The Key

It was a wet day.

I stepped out of my car, my foot slapping against the wet pavement. The metal of my keys bit into my hand, leaving indentations in my smooth pale skin. I took a breath, feeling a rain drop roll down my face, and hang precariously off the tip of my nose. It itched, and I shook my head, allowing the raindrop to fall and disappear as it hit the ground.

I walked slowly, in the rain towards the large white building. Windows lined all of the walls, showing dim florescent lighting up the rooms inside. Women and men in the blue nurses uniforms could also be seen, helping patients, adjusting IV’s, making beds.

I’ve been to this building hundreds of time in the last fourteen months. But today, felt different. Perhaps it was the rain, the rain that seemed to be trying to soothe me, to stop my shaking breaths. Or the low roll of thunder that followed, a warning. Nature was warning me, that today was not an ordinary day…and today would not be an ordinary hospital visit.

I entered the hotel lobby, the automatic doors rolling back like a guard of honour for me. I took a breath, the familiar scent of burning cleaning chemicals hitting the back of my throat like medicine. It was too white, far too white in here. I’d said it a hundred times, I’d say it again…

Staff, visitors and patients wandered past me as I began my journey up the corridor towards the room that was waiting for me. The wet soles of my shoes squeaked against the clean floor, my clothes dripping drops of sinning water on the cold, hard surface. Today’s walk seemed to take forever, the corridor appeared longer, narrower and I began to feel claustrophobic. I paused against the wall, outside the door of the room, and stared at the number. I could see people through the window in the wooden door, my family, distant relatives, waiting for me…I was the last one to arrive, but the most important.

I balled my hands into fists, gasping as the metal of the key cut once more into my skin, delivering a painful but reassuring reality that all of this was real. That I was here, and this was happening. I sucked at the one drop of blood that squeezed through the crack in my broken skin and then took a step towards the door.

The handle was cold underneath my palm, and it turned with relative ease, the door smooth but they all still noticed when I entered the room. Everybody turned towards me, my aunt and uncle, my cousin Jonathan and my godfather Dillon. Their eyes were wide, the pupils dilated with pity. I couldn’t look at them, my throat began to burn, and tears threatened to erupt like lava from my eyes. I closed my eyes a moment, taking another breath and turned my head slightly, my damp hair kissing my cheek.

The man appeared small in the hospital bed, as if he’d shrunk. His face was lost in a maze of wrinkles, his smiling lines as he used to call them. His eyes were closed for now, but I could hear his faint fluttering breaths that reminded me of a butterfly’s weak wings flapping against a strong wind trying to blow them away. He was fighting too…fighting for his life.

I smiled softly, and took the chair by his bedside, no-body ever took that chair. With the dark polished wood, and red crimson cushion. It was my chair, and this was my place.

I slipped my hand into his, the one that lay outside of the starched bed sheets. His skin was soft yet at the same time dry from his bad health. I could see all the veins underneath the thin surface, they crisscrossed like road markings on a map, blue and purple. I tried not to touch the needle in his hand, and ignored the other wires sticking from his body. The ones in his nose, the pads stuck to his thin chest that monitored his heart beat. The beeping of the machines filled the room, seeming louder than normal…more insistent.

I heard my Aunt sob from behind me, bringing her hand up to muffle the noise, and someone stepped over to her, their jeans rustling as they moved. Jonathan talked to his mother in a low, soothing voice and he held her close.

The man’s twitched in his sleep and then he opened his eyes. His face immediately broke into a smile as his gaze fell upon me and I stopped the tears from flowing.

I smiled back at him, kissing his hand that lay weak in mine, “hey daddy, I’m here now.”

He nodded, and his voice was dry like paper, “I’ve been waiting for you sweetheart. I have to go soon.”

I whimpered softly, my brave façade slipping as I was suddenly faced with why I knew this day was different.

“Please daddy, can’t you stay with me. Don’t leave me here…alone.” I whispered to him softly, pleading with him. I didn’t want to say goodbye to my father, though I knew this day was coming. I was only twenty-two years old. I wasn’t meant to lose my father, the best man in my life now…he was suppose to give me away when I got married, be there to meet his grandchildren. He couldn’t leave me when none of that had happened!

He only smiled at me again, bringing his hand up to stroke my face and I pressed my cheek into his palm, murmuring soft, words of denial.

