The Last Song

35 Ronnie

Ronnie went outside with her mom and Jonah to see them off, and to speak with her mom alone before she left, asking her to do something for her as soon as she got back to New York. Then she returned to the hospital and sat with her dad, waiting until he fell asleep. For a long time he remained silent, staring out the window. She held his hand, and they sat together without speaking, both of them watching the clouds drifting slowly beyond the glass.

She wanted to stretch her legs and get some fresh air; her dad’s good-bye to Jonah had left her drained and shaky. She didn’t want to picture her brother on the plane or entering their apartment; she didn’t want to think about whether he was still crying.

Outside, she walked along the sidewalk in front of the hospital, her mind wandering. She was almost past him when she heard him clear his throat. He was seated on a bench; despite the heat, he wore the same kind of long-sleeved shirt he always did.

“Hi, Ronnie,” Pastor Harris said.

“Oh… hi.”

“I was hoping to visit with your father.”

“He’s sleeping,” she said. “But you can go up there if you want.”

He tapped his cane, buying time. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, Ronnie.”

She nodded, finding it hard to concentrate. Even this simple conversation seemed impossibly arduous.

Somehow, she got the sense he felt the same way.

“Would you pray with me?” His blue eyes held a plea. “I like to pray before I see your dad. It… helps me.”

Her surprise gave way to an unexpected sense of relief.

“I’d like that very much,” she answered.

She began to pray regularly after that, and she found that Pastor Harris was right.

Not that she believed her dad would be cured. She’d spoken to the doctor and seen the scans, and after their conversation, she’d left the hospital and gone to the beach and cried for an hour while her tears dried in the wind.

She didn’t believe in miracles. She knew that some people did, but she couldn’t force herself to think that her dad was somehow going to make it. Not after what she’d seen, not after the way the doctor had explained it. The cancer, she’d learned, had metastasized from his stomach to his pancreas and lungs, and holding out hope seemed… dangerous. She couldn’t imagine having to come to terms a second time with what was happening to him. It was hard enough already, especially late at night when the house was quiet and she was alone with her thoughts.

Instead she prayed for the strength she needed to help her dad; she prayed for the ability to stay positive in his presence, instead of crying every time she saw him. She knew he needed her laughter and he needed the daughter she’d recently become.

The first thing she did after bringing him home from the hospital was to take him to see the stained-glass window. She watched as he slowly approached the table, his eyes taking in everything, his expression one of shocked disbelief. She knew then that there had been moments when he’d wondered whether he would live long enough to see it through. More than anything, she wished Jonah had been there with them, and she knew her dad was thinking the same thing. It had been their project, the way they’d spent their summer. He missed Jonah terribly, he missed him more than anything, and though he turned away so she couldn’t see his face, she knew there were tears in his eyes as he made his way back to the house.

He called Jonah as soon as he got back inside. From the living room, Ronnie could hear her dad’s assurances that he was feeling better, and though Jonah would likely misinterpret that, she knew her dad had done the right thing. He wanted Jonah to remember the happiness of the summer, not dwell on what was coming next.

That night, as he sat on the couch, he opened the Bible and began to read. Ronnie now understood his reasons. She took a seat beside him and asked the question she’d been wondering about since she’d examined the book herself.

“Do you have a favorite passage?” she asked.

“Many,” he said. “I’ve always enjoyed the Psalms. And I always learn a lot from the letters of Paul.”

“But you don’t underline anything,” she said. When he raised an eyebrow, she shrugged. “I looked through it while you were gone and I didn’t see anything.”

He thought about his answer. “If I tried to underline something important, I’d probably end up underlining almost everything. I’ve read it so many times and I always learn something new.”

She studied him carefully. “I don’t remember you reading the Bible before…”

“That’s because you were young. I kept this Bible by my bed, and I’d read through parts of it once or twice a week. Ask your mom. She’ll tell you.”

“Have you read anything lately that you’d like to share?”

“Do you want me to?”

After she nodded, it took him only a minute to find the passage he wanted.

“It’s Galatians 5:22,” he said, pressing the Bible flat in his lap. He cleared his throat before he started. “But when the Holy Spirit controls our lives, he will produce this kind of fruit in us: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”

She watched him as he read the verse, remembering how she’d acted when she’d first arrived and how he’d responded to her anger. She remembered the times he’d refused to argue with her mom, even when she’d tried to provoke him. She’d seen that as weakness and often wished her father were different. But all at once, she knew she’d been wrong about everything.

Her dad, she saw now, had never been acting alone. The Holy Spirit had been controlling his life all along.

The package from her mom arrived the following day, and Ronnie knew her mom had done what she’d asked. She brought the large envelope to the kitchen table and tore it straight across the top, then dumped the contents on the table.

