Levi Fishback died last month at a Kentucky nursing home, and the funeral director called me with questions I couldn't answer: open casket? Songs? Flower colors? Eulogists? As his medical proxy for the past four years, I'd handled the bills and care decisions, but I barely knew the man. I had one photo of him, from my fourth or fifth birthday. His ex-wife and stepdaughter sent more - him grinning in a suit at graduations and family parties. I didn't know he had that much joy in him.
My memories of Dad are scatterplots. He lived across town in Lexington, Kentucky, but went months without visiting. From ages 10 to 14, I didn't see him once. He had his own family - wife, stepdaughter, son. At their wedding, his son was ring bearer, her daughter flower girl. I wasn't there; I didn't even know about it. His stepdaughter, a year older, was a cheerleader with name-brand clothes at a rival high school.
My mom, Trina, was addicted to crack for years. When I was 7 or 8, Dad came to our door. The fridge was empty, dirty dishes and broken toys everywhere. We were untamed - my brother Colby always doing backflips off the couch. Dad stepped inside, looked around like a social worker, then left, saying he'd come back for me. He didn't.
At 9, I was sent to my aunts; the state took my siblings from Trina. I moved back for fifth grade, and my grandmother took me in - nobody suggested my father. Once, he showed up at school, found me in the lunch line, handed me money, and hugged me. I was embarrassed and didn't hug back.
I lived with Grandma through high school. Levi called sometimes. 'Jenisha, get the phone. It's yo daddy,' she'd shout. I'd rush, toddler-excited - a call was Christmas. He'd promise to pick me up; I'd wait hours. He rarely showed.
In middle school, I spent a weekend with him and his wife. I lied about skipping a grade to impress her. He found out, lectured me, and punished me: 'You can't come over here no more.' He stuck to it - I didn't hear from him for years.
A month before college graduation in 2008, he called. He had a condition and mentioned a genetic test for me, then changed the subject to my graduation. He didn't come. I moved to New York, built a life, and measured my worth by his absence.
He'd send corny texts: 'I love you like a fat kid loves cake.' I treated them like spam. I didn't see him again until 2015, at an assisted-living place. He used a walker, speech slurred, hands shaking. We went to Golden Corral buffet; he smiled with chipped teeth. His illness worsened; my half brother took over - until he disappeared in 2022.
My brother had lived with Dad; I hadn't. Maybe Levi was proud of a son and ashamed of me, connected to a crack-addict mother. He'd claimed my mom was a one-night stand. My brother sold drugs and went on the run; last year, he was caught and sent to Blackburn Correctional Complex for trafficking cocaine, fleeing police, and possessing a firearm. He texted Dad's ex-wife once: 'Tell him I said I love him and miss him.' I read that over and over, wondering what it was like to love and miss our dad.
I resented my brother - for the past he had, for leaving me with this. The nursing home called about a 'smoke incident with one of our dryers'; a nurse left voicemails about care-plan meetings. I called back, went to meetings, visited when in Kentucky - but no more than I had to.
I thought of Levi as a stranger sleeping at a bus stop. Walking away felt cruel but liberating.
Levi was a professional gambler - shot dice, bet on horses at Red Mile Racetrack. His nickname was Sonny. He'd hand out $100 bills like Monopoly money, treat groups to breakfast, cheat at dice with altered ones. He was estranged from his siblings; his youngest brother used Levi's pistol to kill himself at 18, and Uncle Kenny never forgave him. Kenny said, 'Your daddy ain't shit. It seems like a man would look out for his daughter.'
From nurses, I learned his favorite soda was Pepsi, he loved oatmeal pies. Last year, I finally learned his diagnosis: cerebellar ataxia, a degenerative neurological condition that can be inherited. He'd mentioned a test years ago; I never took it. I still haven't. I'm afraid to know if we share the same gene.
I saw him in April, flying back for another funeral. The drive was long; I passed gas stations, homes, a fresh eggs sign. I didn't know his laugh or his voice. At the nursing home, the front-desk woman said, 'Hi, Jenisha'; nurses called me 'Levi's daughter.' One said, 'You're the only person who comes to see him.' I felt sad, not proud - where were the people he'd been close to? I walked to his room, which he shared...