“You’ll always be my brave girl. My brave, brave girl.” His voice was growing weaker and I gasped, the tears exploding from the volcano.

His hand moved under his pillow and he pressed something into my hand. I looked down at the old fashioned key, the design intricate and beautiful. It was slightly rusty with age, but it had been used well. I was the only one that knew what this was.

“Daddy!”

He sighed, “I love you darling,” and then as if he had it all planned, he closed his eyes once more, and his head fell back gently into the pillow.

The beeping stopped, one long sound filling the room. I began to cry harder, my head falling onto my father’s chest, begging him to wake up. Begging him to come back, to come back to me.

I felt the hands of my relatives around me, trying to comfort me…but I didn’t need them. The only person I needed, the only person I wanted was my father…and he was gone. He’d left me alone.

~

I lay on my bed in the empty house that suddenly seemed far to large for just me. The months my father was in hospital were fine, because I convinced myself he’d be coming back. But now it was just me.

My bedroom was quiet, too quiet. I could hear a bird outside on a tree, whistling as she built a nest for her eggs. I turned over, my face burying into my pillow which smelled like lavender, to help me sleep at night, when strange noise haunted the house.

My eyes were dry. It had been two weeks. I couldn’t cry anymore…there were no tears left inside of me. The funeral had been small, the priest talked as if he knew my father which he didn’t. He didn’t know what a wonderful man my father was, he didn’t know how he used to comfort me after nightmares, how he’d tell me all these fantastic stories to occupy my eight year old mind. My father was the most wonderful, amazing human being…and no-one could ever put into words just how amazing he was. He was my father…my father.

I sat up, my bed frame creaking as I jumped off the mattress and my feet padded quietly over to my dressing table. I looked at myself in the mirror, my reflection looking mournful. My brown eyes were large and slightly red, my face was pale, my high cheekbones and slanted eyebrows more prominent than usual. My curly hazel hair was lank and slightly dirty. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d showered…

I opened the drawer of my dressing table, and took out a white handkerchief. I unrolled it in my hand, feeling the heavy weight of the key fall into my palm. I squeezed it, till the metal turned warm against my skin.

I took another breath, allowing my tired lungs to fill with air and stepped out of my room, my door closing behind me with a click.

I walked slowly down the hall, my feet leaving prints in the layer of dust that covered the wooden floor. I stopped outside the last door, and ran my hand over the smooth door, caressing the wood. I put my hand on the handle, bringing it down slowly so the door creaked opened. I hadn’t stepped foot in here since my father entered the hospital…

It was his study, the air was heavy and when I drew the heavy burgundy curtain across to allow sunlight into the room, I could see the dust particles hanging in the air. But it still smelled like him, and for the first time since he had passed, I could feel him. He was here. He was here, in this room with me.

A strange whimper escaped my throat, and I ran to his chair, pressing my face against the worn brown leather, one tear being created by my body to run down the cold surface. My skin stuck to it, but I stayed where I was…smelling my father, the cigars he used to smoke, the peppermint breath mints he always ate…there was still a packet on the desk.

I ran my hand over the elegant desk, it had belonged to my grandfather. He had been a writer too, like my father. This was where the legacy had been created, where the books that lined the shop shelves were invented. It was all here, the start, the beginning, the end.

I got off the chair, walking towards the drawers in the corner of the room, by the bookshelves. I crouched down, staring at one in particular. My hand hovered, afraid of opening it but with another breath, I clutched the cold metal and pulled it.

I looked down at the box inside, and lifted it out. It was heavy and I stumbled back to the desk, dropping it heavily down onto the surface. I blew away the dust and then with shaking hands, put the key in the lock.

I turned and it clicked loudly, as the latch opened, and the top of the box opened slightly. I pulled it all the way, and smiled at the typewriter inside. My hands came around it, like I would embrace an old friend, and I set it down on the floor, kneeling beside it. There was a piece of paper inside it from the last time my father had used it.

One sentence was typed.

It’s time for your story to begin…

I laughed, and another few tears fell. My fingers hovered over the keys of the typewriter. I pulled the piece of paper out…I would keep that. The yellow machine looked at me, full of promise and a future I knew would happen because I had a guiding spirit.

His story had ended, but he had paved the way for mine to begin.

I rolled another piece of paper into the type writer and with a deep breath, began to write…the clicking sounds filling up my father’s room, now mine, pleasantly…

The sun began to shine outside.
Today was a bright day.