The nurse with the Streisand hair opens the shades, but the room barely brightens, the sun eclipsed by a knot of storm clouds. Even in this dull light, there is too much clarity, and my father shades his eyes.

“Can I get you something, sweetheart?” Nurse Streisand asks.

My father shakes his head and motions her away.

“All righty,” she says kindly. “You just push that button if you need anything.”

She leaves the room, crosses past Anna, and shuts the door.

My father pulls the chrome chair to my bed and slowly lowers, hunching over me. He grabs my fingers, a crumpled hanky in his hand. Tears strain at the area around his eyes; so many years of running the studio, of being in control, have rusted his ducts. He speaks into my limp hand, “My fault, baby…done things differently.” Dry shards of regret spill into my palm. “Spent more time…sent you to a university…” He struggles for the ways he could have prevented this.

It’s utterly inconceivable to my father that events can take place without his authorization like even God is waiting for him to send up a “deal memo,” approving His plans. In my father’s world, problems are fixable and the people who don’t cooperate are moved to a different department.

I want to say, “Daddy, it’s okay. I don’t feel nearly as bad as I look.” But I can’t. That’s the awful part—watching people suffer without being able to reassure them or even squeeze their hand.

“Sidney?” The door opens and Anna enters. She presses a hand to the back of my father’s neck and he quickly straightens up in his chair. “I called the driver. He’ll meet us downstairs.”

Of course she’s doing better than he is. She is Catholic. She lights candles, says prayers. She has the Blessed Mother and the saints to talk to when she’s scared. Anna comes to my bedside, brushes phantom hairs off the bandage on my forehead. Underneath the white strips lie my gleaming wounds—the stitched purple tracks, a Frankenstein scar newly minted.

“Dear Mary Mother of Jesus,” Anna whispers, her voice a soft wind rustling the leaves of a weeping willow. She seals her prayer with a cross over her chest, bends down, and kisses my cheek. Her lips are cool. I have a memory of being very young with a high temperature; Anna leaning over me, wiping my body with a cold washcloth to bring the fever down, my eyes following the gold crucifix swinging from her neck.