad apology.

Mostly I’m sorry I don’t know the instruction manual about me.

I don’t know how long I stand outside, but when I get back in, the tips of my ears are numb. It’s warm in the mudroom, and immediately the smell hits me. “Dad?” It’s vomit and it’s everywhere, but I don’t know where exactly. I rush into the kitchen and find the sliding door open. I almost gag in the back of my throat. My dad’s wheelchair is parked outside the bathroom door.

“Judy, I need a little help,” he says from behind the cracked-open door.

I breathe through my mouth and falter outside. “It’s me, Dad. Mom won’t be back for a bit.”

I move his chair out of the way and keep my eyes on everything else in the bathroom that’s above where he’s slumped over the toilet: the smudge-free mirror, the rack with the bright white hand towel.

“I felt nauseous… dizzy,” he says, leaning his elbows on the toilet and wiping his mouth. “I got sick—” He seems to lose his train of thought.

“Dad?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles into the toilet. “I—I couldn’t make it fast enough.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” I crouch down next to him.

He looks at me for a second. Then something disappears from his eyes and his whole body seizes up. His legs become rigid. Some instinct takes over, and my brain processes the chaos, one detail after another: him in his pajamas on all fours with his legs stiff and shaking, the toilet with the mess around the sides of it, the wheelchair in the doorway watching everything. I try to touch him, but fear is the funniest thing. It’s completely invisible and totally physical, and I’m no match for it at all.

“Dad,” I say, shaking his shoulder a little. “Dad, are you okay?” He’s stopped seizing, but his eyes are only half-open. “Dad,” I say, trying to pull him up to more of an upright position, but I can’t lift him. A panicky feeling starts to take over, but then his eyes open a little more.

“Judy, I got so dizzy.”

“Dad, it’s me, Cham.” My eyes burn like all the onions in the world are being cut open at once.

“I can’t get my balance.” He continues as if he didn’t hear me, swaying on his knees as he lifts one and then another. His voice is hoarse, but maybe he’ll tell me what to do. If he just tells me what to do, I can do it.