They'd met for lunch, the younger daughter Jane and the older one Betsy.
"Couldn't you have waited until he was gone, to wear black?" Jane asked.
"In reverence to him," Betsy said. "I know what Dad would want."
Jane refused to fight with her, again, and when they left the diner, Betsy clipping ahead to the car on her high heels, Jane paid the check, again, before she stepped outside into the glare of brilliant sunlight.
"Unlock the doors," Betsy said.
They drove to hospice in silence to see Papa, who was lying in a narrow single bed, his skin dull, his two-day old whiskers wisps of white on his chin.
Betsy leaned over him, close in as if she were asking him something, then sighed and sat in one of the stiff-backed chairs set against a pale mauve-tan wall. "I'm his favorite, you know," she said. "There's no point in you staying."
Jane sat in the other chair and folded her arms. "I'll stay as long as you do."
"Where do you think he put the rings?" Betsy whispered.
"Can't you wait until someone is gone before you want their stuff?"
"You've wanted them too."
"For different reasons. To remember him … and Mama."
"Ah yes, always the loving daughter."
The bed creaked and Papa groaned.
"Do you want something, Papa?" Betsy asked.
Jane sprang to her feet and at that moment, the ward nurse hurried into the room. "I've told you," she said in a low voice, "one at a time. Now, one of you out," and motioned to them with exaggerated shooing gestures.
"It can't take much longer," Betsy whispered. "I should be the one to stay since I'm the oldest."
Jane glanced at papa, back to the nurse, and then left the room. For a few moments, she sat in a chair in the hall but she couldn't sit still. The door to his room was ajar and she peeked inside. Betsy was rummaging through the drawers of the night table. Papa's face was gray in the lamplight. No point in getting caught and she moved away from the door and stepped across the wide hallway to stand in front of a window.
She didn't hear Betsy until she hissed behind her, "He's gone. There's no point in us staying."
Jane's back stiffened. For fifty years, she'd jumped when Betsy spoke but this once she wouldn't automatically obey her sister. "Of course, I'll see him," she said.
"Give me the keys to the car then."
"No. I waited for you. It's my turn now."
Betsy glared at her. "Then, hurry up. Get this over with."
Jane stared at her. Did she have any idea how harsh she looked, dying her hair that crow black? And her bright red lipstick seeping into the lines around her mouth. "I'll never be with Papa again. I'll take as long as I want to."
Back inside his room, she shut the door and tiptoed to the bed. Papa lay still, his mouth ajar as if he'd been stopped in the middle of a word. She leaned over to kiss him on the forehead when his hand grabbed her wrist with a strength that surprised her. She pulled back, snapped her mouth shut in time to squelch a yelp. His eyes opened and he blinked as if he was trying to say something. The stroke two weeks ago had taken his speech. His other arm rested limply atop a gray blanket.
"What is it, Papa? What are you trying to tell me?"
He strained to lift his head but it fell back. He tried again, his face in a grimace at the effort. He gripped her wrist tighter and then his strength slackened and his hand slipped away. A dot of perspiration erupted on his forehead. She stroked the droplet, then ran her fingers through his thin white hair. He'd been so proud of having a full head of hair to age eighty-seven.
"Do you want me to get the nurse?" she whispered.
He shook his head a tiny fraction, then tried again to lift his head but failed. His breathing was slower, choppier. Every night when she was a little girl, he'd fluffed her pillow around her head, and then rested his hand gently on her forehead while she said her prayers.
She cupped his chin in her hands and then patted and fluffed the edges of the pillow. Sometimes when she was little, papa had hugged her along with her pillow and now she had an urge to hold him as close to her as she could. She tucked her arms beneath the pillow and when she did, she felt a small box under it. She pulled it outward until she could let his head settle back gently into the pillow. She looked at his face. His expression had relaxed, as if he was smiling, and then she realized he was gone.
The door thrust open. "How much longer, Jane?"
She leaned against the mattress while she slipped the box into a pocket of her knit sweater, kissed Papa on the forehead, and then she sat next to him, holding his hand in hers, her tears sliding down her cheeks.
Brigitte lives in Maine and frequently uses settings and experiences from her backyard in her writing. She has earned Fiction Writing Certificates from Gotham Writers Workshop and UCLA-Ext and is working on the WVU-MFA Certificate. In addition to facilitating WVU classes, she meets weekly with two local writers' groups.
Located in Maine.
