The Last Song

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?"