Beluga

Chapter 4 See you soon

She sat by his bed. Just him and her. His fiancé had gone to the cafe to give them some time alone. Catherine liked her and was eternally grateful for the care she'd given her Dad when she couldn't.

His skin was not what it once was. He wasn't what we once was. Gone was the athletic and muscular bronzed man; in his place lay a pale skinned man with piercing blue eyes. His skin had taken on a grey tinge. The doctors said that would happen; it's what happens when the body prepares for death. Things begins to shut down and one of them is the skin. It stops rejuvenating itself and grows lackluster and dull. He had lost weight. He was just a shell of who her Dad was, but in his eyes, she could still see him. He was in there. Barely. But he was in there.

His colour was blue. Faint, but definitely still blue. All around her she felt an atmosphere.

"Dad?"

"I can still hear you, petal. You didn't have to come all this way."

His voice was laboured and sickly.

"I had to, Dad."

They sat in silence. She held his hand and felt his bones through it. He squeezed her hand slightly and gestured to his other hand which was clasped in to a fist.

"I saved something for you."

He began to cough and she helped him take a sip of water from a little cup. Little droplets escaped his mouth and she dabbed them dry with a tissue. She never thought she'd have to help her Dad drink, and yet oddly she felt she knew exactly what to do.

He gestured to his clenched fist and opened it. In his palm lay a string of little white beads with intricate carvings.

Catherine recognized them and slowly took them from his hand.

"Do you remember these? We got them in Castle Douglas when you were a little girl."

"I remember."

"I need you to look after them for a while, for me. Will you do that?"

She nodded and slipped them in to her handbag. She could feel the tears creeping up. She remembered that days, and then all the other special days. Her Dad and her had an extra special connection that she just couldn't explain. It was as if they were the same spirit, shared the same energy and belonged to the exact same life. She'd lost count of the amount of times she'd gone to phone him and he'd be already on the other end of the phone, having tried to phone her at that exact same moment. And all the dreams they had both had. She'd phone and tell him about her weird dreams, only to find out he had the exact same dream. As a young boy he's fallen off a bike and injured his knee, leaving him with a permanent scar. As a child Kate had done the same and had an identical scar on the exact same knee. They breathed the same air and somehow, over all those hundreds of miles, still existed as if they lived in the same house, as Father and daughter. Miles could never separate them.

And now he was tired and slipping further away to a place she knew she'd never find him. Every time she looked away and looked back, it was as if yet another little something had slipped. She could never tell you medically or by name what parts of him were slipping, but they were; bit by bit, piece by piece. His spirit remained and stared back at her through his glassy eyes; one side of his face paralyzed by the strokes. That stare would never leave her. It was the stare of a man sure of himself, who knew the world, who knew how to take care of himself. It was a man who didn't want to go, but knew he had to. It was cancer.

They had already decided a while ago; when it was months rather than days, and weeks rather than hours, that when the time came, she would visit, say goodbye and go. He didn't want her missing lessons. It was an odd understanding but it would work for them. All these years, and neither of them wanted a prolonged goodbye.

It was time.

"I've got to go back to London, Dad."

"I know, darlin'."

"I love you."

"I love you too. Always. Forever and ever. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, Dad."

"When I get there, I'll let you know? I'll call you."

He was losing it. A tear bubbled in Catherine's eye. This isn't what they had planned. He hadn't wanted her to see him at the very end. This had been his idea, for her to say her goodbye when he was still of sound body and mind. But now, he was talking about calling her. She opted to go along with it. Let her dying Father spend his last days believing they weren't going to be parted.

"I know, Dad. I'll see you soon."

"You too, darlin'."

And with that she stood up, kissed him on the forehead, and slowly walked out. She followed the hospice corridors as they went past door after door after door. Each room filled with yet another person, perhaps planning a similar goodbye to hers.

It was done.

It was time to go back to London.

He passed at 3:05am the following morning.

Frank Whitfield belonged to another man's horizon.