The Parting Gift(23)

Why is it that forgiving others seems to be the easier step? Asking for forgiveness or admitting he was wrong—was humbling to say the least.

Blaine’s gaze rested on the edge of the bed where one final letter was left un-opened. How had he missed that one? He reached for it and tore open the flap. Out of the envelope floated one solitary note. Blaine flipped it over. The words I’m sorry were written in bold black letters. Nothing else.

It was that simple. “I’m sorry.” To say he was sorry and mean it, to repent for wrongdoing and purposefully go in the other direction. His father was doing this, and as his son, he would follow suit.

He took a few soothing breaths and walked up the stairs to his father’s bedroom. The air hung heavy with the medicinal odor of tonics lined on the nightstand. His father had a book in hand, seeming to be entranced.

Blaine cleared his throat. “Pride and Prejudice, Pop?” He couldn’t keep the smile from his voice.

His father quickly closed the book and dropped it to the floor. “Oh yes, well, it’s one of Mara’s favorites…”

“Right,” Blaine agreed. “I, uh…”

“Son, why don’t you have a seat?”

Blaine took his spot next to his father on the bed. It appeared his father had something to say, but when he opened his mouth a coughing fit followed. Blaine did the best he could to hold his father as the coughs racked his frail body.

When he was finished, Blaine refused to release his grip. Instead he grabbed his father’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Me too.” His dad’s voice quivered with emotion.

They were proud men. Neither of them was a man of many words. Those few were enough for the moment.

“So, you a Red Sox man now, or do you still like the Tigers?”

“Tigers. There’s nobody like Kell and his .340 average… Not that Ted Williams isn’t a sight to see, and of course, no slouch as a pilot either.”



****



The old man seemed aged well beyond his fifty-six years, frail and brittle from the cancer eating him from the inside out. The hair he had left was pure white, and dark shadows outlined his eyes against pale, thin skin. Blaine sat at his bedside gazing at the mere shade of the man his father had once been, watching his chest rise and fall in ragged breaths as he slept.

He had wasted so much time. Why hadn’t he come home years ago? His pride and inability to forgive had kept him from having a father – the father who had battled the same grief, the same pain he had struggled with his whole life. They could have been a family, but now what could have been lay dying here in this room. Dying and leaving him forever. Just like his mother had done.

No matter how many years had gone by, her death was still a sore spot for him. He could feel the lump of emotion building in his throat again. This had been a record-breaking week for him. Blaine hadn’t cried this much in fifteen years. He had long since learned to swallow that lump and push the accompanying sentiment back into the chasm of his soul, to keep it buried where no one could get to it.

The change was an excruciating process. Dredging the all-but-forgotten pain back to the surface was an ordeal far worse than anything he had experienced during the war. But here he was. Sitting beside his father, crying like he was eleven years old again.

Mara had said he needed to work through it or it would destroy him. He knew she was right, but at this point, it felt as if the process itself might tear him apart.

As his father stirred in his sleep, a sudden idea occurred to Blaine. They both needed healing, some kind of closure. He stood and stepped toward his father’s bedside. The movement caused the old man to open his eyes, focusing on Blaine’s face. A weak smile spread across his lips.

“Hey, Pop,” Blaine whispered, returning his father’s grin. “You feel up for a little ride?”

Forming words had grown increasingly difficult for him, so he answered with an almost imperceptible nod.

“All right then.” He gathered his father into his arms, blankets and all and carried him down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door. As the screen door slammed behind him and he stepped out into the brisk December chill, he heard Mara’s voice calling out behind him.

“Captain Graham! What are you doing?”

Blaine continued down the porch steps and strode purposefully toward his father’s old Model A pickup. In an instant she was at his elbow, concern raising her voice to a fevered pitch. “You can’t take him out in this cold!”

“He’s my father.”

“I’m not going to let you take him!”

“It’s not up to you.” He lengthened his stride to the pickup, leaving her stunned in his wake. When he reached the vehicle, he set his father’s feet down, continuing to support his weight on one arm while opening the passenger side door with the other. Blaine lifted his father into the seat and carefully tucked the blankets around him, then gently closed the door.

As he rounded the back of the truck to the driver’s side, he came face to face with Mara. Her green eyes were electric with a mixture of fear and indignation. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

“For a ride.” He tried to step around her, but she moved into his path to cut him off, her jaw set stubbornly.

“He’s my responsibility. I can’t in good conscience approve of you taking him out like this when I know—”