The Chosen

by Chaim Potok

I saw it was my father. I almost cried out, but I held back and waited for him to come up to my bed. I saw he was carrying a package wrapped in newspapers. He had on his dark gray, striped, double-breasted suit and his gray hat. He looked thin and worn, and his face was pale. His eyes seemed red behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, as though he hadn’t slept in a long time. He came quickly around to the left side of the bed and looked down at me and tried to smile. But the smile didn’t come through at all. “The hospital telephoned me a little while ago,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. “They told me you were awake.” I started to sit up in the bed. “No,” he said. “Lie still. They told me you were not to sit up yet.” I lay back and looked up at him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and put the package down next to him. He took off his hat and put it on top of the package. His sparse gray hair lay uncombed on his head. That was unusual for my father. I never remembered him leaving the house without first carefully combing his hair.