The Sandstone Affair (An Erotic Romance Novel) (18 page)

The door closes before he can say anything. It’s
better that way.

Are you being irrational if you know you’re
being irrational? I pull out of the parking lot. I know there is nothing
between Mark and Valerie now, and yet I still can’t get the idea of them out of
my head. How can I ever trust that he isn’t selling me out to her? I guess
letting the transfer go through and giving up Lynx would reveal the truth. If
he doesn’t want me after that, I’ll know it was all a lie. Am I willing to give
up my life’s work just to find out?
I decide to stop by the hospital for my daily
visit with Dad. It will take my mind off all this for a little while. He seems
to be past waking so every day is another chance for me to hold his hand once
more. How I wish he was still well. I know he could have guided me through this
with his wisdom. Dad negotiated his way through situations with social skill as
sharp and accurate as a surgeon’s blade. I’ve been hacking my way through this
with a machete, and the scars are starting to show.
Walking down the hallway, getting adjusted to
the antiseptic smell of the area, I notice the nurse practically jumping across
the desk when she sees me. She walks quickly to try to catch me as I turn the
corner. I beat her to the room and look in to discover Dad’s bed is raised,
made and empty.
“Where’s my father?” I demand. She sees the
blaze that’s been simmering behind my eyes all morning.
“I tried to catch you, I was waiting to call
you until he got settled,” the nurse said, guiding me away from the empty room.
“Settled? Settled where? He’s not conscious,
how hard could it possibly be to get him settled?” The nurse takes me to a
waiting area and sits down with me.
“Your father has been moved to the hospice
wing,” she says softly, watching my face and trying to gauge a response. “His
oxygen saturation is dropping and they’ve put him on a morphine pump. It’s only
a matter of hours now.”
“If he’s going to die in a few hours, why
didn’t you just leave him where he was? Why did you have to jerk him around? Why
is there always someone in our lives all the time jerking us around?” That last
question made her frown a bit.
“No one is jerking anyone around. The hospice
wing is more comfortable for him and for you. The monitors are kept in a
separate room so you don’t have to deal with the beeping, and it’s a more
comfortable environment for goodbyes. And, Miss Sharp, this is a time for
goodbye.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I‒it’s just—”
“I understand,” she replies kindly. “He’s on
the third floor in room three-twelve. I’ll walk you there if you want.”
“No, no I can get there. Thank you for all
your help. I know you did the best that you could for him. This has been such a
long process.” I stand to leave, giving a big sigh to push out all the tension
and try to gather some kind of strength to walk down the hall.
“I find it’s easier for folks to let go of
this world if the people they love will tell them it is okay,” she mentions
helpfully. I nod. Poor Dad. Since the day of his diagnosis, I’ve been dragging
him to specialists, forcing him to try experimental treatment, and keeping him
alive by my own force of will. The voice of Mark, which seems to have taken up
residence in my head, reminds me that sometimes strength isn’t holding on, but
letting go.
I make my way to Dad’s new room and walk in
tentatively. It is a much homier and calmer set up than the rest of the
hospital. The room smells like baked apples, instead of Lysol, and there are no
ticks and beeps emanating from everything. The lights are dim and the glow of
the numbers on the morphine pump are the only thing that would tell you
something other than a nap was going on. It gives me peace to see him so
comfortable.
I pull up a chair beside Dad and take his
hand. I look at the withered fingers that always seemed so firm and strong, now
tapered, weak and textured like rice paper. I kiss his cheek and there is no
response. His breathing is shallow, and his eyes don’t move.
“Dad,” I say loudly hoping either he or his
soul can hear me through the medicated fog. “Dad, I love you and I miss you,
already, so much. But I want you to know some things. I want you to know I’m
okay. I’m strong and I’ve been through hell, but I am going to be fine.”
Tears fall down my cheeks as I chokingly open
myself to him one last time.
“I’ve met someone, Daddy. The man I told you
about before. He’s taught me a lot of amazing things and I’m finally getting my
feet on the ground. I know who I am, and I know what to do. I’m going to do
some great things in this world, because I’m your daughter and I can handle
whatever life gives me. So I want you to know that it’s okay. It’s okay to let
go. It’s okay to rest in peace because all the work there was for you is done
here. You’ll always be alive in me, and I will always love you. But it’s time,
and it’s all right, for you to let me go.”
