'Going Back', by J.E. Dyer

Nancy’s anxiety mounted with every step deeper into the house toward her dad’s bedroom. She hoped he was conscious enough to know her, give her a chance to ask for forgiveness. The rancher hadn’t changed at all since her family moved into it in the late seventies. The royal blue carpet in the hallway sagged in its middle. Boards creaked under her feet. 
Nancy wobbled on her high heels toward the hospice nurse and her mom at the bedroom doorway. She came straight from work at the bank as soon as mom called with the bad news.
“Dad’s fading fast and we don’t know how much time’s left.”
Nancy’s feet hurt. Her belly stretched her blouse and black sweater. The price she paid for bringing a girl and two boys into this world. 
“Sweetie.”
Her mom turned from her conversation with the nurse and took Nancy in her frail arms. It was more of an embrace for formality’s sake—light taps on Nancy’s shoulders.
Nancy knew better. Things hadn’t been the same since Nancy stopped coming to help. wanted to give her a tight hug.
“Momma.”
She broke their cursory bond and peered into her mom’s hardened brown eyes.
“How is he?”
Mom lowered her somber gaze.
“It won’t be long now. I’m glad you decided to come. It’s been a while.”
Her stare bypassed Nancy’s face and went to her white hair tie with red dots. Mom fluffed the ends on its knot atop Nancy’s head.
“That’s cute.”
“Thanks.”
Nancy slipped between her mother and the slender nurse in pink scrubs.
“I’ll just go in and—”
The nurse grabbed Nancy’s elbow and whispered.
“He’s been napping for a while. Don’t wake him. He had a rough night.”
Her weary eyes searched Nancy’s soul for compliance. 
Nancy nodded and crept into her parents’ bedroom. Her dad lay atop their sleigh bed under a blanket crocheted from purple yarn. A stack of pillows propped his head of gray hair and skeletal torso against the headboard. She tiptoed to the folding chair next to the bed and placed her clutch purse in her lap. Ghosts of his cologne, Old English Leather, haunted the cozy space. Watercolor paintings of ducks in flight over a marsh hung on the wall behind the bed. Their chest of drawers sat under a petite window. The dented thing was as old as the house, if not older. A taxidermy mallard guarded one side of its top, while a lifelike pheasant protected the opposite corner. She grinned. Dad and his bird hunts. A gun cabinet stood against the wall facing the foot of his bed. The morning light glinted on a golden picture frame on his nightstand. Nancy and her older brother flanked their parents in the photo. Long ago when those smiles were genuine.
Dad grumbled and smacked his dry lips. As he fixed his crusted blue eyes on her, his expression soured.
“Are you from the bank?”
Nancy half-chuckled.
“Well, yes, dad. I’ve worked there for almost twenty—” 
“Can’t be another nurse.”
His voice was brittle and hoarse.
“Not wearin’ scrubs.”
He leaned into his tomb of pillows. Wrinkles of skin, like the folds in an ancient letter, framed his eyes and mouth.
“What can I do for you, young missy?”
He adjusted his blanket revealing his Daffy Duck pajama pants and Marshall University football tee. 
“Dad. It’s me Nancy. I wanted to see you.”
She fiddled with the strap on her purse.
“I have something to say to you.”
“Nancy? Don’t know nobody by that name. You say you’re from the bank? Something wrong with my will?”
The jab of that dagger sank deep into her. Deeper than her bitter divorce. Deeper than her guilt and shame for not doing more for her parents when they needed her the most. He was far worse than the last time Nancy visited him.
“You’d need a lawyer for your will, dad.”
“Why do you keep sayin’ that?”
Her voice fractured.
“That’s who you are to me. I’m your…”
Warm tears stung her eyes. 
Her dad took his glass of water in a trembling hand and managed a sip.
“Why are you here, then?”
“I’m your daughter.”
She blotted the corner of her eyes on her knuckles.
“I wanted to tell you some things.”
He stretched the shaking glass toward the nightstand’s edge, but missed it. Nancy helped him set the glass down.
“You go to church?”
Nancy started to remind him that she hadn’t stepped foot in any house of worship since her divorce eleven years ago, then she thought better of it and gave a simple, “No.”
Dad sniffed and eased his head of silver hair back into his pillows.
“Raised both my kids to believe.”
He scratched his hawkish nose.
“Forgiveness and all that.”
“I don’t need faith for forgiveness. Church has nothing I want or need anymore.”
She slid her chair closer.
“Daddy, it’s me. Your youngest, Nancy.”
Dad rolled his head toward Nancy and studied her. 
