Headaches and Bad Luck

"Daddy?" I whispered, unsure if he was asleep or just resting his eyes.

"Lovely?" He asked back, softly from his hospital bed, the third one he'd been in over the last month.

I was laying next to him, it was late and I was tired, but I couldn't bring myself to face that big empty house alone anymore.

I let my head fall onto his shoulder, slowly letting out my breath.

"Are you scared?"

I felt him turn his head to glance at me, but kept my eyes expertly fixed on the episode of Jeopardy playing, a weak attempt at distraction, on the small hospital TV in the corner of the room. His chest rose and fell as he sighed.

"I'd be lying if I said no," He admitted in a cracked, frail voice.

Hastily looking up, surprised by his honesty, I caught a quick glimpse of helplessness in his expression, something he'd been careful never to let me see before then. He took in another shaky breath, blinking at the emotion in his eyes, embarrassed.

I hugged him, biting the inside of my cheek, trying to disguise how hard it was for me not to break down the way I had when he had first told me he was dying of cancer. It had started in his colon and spread to his liver.

I had been careful not to let my sadness out since that night, determined that we could beat it. If we just stayed positive, and if I just prayed hard enough, and if he just ate really healthy and exercised, his body would surely fix itself, I thought. But nothing seemed to be helping.

My father was a methodical and practical thinker. He liked to keep things black and white in his mind, and for that reason, when his doctors had told him that his prognosis was not good, he requested a percentage of the likelihood that he would overcome his illness. He needed to know what kind of odds he was up against.

When he received the news that the survival rate at his stage of the disease was less than 10%, he had begun to plan his own funeral, and get his affairs in order.

For weeks I refused to adopt his accepting view of death, and fought even harder to stay strong for my dad, though deep down, I was beginning to see that no matter how much sleep I lost worrying, I was helpless. And despite the gradual realization that losing him was inevitable, I still refused to let him see me cry.

"You don't have to be scared, though," He promised himself as much as me, "There's still lots of time."

"Forever could never come close to enough time spent with you," I quoted my mothers gravestone, and to my surprise, Dad let out a soft laugh.

"When we meet again in heaven, time will stand still," He whispered, kissing the side of my head, "That's what mine will say."

"You mean read?" I raised my eyebrows, correcting his grammar the way my mom, ever the teacher, always had.

"Ahh," He smiled, "You... You've always reminded me of her, you know. When I look at you I see so much of her looking back."

Though I was touched by this admission, I couldn't help but wonder if in a away, it was one of the things that had kept us so distant from each other after she was gone, and it was as if my thoughts were loud enough to hear.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Love," He apologized softly, eyes red and swimming with more than regret, "I don't blame you for being so angry with me for so long. I just want you to know, I couldn't bear it if you never knew I thought this, but I think you're turning into a beautiful young woman, no thanks to me, and I'm so sorry that I wont be here for you..."

At this point he began to sob, struggling with his words and I had never seen him so emotional, "I dreamed of walking you down the aisle one day, and I know someday you'll be an amazing mother... I just wanted to see it. To be a Grandpa..."

"Dad, stop! Please," I begged, pulling away from him, wiping his cheeks with my sleeve and choking back my own tears, which I refused to let fall, "I know you've done the best you can, and I didn't make it any easier on you. I should have known not to take you for granted..."

"Oh, Lovely."

"I don't want to think about what we should have done, or what we could have been doing ten years from now," I gasped, now using every ounce of control I had not to fall to his chest in greif, shaking uncontrollably, "This is all that matters. That you're still here now. I don't want to waste time worrying anymore."

"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own," Daddy breathed, trying to steady himself, reciting my moms favorite bible verse, and in that moment, the adage became real to us.

I relaxed into his slowly weakening arms and squeezed him softly.

"So, what do you say we blow this joint and go visit her one more time?" He finally wondered after several moments in which a million thoughts had time to swirl through my tired mind, "Together?"

My head shot up off his shoulder and I gasped , eyes wide and mouth open, at his suggestion.

"Really?"

"Really," He rested his head back onto his pillows, "Maybe, while we're there, you could take me to get myself one of those tattoos you like so much..."

I bit my quivering bottom lip and nodded, realizing he was determined to make sure that the short time we had left to spend together would make up for every single moment we'd spent angry at each other, and I had never appreciated anything more.

I collected myself slowly in Pete's arms, after laying with him for God knows how long. Even though being held by him again was the most comforting thing I'd felt in ages, I pulled away, sitting up, hugging my knees to my chest.

He sat up too, following my lead, but moved closer again. The two of us sat there in the cool grass, side by side, looking at my parents gravestones.

"Remember when you took me here for the first time?" I wondered softly and he nodded, "I didn't know what the words on her grave meant..."

"Did you ever find out?" He looked over at me.

"It was from a letter my dad wrote to my mom before they were married," I explained, picturing them my age and madly in love, "He left me a big box of letters that they wrote eachother from the start right to the very end. He even wrote to her sometimes after she was gone, when he really missed her."

"Wow..." He breathed staring at the marble tombstones, "Was his from a letter too?"

I shook my head, "No, that was just something he said to me one night when we were laying in his hospital bed, trying to be strong for eachother."

Pete put his hand over mine and I smiled at the way they looked together again.

"How have you really been Peter?" I wondered.

"I've been okay," He bobbed his head slowly, " I mean, I've had some of the most amazing experiences life could ever offer, you know?"

I moved my fingers so that they laced through his.

"What have you been doing all this time, Lovely?" He asked softly, " I've always wondered what you'd become..."

I let his beautiful eyes look into my soul and I felt the butterflies again that he'd made me feel the first time he'd smiled at me and so many times since.

"I uh..." I paused, collecting my toughts, "Well you know how in Chicago, I would go to the park and bring the homeless people there food or whatever?"

He nodded and I noticed the smile tugging at his lips as I continued.

"Well, when I moved back here, I started to do the same thing," I said, and went on, explaining the job I was so passionate about and suddenly speaking much quicker, studying the grass stain on the knee of my jeans, "But the need here is overwhelming, so I had to do something, you know... So, I'd heard about this thing called Food Not Bombs and found out there wasn't one established here, so I started one up. Food Not Bombs is like, this nonprofit organization that-"

"I know what it is," He furrowed his brow as I looked up at him.

"We give out around 1000 meals a day, now," I added almost inaudibley, not really sure what else to say, "Breakfast, lunch and dinner."

Pete just shook his head at me shrugging, and blinked.

"I knew it."