I put my head down on the bed, allowing the
tears to flow over me. His steady breathing never changes but I feel something
different in his touch. It’s colder, it’s lighter. Closing my eyes I listen to
the air puff through his lips. I remember the many jokes he told and wise
things he told me. I remember how terrible he was with tools and everything he
ever tried to build turned out lopsided. Mom would laugh at him, but he thought
it was good fun. One awkward adolescent day, I told him I felt lopsided too. He
said I was perfect.
They were wrong. When someone who you love
dies, their life doesn’t pass before their eyes. It passes before yours. I
remembered every birthday, every car trip that ended in ice-cream, every school
competition and every issue of Lynx written and how he was there, beaming and
celebrating with me. He even bought three subscriptions to Lynx so he could
give two away to assorted friends each month.
“It’s not bragging if you’re giving them
something,” he would say, stuffing the magazine in someone’s hand or mailbox. I
watch the years of my life with Dad march by until I’m simply carried away in
memories.
“Miss Sharp,” a clear voice says right near my
ear. I jolt my head up and realize I’ve been asleep for who knows how long. I
turn to see my father lying still, his breathing stopped.
“I fell asleep,” I stammer at the woman. “I was
holding his hand and I just put my head down for a moment.”
“You’ve been asleep a few hours, Miss Sharp,
and your father has slept away.”
“He’s gone?” I look again and allow myself to
grasp the truth. This amazing being who only wanted to love me and be loved by
me has left this world in my hands.
The hospice nurse gives me time for a final
goodbye and then walks with me into a private area. She opens the DNR and
packet we filled out together when Dad was still functioning pretty well. The
funeral home and all the plans are inside. She asks me if there is any family I
would like her to call. I tell her he was all I had in terms of family except
for some distant aunts I would call later.
“Is there someone who can pick you up or drive
you home?” she asks.
“I can drive,” I say wiping another tear from
my eye. “I can’t believe I slept while he died.”
“That was a mercy to you both,” the nurse
replies. “He probably was waiting for you to fall asleep or leave the room or
something. He didn’t want to leave in front of you. He loved you.”
“I love him. And there is no need to call, or
worry. I’ve been alone for a long time now and I have some supportive folks who
will help me with these arrangements. Dad wanted to be cremated and have his
ashes poured in the ocean off Grand Island. He proposed to my mother there.”
She helps me sign the proper forms and walks
me to the door of the hospital as if I were the patient. I can see she’s
worried about letting me go off into the world alone. But alone I am and alone
I will stay.
I grab something to eat and make it home in
one piece, getting ready to go about the business of death. Since there is no
body or family involved, the funeral home offers me a time the day after
tomorrow and I take it. I’ll make sure it’s in the paper in the morning and
call everyone who needs to spread the word. When mom died, Dad and Aunt Sonja
took care of all this stuff, so I’m not really practiced at arranging things.
Janice usually makes my appointments and she’ll know who to call in the journalism
world to get the notice out.
“Janice,” I say into the phone with a
quivering voice. This will be the first time I’ve said these words out loud.
“My father passed away this afternoon.”
“Oh, Julia, I’m so sorry,” she says with
genuine love. “Sweetie, I’m sure it was his time. How are you? Are you okay?”
“Pretty much. I’m doing arrangements. He’s
being cremated but there will be a memorial day after tomorrow at Greenfield’s
chapel. Can you help me make some calls?”
“I can try. I’m in Missouri, but let me talk
to Reggie and we can get the first flight back to New York.”
“No, Janice, don’t come back. I didn’t realize
you weren’t here. I can handle it,” I try to reassure her when in truth we both
know I can barely make dinner reservations without some disaster occurring.
“I had the week off from Lynx so we decided to
take a trip. I don’t have a problem returning,” she offers.
“No, no, no,” I insist. “When the cremation
part is done I’ll need you to come with me to release his ashes. That’s more important
than now. Stay where you are.”
