The Last Song (47 page)

They dressed in overcoats, and Ronnie even wrapped a wool scarf around her father’s neck. The wind carried in it the first
sharp taste of winter, making it feel colder than the thermometer suggested. She insisted on driving to the pier and parked
Pastor Harris’s car in the deserted boardwalk lot.

It took a long time to reach the end of the pier. They were alone beneath a cloud-swept sky, the iron gray waves visible between
the concrete planks. As they shuffled forward, her father kept his arm looped through hers, clinging to her as the wind tugged
at their overcoats.

When they finally made it, her dad reached out for the railing and almost lost his balance. In the silvery light, the planes
of his sunken cheeks stood out in sharp relief and his eyes looked a little glassy, but she could tell he was satisfied.

The steady movement of the waves stretching out before him to the horizon seemed to bring him a feeling of serenity. There
was nothing to see—no boats, no porpoises, no surfers—but his expression seemed peaceful and free of pain for the first time
in weeks. Near the waterline, the clouds seemed almost alive, roiling and shifting as the wintry sun attempted to pierce their
veiled masses. She found herself watching the play of clouds with the same wonder her father did, wondering where his thoughts
lay.

The wind was picking up, and she saw him shiver. She could tell he wanted to stay, his gaze locked on the horizon. She tugged
gently on his arm, but he only tightened his grip on the railing.

She relented then, standing next to him until he was shuddering with cold, finally ready to go. He released the railing and
let her turn him around, starting their slow march back to the car. From the corner of her eye, she noticed he was smiling.

“It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” she remarked.

Her dad took a few steps before answering.

“Yes,” he said. “But mostly I enjoyed sharing that moment with you.”

Two days later, she resolved to read his final letter. She would do it soon, before he was gone. Not tonight, but soon, she
promised herself. It was late at night, and the day with her dad had been the hardest yet. The medicine didn’t seem to be
helping him at all. Tears leaked out of his eyes as spasms of pain racked his body; she begged him to let her bring him to
the hospital, but still he refused.

“No,” he gasped. “Not yet.”

“When?” she asked desperately, close to tears herself. He didn’t answer, only held his breath, waiting for the pain to pass.
When it did, he seemed suddenly weaker, as if it had sheared away a sliver of the little life he had left.

“I want you to do something for me,” he said. His voice was a ragged whisper.

She kissed the back of his hand. “Anything,” she said.

“When I first received my diagnosis, I signed a DNR. Do you know what that is?” He searched her face. “It means I don’t want
any extraordinary measures that might keep me alive. If I go to the hospital, I mean.”

She felt her stomach twist in fear. “What are you trying to say?”

“When the time comes, you have to let me go.”

“No,” she said, beginning to shake her head, “don’t talk like that.”

His gaze was gentle but insistent. “Please,” he whispered. “It’s what I want. When I go to the hospital, bring the papers.
They’re in my top desk drawer, in a manila envelope.”

“No… Dad, please,” she cried. “Don’t make me do that. I can’t do that.”

He held her gaze. “Even for me?”

That night, his whimpers were broken by a labored, rapid breathing that terrified her. Though she had promised she would do
what he asked, she wasn’t sure she could.

How could she tell the doctors not to do anything? How could she let him die?

On Monday, Pastor Harris picked them both up and drove them to the church to watch the window being installed. Because he
was too weak to stand, they brought a lawn chair with them. Pastor Harris helped her support him as they slowly made their
way to the beach. A crowd had gathered in anticipation of the event, and for the next few hours, they watched as workers carefully
set the window in place. It was as spectacular as she’d imagined it would be, and when the final brace was bolted into place,
a cheer went up. She turned to see her father’s reaction and noticed that he’d fallen asleep, cocooned in the heavy blankets
she’d draped over him.

With Pastor Harris’s help, she brought him home and put him in bed. On his way out, the pastor turned to her.

“He was happy,” he said, as much to convince himself as her.

“I know he was,” she assured him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “It’s exactly what he wanted.”

Her dad slept for the rest of the day, and as the world went black outside her window, she knew it was time to read the letter.
If she didn’t do it now, she might never find the courage.

The light in the kitchen was dim. After tearing open the envelope, she slowly unfolded the page. The handwriting was different
from his previous letters; gone was the flowing, open style she’d expected. In its place was something like a scrawl. She
didn’t want to imagine what a struggle it must have been to write the words or how long it had taken him. She took a deep
breath and began to read.

Hi, sweetheart,

I’m proud of you.

I haven’t said those words to you as often as I should have. I say them now, not because you chose to stay with me through
this incredibly difficult time, but because I wanted you to know that you’re the remarkable person I’ve always dreamed you
could be.

Thank you for staying. I know it’s hard for you, surely harder than you imagined it would be, and I’m sorry for the hours
that you’re going to inevitably spend alone. But I’m especially sorry because I haven’t always been the father you’ve needed
me to be. I know I’ve made mistakes. I wish I could change so many things in my life. I suppose that’s normal, considering
what’s happening to me, but there’s something else I want you to know.

As hard as life can be and despite all my regrets, there have been moments when I felt truly blessed. I felt that way when
you were born, and when I took you to the zoo as a child and watched you stare at the giraffes in amazement. Usually, those
moments don’t last long; they come and go like ocean breezes. But sometimes, they stretch out forever.

That’s what the summer was like for me, and not only because you forgave me. The summer was a gift to me, because I came to
know the young woman I always knew you would grow into. As I told your brother, it was the best summer of my life, and I often
wondered during those idyllic days how someone like me could have been blessed with a daughter as wonderful as you.

Thank you, Ronnie. Thank you for coming. And thank you for the way you made me feel each and every day we had the chance to
be together.