“Please try. For me?”
She fought back more sobs.
“Remember my seventh birthday? I wanted a My Little Pony cake so bad—and you and mom stayed up most of the night baking and decorating it.”
She laughed.
“Mom said you messed it up so bad that it looked like a sad basset hound instead of a horse.” 
All her dad gave her in return was a blank stare. 
She pointed to the stuffed duck.
“How about the first time you took me hunting with you? Remember that? You taught me how to carry a gun. How to load and shoot it. It was so cold out on that lake that day. That was the first time you let me try some coffee from your thermos, too.”
Her mom tisked from the doorway.
“Nancy Anne.”
“What?”
Nancy turned in her chair.
“I like bitter things. Always have.”
She faced her dad once more.
“I obviously kept our little secret up ‘til just then.” 
He stared at her, his blue eyes glazed over.
Nancy buried her face in her hands.
“This is crazy.”
She ran her fingers through her dark red hair until it hit the fabric of her hair tie. She sat up and untied it.
“Try this.”
She set the tie in his hands.
“Go on. Pick it up. Smell it.”
Dad held it to his nose in an unsteady grip. 
“You and mom got that for me ten years ago after my divorce was finalized. You and mom treated me and the kids to a vacation to Rehoboth Beach. Said we could all use a break from things.”
His eyes lit up. He brushed the tie against his cheek.
“The souvenir shop on the boardwalk.”
“Yes.”
“Next to the taffy place.” 
Nancy’s tears came again.
“Exactly.”
His eyes welled as he turned her hair tie in his hands.
“Nancy? Honey. What are you doing here?”
She covered her mouth through a confusing wave of both elation and sorrow.
“I came to see you… and Mom. I wanted to tell you something.”
She glanced over her shoulder at her mother.
He clutched the tie at his heart.
“I’m sorry, sweet pea. I’m gonna have to go back on a promise I made to you a long time ago.”
Nancy released her purse from her death grip. 
Dad held up his other arm covered in wires and an i.v. line.
“I can’t be by your side forever.”
He set his arm back on the bed.
“I’ll be going soon. Real soon.”
She spoke through her anguish.
“I know, Daddy. That’s why I came.”
She cleared her vision and took his nearest hand in hers. It was cold to the touch.
“I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry I wasn’t here to help more. That I yelled at you and Mom the last time. I shouldn’t have left things on those terms.”
She jammed a fist into her purse.
“I was so frustrated with you not knowing who I was.”
She relaxed her fist.
“I shouldn’t have walked out on you.”
“Sweet pea…”
“Dad, please forgive me.” 
He tugged her onto the bed beside him and wrapped Nancy in his arms. They were once muscular, strong, and safe. Now, Alzheimer’s claimed all that and more, leaving him a frail shell of his former self.
“I forgave you as soon as you left. I never meant to forget you.”
He guided her head to his heart with a hand.
She wept into his chest. His breathing slowed and became shallow. Nancy raised her head through his limp hands.
“Dad?”
His eyes were glassy, distant.
“So beautiful.”
Tears fell.
“So glad you came.” 
She took his hand in hers.
“Daddy. Please don’t go.”
Dad’s mouth hung agape, fighting for each inhalation.
“So tired.”
Nancy tucked her face in the crook of his neck.
“Fight it. Don’t give up.”
His eyes grew wide.
“Lavender! Everywhere.”
His head lulled away from her.
“Unbelievable.”
Nancy draped her arm over his chest. It rose and fell, then ceased.
“Dad?”
His raspy breathing went silent.
“No.”
She cried into his neck. Faint wisps of his cologne lingered. 
The nurse rushed into the bedroom and placed her stethoscope against his chest. She set two fingers on dad’s wrist and waited. She straightened and slung her scope around her neck.
“He’s gone.”
Nancy sat up in the bed and blotted her nose and eyes on a sleeve.
Her mom joined her and hugged Nancy tightly. A genuine embrace that radiated warmth.
“Glad you got to talk with him—and that he recognized you.”
“I’m sorry—”
Mom shushed Nancy and straightened out her daughter’s sweater. “
His apology was good enough for the both of us.”
Nancy found a renewed glimmer in her mother’s eyes.
“I love you.”
Mom took Nancy in her arms again and held her at her breast.
“Mine never faded, honey. This is home no matter what.”

J. E. Dyer writes short stories and novels in various genres. Several of his works have earned national and international recognition in competitions and appeared in numerous publications. He is a full member of SFWA and RWA.

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