Underwater (33 page)

“Hello,” my mother said, her expression curious.

“Hello.” Dorian smiled at her softly.

“Are you Dorian?” Although her eyebrows were raised, she didn’t seem unhappy that he was here.

“Yes, I am, ma’am.”

“Nice to meet you, Dorian. I’m Abbie.”

Then she did what I most dreaded would happen. She reached out her hand for him to shake. She didn’t know about his aversion to touch. I’d never told her. Dorian looked troubled as he stood tense, muscles taut, looking on edge and about to bolt at any moment.

Not sure it would work, but trying nonetheless, I reached out and grabbed his hand in mine and intertwined our fingers together. His head turned towards me in a flash, and I smiled at him with reassurance. His eyes softened and he took a deep breath, and squeezed my hand.

My mom was watching our exchange and I knew I had some explaining to do, but it would have to wait. She was about to pull her hand away when Dorian made a move to accept her outstretched hand.

“Nice to meet you, too.” His voice shook and drops of sweat began to form on his forehead. I knew I grounded him, however it was taking a lot out of Dorian to keep his shit together long enough to shake my mother’s hand. But he was doing it. He was doing it for me.

When he withdrew his hand, he and I both released the breath we were holding. Even my mother, who had no idea of the chaos that surrounded Dorian, seemed relieved.

“How have you been doing?” I asked my mother, trying to clear the air.

“Okay, I guess,” she said, looking disoriented. “There isn’t much to do except wait.” Melancholy filled in the gaps with the words she couldn’t say.

We were all sitting there together, waiting for the unknown.

“Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation.”

—
Rumi

O
n the fifth day after my father collapsed, I walked into his room and was surprised he was awake.

My heart skipped a beat.

I smiled at him when I reached the bed and took his hand in mine. Bringing his hand to my lips, I planted a kiss across his knuckles. His answering smile was tired and lacked his usual light, but it was a smile nonetheless.

Watching him like this, barely able to open his eyes, made my heart weep.
How was it possible that one disease could bring a healthy, strong man to his knees?

I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and climbed in bed next to him.

“What do you wanna hear?” I asked.

I got no answer to that.

Biting my lip and forcing a smile, I said, “I’ll choose for us then.”

Scrolling down the playlist I had made just for us, I found what I was looking for. Pressing Play, 
Country Lanes
by the Bee Gees filled the room.

We listened together quietly, no words spoken between us. One song would end and another would begin. Every song on the playlist was a favorite of his and that’s all the mattered.

I settled my head across his chest and let the music take us someplace magical. If only for a moment.

Mom had outdone herself these last few weeks, taking care of Dad the way I’d been taking care of him all this time. She’d taken time off work, and refused to let the nurse do the basic things she could do. So Mom bathed him, dressed him, and fed him. And made sure he took his meds

As tired and worn out as Mom looked, I loved seeing her this way. Taking action. Taking care of him. She was finally stepping up and stepping in.

She was finally
accepting
.

Adam, who wanted to do something too, was Dad’s personal massage therapist. A few times a day, my brother would gently rub Dad’s swollen feet.

I couldn’t help smiling. We were a family. A unit.

Dad’s illness had brought us together.

And I knew somewhere deep inside my father knew we had come together for him. I also knew he would be proud.

“You left and I cried tears of blood. My sorrow grows. It’s not just that you left. But when you left my eyes went with you. Now, how will I cry?”

—
Rumi

I
needed
to touch him all the time so he would know I was here, next to him. That I would always be next to him until his last second on earth. I wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone. I held his weak hand securely between both of mine and all I did for hours was stare at him, and counted every breath, watched every line on his face.

At dawn, while everyone else slept, I bid my goodbye, feeling that any moment could be his last.

I leaned in and whispered in his ear, “It’s okay, Daddy. I got you. I got everyone. It’s okay. You can let go now.”

My father died the next day at noon.

The next few days passed in a blur. I remember everyone doing a lot of crying, though none of the crying had come from me.

I was a zombie; too busy staying strong so everyone else could fall apart.

My house was a swarm of people. Friends and family, everyone who cared about my dad came to say goodbye. Some shouted. Some wept. Some stared into space, appearing in shock. And some tried to offer comfort. There was no comfort for me.

The whole month leading up to his death felt like a long, unwanted goodbye. The few moments when my dad had been lucid, I’d wanted to say a thousand things, but ended up saying nothing at all. I was afraid that if I’d said what was in my heart, the angel of death would overhear and come take him away from me sooner.

I regret being so irrational. I wish I could turn back the clock. I wouldn’t waste the opportunity again.

Watching him now, his chest unmoving, his lungs no longer struggling to breathe, all I could do was stare. Just – stare. The ache in my soul was too real, too painful. I was sure I wasn’t going to survive it. And there was one small moment when I had hoped I wouldn’t.

I kept watching him though, willing him with my mind to move.

He never did.

God.
I needed to see those green eyes that were identical to mine. I needed to see his warm smile he saved only for me. I needed to feel his comforting arms wrapped around me, reassuring me that he would never leave.

But he
did
leave. He left me. My heart thumped painfully inside my chest, every beat a reminder that my dad’s heart would never beat again.

“You left ground and sky weeping,

mind and soul full of grief.

No one can take your place in existence, or in absence.

Both mourn, the angels, the prophets,

and this sadness I feel has taken from me

the taste of language, so that I cannot say

the flavor of my being apart.”

—
Rumi