emmylou | natasha romanoff

forty-one.

2016
Springfield, Ohio

Kennedy walked into the hospital room and stared at her father. He'd always been such a big and lively man and staring at him, he seemed so small. So, unlike himself. Kennedy wondered if this was what death did to people.

Mustering the courage that she needed, Kennedy forced herself over to her father's bedside and took a seat in the chair that was beginning to smell like her mother who had spent night and day at her husband's bedside, only to leave when the doctors told her that there was nothing left for them to do.

Kennedy was thirteen, which meant she was at an age where everyone was trying to shelter her from what was going on, but Kennedy had always been smart. She already knew what was going on and she knew that this was the last time that she'd be able to hold her father's hand and speak with him.

Kennedy reached out and took her father's hand and held it. It was warm and as Kennedy clutched his fingers, her eyes began to water.

"Hi daddy," Kennedy says, "It's me, Kennedy Emily Louise Allen or just Emmylou to you."

Kennedy's eyes begin to water, "I heard the doctors talking and they said that no matter what they do, it's pointless which I think is bullshit. There's always something that you can do. And I'm gonna prove that when I'm a doctor someday. I thought you should be the first to know my change in profession. Dr. Allen has a ring to it don't you think?"

She waits as though her father can respond, but she knows better.

"I'm not ready to be without you," Kennedy tells him, "I'm not ready for mom to lie about why she's crying. I'm not ready for you to be a stranger to Reagan. I'm not ready for you to just be a memory. I'm not ready to let go of you."

Kennedy wipes her tears, "I want you to walk me down the aisle. To be there when I graduate. Hold me when I'm crying. I don't know who I am without you."

And that's when Kennedy felt it. There was a slight squeeze of her hand and Kennedy's tears stopped instantly as she looked up at her father. His eyes were still closed, tubes attached to every part of his body, and Kennedy wasn't sure what to do.

"Dad?" Kennedy asks, "Dad can you hear me?"

She stands and looks at her father, "Dad if you can hear me, please don't go! Please don't leave us! Please!"

"Kennedy," her mother says as she enters the room, and she turns and looks at her mother.

"Mom, dad squeezed my hand!" Kennedy says, "I felt it! He's still in there."

"Kennedy," Meredith says shaking her head, "Your father didn't squeeze your hand."

"Yes, he did! I felt it," Kennedy insists, "Hold his hand!"

"Kennedy," her mother says firmly, "Your father is brain dead. He did not squeeze your hand."

Kennedy's throat tightens as she looks over at her father's sleeping face and then at the monitors that showed his heartbeat. She fell back in her seat and stared at her father. Those machines were the only thing keeping him here.

"He's already gone," Kennedy says, "What's the point of saying goodbye if he can't even hear me."

"He can hear you," her mother says, "And the goodbye isn't just for him. It's for you too."

Kennedy looks over at her mother and Meredith enters the room, eyes glistening, "I know you have so much to say to him. I do too. And he's always going to with us, but after this, it's going to be different."

"Meaning this is the last time we get to talk to his face," Kennedy says, and Meredith nods her head.

"I'm not ready," Kennedy tells her mother.