The ambulance roars off down the driveway, sending dust in the air as Valerie runs into the house and grabs the keys.
We all pile into the Porsche, even Major, and Valerie guns it down the road.
All of us are hoping for one more chance.
It’s been several hours since my father was admitted to the hospital. All five of us waited and paced in the waiting room, wanting to hear the status, sipping on weak tea. We all knew that there wouldn’t be much they could do for him but we still needed to know that he could at least live for a few more days, just so everyone could have their goodbyes.
The doctor eventually came out and told us that he didn’t have days.
He had minutes.
I nearly collapse on the linoleum floor, unable to grasp the finality of it all, Val holding me up.
Minutes.
Minutes of life.
Minutes to make amends.
Minutes to let him know much I love him.
But even if it were hours instead of minutes and days instead of hours and weeks instead of days, it still wouldn’t be enough time.
He was right about time.
It’s all over before you know it.
We all go into his hospital room at once, like a team.
The room is private and dim and my dad is lying in the hospital bed, an IV in his arm. The heart monitor beeps, so slowly, too slowly. In smells like death in here. He’s not moving. If it weren’t for the monitors I wouldn’t think he was still alive.
God, this is hell on earth.
We stand around the bed and Major is the first to say something, standing by my dad’s head, hands clasped at his waist.
“I don’t know if ye can hear me old chap, but I’ll always be able to hear ye. Your voice always echoing in my head, yelling at me over what bad bets I made at the races and how I always cheer for the wrong team. You were a cantankerous old man, but so am I and maybe that’s why we got along so well.” He pauses, getting choked up. “You were my best friend Colin, and I don’t think I ever told you that. I’m sorry I’m only telling ye now. I’m going to miss ye.”
He wipes the tears away from his eyes and steps back.
Nan goes up beside Colin and puts her hand over his. “I know ye can hear me dear. So I’m going to say some things to ye that I never got the chance to say. Things I should have said earlier, decades ago, but I didn’t because the good Lord decided to make me stubborn. The fact is, when ye first said you were going to marry my daughter, I was already plotting the many different ways I could prevent that from happening. My husband didn’t see the problem but I did. No, I saw ye as a bad boy and not fit for the likes of Theresa’s gentle soul. But ye found a way, the both of ye did, and went behind my back.” She lets out a soft laugh. “She’d sneak out in the middle of the night, leave pillows under her covers to make it look like she was sleeping. Ah, the cheek of it.”
“The truth is,” she goes on, her voice becoming strained, “that you were a good man to Theresa and I should have told ye that. You were a good husband, and contrary to what ye always thought, you were a good father too. I don’t know why we keep these things from each other. Why sometimes, as a family, we’re always in a battle. I guess that’s the thing about family though, whether by blood or not. Everyone is trying to protect themselves and in the end they shut out those that they love the most and that love them the most. We’re so imperfect, ye see. All of us. We’re made of broken bits and jagged edges and we expect to fit flush with each other like puzzle pieces but we can’t. And that’s not the point of family. You don’t need to fit, you just need to be close.”
“If I have any regrets, it’s not being more loving with ye, not treating you like a son, because you are my son. And … merciful Jesus, it pains me something fierce to see ye go like this. To have seen my daughter and my husband go too. I’m ninety-years old, I shouldn’t have outlived all of ye. And yet