Dying Wish

Dying Wish 

 

Forty-five minutes remain. 

I park my car in the half-shoveled driveway and tread carefully up to the front door. I swore I’d never return to this house the last time I left, but I guess impending death can make a person do questionable things. I hesitate for a moment, then knock on the door. Then, several moments later, he was standing in front of me. 

“Hey Dad,” I said sheepishly. 

“The hell’re you doin’ here?” Dad replies. He’s barely able to string together a coherent sentence between the slurring of his words, but this is the state I’m used to seeing him in. His T-shirt is covered in grease stains and the blue underwear he’s wearing doesn’t seem to be in any better condition. What little remains of his hair is tousled and unkempt, just like it was when I was a kid.  

“I wanted to talk to you. It’s probably our last chance to do so before…ya’know.” 

“Who said I wanted to spend my last moments with you?” 

“Very nice, Dad,” I scoffed. “Now let me in, it’s freezing out here.”  

The sour stench of alcohol hits my nose the minute I walk through the door. If that isn’t enough evidence that Dad is drinking himself to death, then the 12 empty Svedka that decorate the living room confirm all suspicions. 

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” I joke as I remove my winter jacket. “Have you been drinking straight vodka?” 

“What a man does in his final hours is his business, Claire.”  

“I suppose I can’t argue with you on that,” I concede. After all, social norms and mores tend to go out the window when a 9-mile-wide meteor is descending upon you. Dad sits down on the couch and pulls a half-empty bottle of Fireball whiskey from between the cushions, chugging away without any concern for his guest. I took this as my cue to sit down and skip the pleasantries, instead opting to do what I came here for. “Why were you such an awful dad?” 

“That’s why you came over, huh? To interrogate me about shit that happened 20 years ago?” He said, screwing the cap back on the whiskey. “Can’t you just get over it?” 

“Obviously not, otherwise I’d be somewhere else right now,” I answer. “After Mom died, you basically left me to fend for myself. I was 7, Dad.” 

“Oh, quit yer bitchin’!” Dad yells. “I took care’a alll my siblings when I was a kid ‘n you never see me complainin’!”  

“So that’s your excuse? ‘I suffered so you should too?’ That’s a bunch of crap, Dad, and you know it!” 

We sit silently together for what feels like hours. I stare at him, waiting for anything resembling an apology or an answer, but he keeps his gaze affixed firmly to the carpeting. It’s impossible to tell if he was contemplating what I said or is lost in an alcohol-induced confusion. Just as I’m about to speak up again, he shifts and looks at me with an emotion I’d never seen in him before. 

“You look just like her, ya’know. Like your mom,” he mumbles. I can feel the angry energy in the room shift on a dime. “She was so beautiful, so smart…I always felt so lucky to have known her. She helped me get sober, helped get me a job, convinced me that I wasn’t worthless. When she died…I think I died with her too, Claire.” 

I’ve never heard him talk about Mom before. After she died, if I ever brought her up or asked any questions about her, Dad would just brush me off. I want so desperately to be mad at him, to scream in his face and throw furniture at him. But the longer I look at him, that sad old man in front of me with tears trickling down his face, the less angry I feel.  

“Every time you looked at me, I saw her. I saw her eyes, her smile…and it broke me. I was too weak, too weak to give you what you needed. What you deserved. I couldn’t look at you without seeing your mom in that damn bed, so withered and cold. You know what her last words were?” 

I shake my head.  

“Take care of Claire,” he says softly. We look at each other, silently, both of us visibly crying before Dad continues. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. I’m so sorry I failed you.” 

Before I can register what my body is doing, I’m hugging my dad. My dad, the one who I spent my childhood cursing and wishing death upon. The man that I hated the most in the world is enveloped in my arms. And when he hugs me back, I realize that this is all I ever wanted.  

“I think I love you, Dad.” 

“I love you too, baby girl.” 

~ 

Ten minutes remain. 

After our heart-to-heart, we had a lot of catching up to do. I told him all about my life after I left home, like how I had gone to my dream college and gotten a master’s degree. I told him about all the crummy guys I dated and all the wonderful people I met along the way. We share stories of happiness, sadness, stupidity, and everything else we can possibly think of. I try not to think about the doomsday clock ticking in the back of my head or the strange colors that the sky is turning. This was all the time that I had left and I am determined to spend it happy, not sad. I’ve spent enough time being sad.  

To aid in this mission, Dad and I share what little alcohol he has left together. My vision is beginning to become blurry around the edges when Dad hauls in the record player from the storage room.  

“If that meteor is gonna kill us, I refuse to die in silence,” Dad insists. “I’ve had enough of silence.” 

“I agree,” I say, washing another shot of whiskey down my throat. He thumbs through his record collection for a while, intermittently adding an ‘oo’ or an ‘ah’ when he comes across an album that he likes. When he gets to the back of the stack, he stops dead in his tracks. 

“This one was your mom’s favorite back in the day,” he sighs. He removed the record from its sleeve and powers up the turntable, fiddling with the needle until it is right where he wants it. The sound of a gentle synthesizer plays before the lyrics kick in. 

And now, the end is near. 

And so I face the final curtain. 

“Frank Sinatra?” I question. Dad shrugs. 

“She had a thing for the guy. She said it’s ‘cause her dad listened to him, but I think she thought he was handsome.” 

We both giggle. Our joy is quickly disrupted by a violent tremor that shakes the whole house. We run to the window only to find that the sky is now painted a dystopian shade of red, a warning of what is to come. My stomach drops when I finally see it: a faint, orange streak darting across the sky. I could tell that we don’t have much time left. I turn towards Dad with panic in my eyes, which he responds to by turning up the music. He crosses the room and hugs me before pressing a soft kiss on my forehead. 

“Don’t worry, baby. Daddy’s got you,” he reaffirms. We break the hug as the music begins to crescendo. I try to turn around and watch what is happening outside, but Dad firmly grabs me by my shoulders before I can. “Sing this with me.” 

“What?”  

“You heard me. Sing this song with me,” Dad reiterates. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I suspect that this is just a ploy to distract me, but I don’t really care. I smile as I grab an empty Svedka bottle off the table and raise it to my lips to mimic a microphone.  

“Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew,” I begin. 

“When I bit off more than I could chew!” Dad replies, mirroring my smile. 

Twenty-six seconds remain. The Earth begins rumbling again. 

“But through it all, when there was doubt…” 

“I ate it up–” 

“And spit it out!” 

Thirteen seconds remain. 

“I faced it all and I stood tall…” 

Seven seconds remain. The house is shaking so badly that the framed pictures on the wall fall to the ground and shatter. Our time was up. I throw my microphone/bottle to the ground and embrace my dad one last time. 

Six. 

Five. 

“Say ‘Hi’ to your mom for me, kid,” Dad whispers. 

“I will, Dad.” 

And did it 

Four. 

My– 

Three. 

Two. 

Way 

One.