“What about Mark? Can he help you?”
“Um, yeah, he can,” I mumble, too tired and
confused to deal with telling her the complicated saga of my love.
“Are you sure?” She doesn’t buy it.
“Yes, I’m not really used to having to lean on
people so it’s hard but I know he will come through. I’ll see you when you
return. Give Reggie my love.” I hang up before I break down completely.
Should I call Mark? Yes. Am I going to? No way
in hell.
The next day is a flurry of necessary
activity, phone calls and condolences. I end up putting the phone on silent and
listening to it once every few hours to keep the voice mail from filling. One
of the messages is from Mark.
“Hi Julia, it’s Mark. Janice called the office
and told me about your father. I’m so sorry for his passing. I know this is a
very hard time for you. If you need anything, ask me. I’m here for you.”
His earnest voice, deep and sure, brings a
fresh round of tears to my already swollen eyes. I want to call. I want to run
to him, jump in those strong arms and let him carry through this entire ordeal.
But, I don’t. Something inside, some deep fear of loss or betrayal, resists all
evidence that this kind of relationship can really exist and be true to form.

Greenfield’s chapel is full of flowers when I
enter, including a beautiful spray from Janice and Reggie I know they can’t
afford.
“He was such a nice person,” I hear a lady
whisper. “Such a loss.”
“She’s so young to have lost both parents,” her
older friend replies. “Is she married?”
“No. She’s the career type. She ran some
magazine but it got bought out or something. I think she’s looking for work.”
“Maybe she should look for more in life,” the
judgmental old crone caws.
I purposely turn, pretending to look for someone,
just to see who the rude old cows are and make a plan to write them a very
pointed thank you note. As the service starts, I realize attendance is small,
and the majority of mourners are friends of Dad’s from work and bowling. Very
few in the journalism world even bothered to show up. Word must be out that I’m
washed up or they would be here. If Valerie James’s father passed away, this
chapel would be full.
Frantically I try to focus on someone,
something, anything, to get my mind off her and then I see the last person I
need to see: Greg. He looks happy. The woman with him is dressed in a modest
blue skirt and blazer. However, unless she’s developed midlife spread about
twenty years too early, her attire is hiding a definite baby bump. My focus narrows
to their fingers. Rings, matching ones, are all I see. Good for you, Greg.
I imagine strangling both him and his pregnant
bride with a Calla Lily from Janice’s bouquet.
The music plays and the chaplain speaks,
inviting many of Dad’s friends to stand up and share memories of times they
spent with Dad. Many of them gesture toward me talking about how I was the
apple of his eye. I wonder what he would see now. A song begins and we all
stand, listening to the soloist sing of how Dad is “with the Lord.” Bitterness
floods me. Even in death he has someone and I am here alone. Utterly, totally
alone. No parents, no children, no friends, no lover–hell, I don’t even have a
goldfish. I’m just alone.
I dry a tear with a tissue only to have it
replaced with three more. Then, I feel it. A warm presence, a comfort, a hand
holding mine. At first I think my great aunt must have seen me standing here by
myself and decided to join me. But the hand is stronger and surer than the
prune-like fingers of an eighty year old with paper-thin skin. I turn to
acknowledge this comfort and gasp aloud when I see that it’s Mark.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he whispers loud enough
for the women behind me who were so concerned about my prospects to hear. When
he sees my gratitude flowing from my smile, he wraps his arm around me and I
bury my head against his chest. He leans down and kisses my head and once we
are seated for the end of the memorial I have a permanent resting spot in his
embrace.
The wall, the final wall, breaks. I get it.
Mark loves me. He isn’t just using me. He isn’t just interested in Lynx, or
beating his brother, or replacing Valerie, or making a point. This isn’t about
business, ambition or sex. He simply loves me in a tangible, enduring,
beautiful way. Dad is with Mom now, but finally I have someone by my side too.
“I love you, Mark Stone,” I say as we rise to
walk to the front of the chapel where he will stand beside me and receive the
condolences.
“I know,” he says softly squeezing my hand and
offering me the most reassuring smile on the planet. “I love you too.”