Façade

Epilogue

A flatline sang out over the hospital room. Daniel's eyes remained closed as his face lay adjacent to his wife's. Tears fell down his wrinked cheeks as he remembered their full life together with warm sincerity. He couldn't believe she was gone. Her cheek felt colder with each passing second, and he knew that this time was limited. Memories that he hadn't been able to recall in decades, suddenly came to him with amazing clarity. He brought his face back, to look upon hers, still holding her manicured, arthritis-ridden hand in his. Her snow white hair still remained curled, only much shorter. Her big, kind eyes, were still the darkest shade of brown he'd ever seen, but beautiful nonetheless. She was still the gorgeous, vibrant woman he'd fallen on love with, nearly sixty years earlier.

He thought about the first time they met, they were both young, rich, twenty-somethings, without a worry or a care, and the world at their privileged feet, not too eager to while away another summer in the Hamptons, doing much the same as they did every year- until they met each other. In what seemed like a serendipidous turn of events, her drink ended up all over his shoulder, and the rest of the afternoon was spent talking, and telling extremely bad jokes. He remembered thinking he'd never have a chance with her.

As he gently nudged her engagement and wedding rings from side to side on her dainty finger, his mind drifted to the day he proposed to her. He'd planned it to a tee. The yacht where they first met, the jacket she'd spilled her drink on, the string quartet, and the canary diamond, set in platinum, and encrusted with dozens upon dozes of tiny little diamonds, each of flawless clarity. He'd spent hours picking the perfect one. He remembered the feeling of complete and utter fear during the long pause between his question and her answer, and then the jublation he felt at her response. He was certain that he ever loved anyone quite as much as he loved her.

Their three children entered the room, they were all grown up, but still at a loss as to what they'd do without their mother. The first to approach Emily was their eldest daughter, Charlotte. Her long, straight, blonde hair skimmed Emily's chest as she planted a light kiss on her forehead, Daniel watched as her once bright green eyes welled with tears as she approached him to hug him, and sob into the shoulder of his jumper. He reminded himself of the day Charlotte took her first steps. They were spending the evening on the beach, and Emily was walking along, with Charlotte's tiny hands in her own, when Charlotte snapped her hands down suddenly, almost in an act of defiance, and took her first tentative steps unaccompanied. Emily began to hop up an down, he remembered her face, as she laughed and clapped at their daughter's achievement.

The next to brave their new, motherless world, was their youngest child. Their son, Joshua. His lion-like stance, and the indurated look on his face reminded him so of Emily. How in the face of adversity, she would remain calm, almost emotionless. But he knew that even the strongest dams find a way of leaking. When he took his mother's hand, and he looked as though it was becoming too much, Daniel moved to his side, and once again began to console his distraught child as tears came to the brims of his big blue eyes. It brought to Daniel's mind a memory of a teleision interview they'd done, just prior to his birth. He remembered the interviewer being particularly cruel about Emily's age, having had their last child just under nine years previously, and Emily being in her early forties at the time, it was obviously a sensitive topic, given that Joshua had been nothing short of a surprise. Daniel, hearing this, had then come to Emily's defence, with a slew of comments on the interviewer's age. In retrospect, it was a rather cruel retort on Daniel's part, but he had hated to see Emily upset or uncomfortable. It was much the same situation with his children.

The only one left was Caroline. Victoria's facsimile. She was the one that didn't ever really connect properly with Emily. They loved each other, but she was the most Grayson-esque of the three children, and Daniel had always thought that another reason for this detatchment was the fact that she bore such a resembleance to his mother. It reminded him of a day when she was just a tiny baby, and he'd left Emily alone with her for the day. Even as a newborn she'd always prefered Daniel. He remebered Emily's harrowing tale of the baby who couldn't be assuaged. She cried and cried for hours, she was crying when Daniel got home that evening, to find Emily, sitting in the rocking chair in the baby pink nursery, rocking back and forth, back and forth, with deadened eyes. Caroline was red in the face from crying so much, but ceased to do so, as soon as Daniel took her into his arms. Slowly Emily rose from the chair, eyes still wide, and shuffled over to Daniel. She rested her forehead on his chest, and sobbed. When Daniel realised where he was, he was soothing a bawling Caroline, stroking her black hair softly, and whispering to her, telling her it was all going to be okay even though he wasn't too sure of that himself.

The last thing that entered his mind, after his children had returned to their own homes, and Daniel had taken up his post on the chair next to the bed, was their wedding day. He and Emily were dancing in the centre of the floor, and her head was tilted upwards, gazing lovingly into his eyes, as he reciprocated. As they went to sit down, Daniel took her had, and caught sight of her tattoo. "Do you remember what I said to you the first time I saw that?" Emily looked at her tattoo, smiled, and replied "Double infinity-" but before she could finish Daniel interjected "-that's a long time."

He once more brought his head down to hers, and in her ear whispered to the love of his life for the last time "I will love you for infinity times infinity. That's a long time."

The End.

© Sarah Egan 2013 - 2014 This story is subject to copyright and may not be copied without the express permission of the author.