Half of me is appalled by his demands, but the other half is charmed. Still, I’m pissed. “You’re giving me an ultimatum?”
“Yup,” he replies with a confident nod.
Then he picks up his utensils and starts eating his food.
With gusto.
Clearly feeling better about his life.Chapter 13RafeEverything seems normal when I wake up. It’s game day...the first game of the third round of the playoffs.
The conference finals, and we have home-ice advantage against the New York Vipers. My belly rumbles with nerves, but that’s typical on any game day.
I quietly dress in my old bedroom. Long gone are the posters of Wayne Gretsky and Mario Lemieux, my mom having converted this into a guest room long ago. The bed is rustic wrought iron that squeaks with any movement, and the furniture is feminine. Not that it bothers me. It’s merely a place to rest my body until my dad can move on. Until he does, I’m not going anywhere.
We have a team skate at ten a.m., but I want to get in a light workout—more stretching than anything—before, as my groin’s been feeling a little tender after a fall I took last week on the ice. I’m not about to do anything to jeopardize my chances of playing because it’s starting to become real.
The Cold Fury is on fire, and there’s a real chance they—we—might win the championship for the third year in a row.
Grabbing my workout duffel, I open my bedroom door and tiptoe down the hall past my parents’ bedroom. It’s empty, of course. Mom has taken to sleeping on the recliner beside my dad in case he needs anything, though I’m not sure what that would be.
He slipped into unconsciousness over twenty-four hours ago, and we called the hospice nurse out. She checked his urine output—yes, I’ve become adept at emptying his catheter bag—and took his vitals. In a low voice, she told us it wouldn’t be long.
I come out of the hallway and get my first glimpse of the living room. My dad is lying in the bed, the blanket pulled up to mid-chest. My mom is sound asleep in the recliner beside him, an old afghan draped over her shoulders. The dawning sun casts a yellow glow over the room, and I place my duffel quietly on the floor at the top of the staircase.
I move silently, not wanting to wake my mom up. It doesn’t matter with Dad, as chances of him rousing are minimal. Nearing the bed, I note with a smile how peaceful my dad looks in his deep sleep, hopefully secured far away from the pain and torment of dying.
And then I notice how utterly peaceful he looks.
My heart thuds to a painful stop in my chest, and a wave of terror hits me. While I’ve been living every moment these last twenty-four hours knowing that death is imminent and could happen between one breath and the next, I’m not prepared for the reality of it.
I approach the bed hesitantly, my hand shaking as I reach toward my father. My eyes strain in the morning gloom to see if I can tell whether or not he’s breathing. I press my palm against his face and then reel backward, away from the icy chill of his skin.
My father is dead.
There’s no stopping the flood of tears that assault my eyes, and I do nothing but periodically blink to dispel them. They come in wave after wave, so I don’t even bother wiping the wetness from my cheeks.
I take my dad’s hand, curl my fingers around it, and rest my hip against the railing of the bed as I stare down at him.
Yes, he looks so very peaceful. There’s even a slight smile playing on his lips, and I’d like to believe it means he was thinking of something happy in his last moments on this Earth.
I think of the conversation we had the day before yesterday, and now I’m the one who smiles.
Still crying, but smiling all the same.
I’d sat by his bed and, upon Wylde’s advice, had a conversation with my father like no other.
“Dad,” I’d said. “I just want you to know that I love you very much.”
My dad blinked in surprise, and his eyes got emotional and wet. They were words I didn’t give him very often because they were things we just didn’t say a lot to each other. They were awkward and heavy, yet I didn’t fumble over them at all. I spoke from the heart, wanting no regrets to weigh me down.
“I love you, son,” he’d replied. “I wish we had more time together.”
I took his hand, and it was all the encouragement he needed. His feelings came pouring out in a litany of love, fervent wishes, and wisdom for me to follow throughout my life. He apologized for not being a better dad, and I assured him that he was the best. He advised me to seek love and hold on to it hard, and I told him I was working on it. He knew I meant Calliope, and he merely nodded.