You and Jonah have always been the greatest blessings in my life. I love you, Ronnie, and I’ve always loved you. And never,
ever forget that I am, and always have been, proud of you. No father has ever been as blessed as I.

Dad

Thanksgiving passed. Along the beach, people began to put up Christmas decorations.

Her dad had lost a third of his body weight and spent nearly all his time in bed.

Ronnie stumbled across the sheets of paper when she was cleaning the house one morning. They’d been wedged carelessly into
the drawer of the coffee table, and when she pulled them out, it took her only a moment to recognize her father’s hand in
the musical notes scrawled on the page.

It was the song he’d been writing, the song she’d heard him playing that night in the church. She set the pages on top of
the table to inspect them more closely. Her eye raced over the heavily edited series of notes, and she thought again that
her dad had been on to something. As she read, she could hear the arresting strains of the opening bars in her head. But as
she flipped through the score to the second and third pages, she could also see that it wasn’t quite right. Although his initial
instincts had been good, she thought she recognized where the composition began to lose its way. She fished a pencil from
the table drawer and began to overlay her own work on his, scrawling rapid chord progressions and melodic riffs where her
father had left off.

Before she knew it, three hours had gone by and she heard her dad beginning to stir. After tucking the pages back into the
drawer, she headed for the bedroom, ready to face whatever the day would bring.

Later that evening, when her father had fallen into yet another fitful sleep, she retrieved the pages, this time working long
past midnight. In the morning, she woke up eager and anxious to show him what she’d done. But when she entered his bedroom,
he wouldn’t stir at all, and she panicked when she realized that he was barely breathing.

Her stomach was in knots as she called the ambulance, and she felt unsteady as she made her way back to the bedroom. She wasn’t
ready, she told herself, she hadn’t shown him the song. She needed another day.
It’s not time yet.
But with trembling hands, she opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the manila envelope.

In the hospital bed, her father looked smaller than she’d ever seen him. His face had collapsed in on itself, and his skin
had an unnatural grayish pallor. His breaths were as shallow and rapid as an infant’s. She squeezed her eyes closed, wishing
she weren’t here. Wishing she were anywhere but here.

“Not yet, Daddy,” she whispered. “Just a little more time, okay?”

Outside the hospital window, the sky was gray and cloudy. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees, and the stark and
empty branches somehow reminded her of bones. The air was cold and still, presaging a storm.

The envelope sat on the nightstand, and though she’d promised her dad she would give it to the doctor, she hadn’t done so
yet. Not until she was sure he wouldn’t wake, not until she was sure she was never going to have the chance to say good-bye.
Not until she was certain there was nothing more she could do for him.

She prayed fiercely for a miracle, a tiny one. And as though God Himself were listening, it happened twenty minutes later.

She’d been sitting beside him for most of the morning. She’d grown so used to the sound of his breathing and the steady beep
of the heart monitor that the slightest change sounded like an alarm. Looking up, she saw his arm twitch and his eyes flutter
open. He blinked under the fluorescent lights, and Ronnie instinctively reached for his hand.

“Dad?” she said. Despite herself, she felt a surge of hope; she imagined him slowly sitting up.

But he didn’t. He didn’t even seem to hear her. When he rolled his head with great effort to look at her, she saw a darkness
in his eyes that she’d never seen before. But then he blinked and she heard him sigh.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered hoarsely.

The fluid in his lungs made him sound as if he were drowning. She forced herself to smile. “How are you doing?”

“Not too well.” He paused, as if to gather his strength. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital. You were brought here this morning. I know you have a DNR, but…”

When he blinked again, she thought his eyes might stay closed. But eventually he opened them.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. The forgiveness in his voice tore at her heart. “I understand.”

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not.”

She kissed him on the cheek and tried to wrap her arms around his shrunken figure. She felt his hand graze her back.

“Are you… okay?” he asked her.

“No,” she admitted, feeling the tears start to come. “I’m not okay at all.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

“No, don’t say that,” she said, willing herself not to break down. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I never should have stopped talking
to you. I’ve wanted so desperately to take it all back.”

He gave a ghostly smile. “Did I ever tell you that I think you’re beautiful?”

“Yeah,” she said, sniffling. “You’ve told me.”

“Well, this time I mean it.”

She laughed helplessly through her tears. “Thanks,” she said. Leaning over, she kissed his hand.

“Do you remember when you were little?” he asked, suddenly serious. “You used to watch me playing the piano for hours. One
day, I found you sitting at the keyboard playing a melody you had heard me play. You were only four years old. You always
had so much talent.”

“I remember,” she said.

“I want you to know something,” her dad said, gripping her hand with surprising force. “No matter how bright your star became,
I never cared about the music half as much as I cared about you as a daughter… I want you to know that.”

She nodded. “I believe you. And I love you, too, Dad.”

He took a long breath, his eyes never leaving hers. “Then will you bring me home?”

The words struck her with their full weight, unavoidable and direct. She glanced at the envelope, knowing what he was asking
and what he needed her to say. And in that instant, she remembered everything about the last five months. Images raced through
her mind, one after the next, stopping only when she saw him sitting in the church at the keyboard, beneath the empty space
where the window would eventually be installed.

And it was then that she knew what her heart had been telling her to do all along.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll bring you home. But I need you to do something for me, too.”

Her dad swallowed. It seemed to take all the strength he had to say. “I’m not sure I can anymore.”

She smiled and reached for the envelope. “Even for me?”

Pastor Harris had lent her his car, and she drove as fast as she could. Holding her cell phone, she made the call as she was
changing lanes. She quickly explained what was happening and what she needed; Galadriel agreed immediately. She drove as though
her father’s life depended on it, accelerating at every yellow light.

Galadriel was waiting for her at the house when she arrived. Beside her on the porch lay two crowbars, which she hefted as
Ronnie approached.