Nineteen letters, all of them sent by her dad, all of them ignored and unopened. She noted the various return addresses he’d scrawled across the top: Bloomington, Tulsa, Little Rock…

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t read them. Had she really been that angry? That bitter? That… mean? Looking back, she knew the answer, but it still didn’t make sense to her.

Thumbing through the letters, she looked for the first one he’d written. Like most of the others, it was printed neatly in black ink, and the postmark had faded slightly. Beyond the kitchen window, her dad was standing on the beach with his back to the house: Like Pastor Harris, he’d begun to wear long sleeves despite the summer heat.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the letter, and there, in the sunlight of the kitchen, she began to read.

Dear Ronnie,

I don’t even know how to start a letter like this, other than to say that I’m sorry.

That’s why I asked you to meet with me at the café, and what I wanted to tell you later that night when I called. I can understand why you didn’t come and why you didn’t take my call. You’re angry with me, you’re disappointed in me, and in your heart, you believe I’ve run away. In your mind, I’ve abandoned you and abandoned the family.

I can’t deny that things are going to be different, but I want you to know that if I were in your shoes, I would probably feel much the way you do. You have every right to be angry with me. You have every right to be disappointed in me. I suppose I’ve earned the feelings you have, and it’s not my intent to try to make excuses or cast any blame or try to convince you that you might understand it in time.

In all honesty, you might not, and that would hurt me more than you could ever imagine. You and Jonah have always meant so much to me, and I want you to understand that neither you nor Jonah were to blame for anything. Sometimes, for reasons that aren’t always clear, marriages just don’t work out. But remember this: I will always love you, and I will always love Jonah. I will always love your mother, and she will always have my respect. She is the giver of the two greatest gifts I’ve ever received, and she’s been a wonderful mother. In many ways, despite the sadness I feel that your mother and I will no longer be together, I still believe it was a blessing to have been married to her for as long as I was.

I know this isn’t much and it’s certainly not enough to make you understand, but I want you to know that I still believe in the gift of love. I want you to believe in it, too. You deserve that in your life, for nothing is more fulfilling than love itself.

I hope that in your heart, you’ll find some way to forgive me for leaving. It doesn’t have to be now, or even soon. But I want you to know this: When you’re finally ready, I’ll be waiting with open arms on what will be the happiest day of my life.

I love you,

Dad

“I feel like I should be doing more for him,” Ronnie said.

She was sitting on the back porch across from Pastor Harris. Her dad was inside sleeping, and Pastor Harris had come by with a pan of vegetable lasagna that his wife had made. It was mid-September and still hot during the day, though there’d been an evening a couple of days earlier that hinted at the crispness of autumn. It lasted only a single night; in the morning the sun was hot, and Ronnie had found herself strolling the beach and wondering whether the night before had been an illusion.

“You’re doing all you can,” he said. “I don’t know that there’s anything more you could be doing.”

“I’m not talking about taking care of him. Right now, he doesn’t even need me that much. He still insists on cooking, and we go for walks on the beach. We even flew kites yesterday. Aside from the pain medication, which makes him really tired, he’s pretty much the same as before he went to the hospital. It’s just…”

Pastor Harris’s gaze was full of understanding. “You want to do something special. Something that means a lot to him.”

She nodded, glad that he was here. In the past few weeks, Pastor Harris had become not only her friend, but the only person she could really talk to.

“I have faith that God will show you the answer. But you have to understand that sometimes it takes a while to be able to recognize what God wants you to do. That’s how it often is. God’s voice is usually nothing more than a whisper, and you have to listen very carefully to hear it. But other times, in those rarest of moments, the answer is obvious and rings as loud as a church bell.”

She smiled, thinking she’d grown fond of their conversations. “You sound like you talk from experience.”

“I love your dad, too. And like you, I wanted to do something special for him.”

“And God answered?”

“God always answers.”

“Was it a whisper or a church bell?”

For the first time in a long while, she saw a touch of mirth in his eyes. “A church bell, of course. God knows I’m hard of hearing these days.”

“What are you going to do?”

He sat up straighter in his chair. “I’m going to install the window in the church,” he said. “A benefactor showed up out of the blue last week, and not only offered to cover the rest of the repairs in full, but already had all the work crews lined up. They start work again tomorrow morning.”

Over the next couple of days, Ronnie listened for church bells, but all she heard were seagulls. When listening for whispers, she heard nothing at all. It didn’t necessarily surprise her-the answer hadn’t come to Pastor Harris right away, either-but she hoped the answer would come before it was too late.

Instead, she simply continued on as she had before. She helped her dad when he needed help, let him be when he didn’t, and tried to make the most of the remaining time they had together. That weekend, because her dad was feeling stronger, they made an outing to Orton Plantation Gardens, near Southport. It wasn’t far from Wilmington and Ronnie had never been before, but as they pulled onto the graveled road that led to the original mansion, built in 1735, she already knew it was going to be a memorable day. It was the kind of place that seemed lost in time. The flowers were no longer in bloom, but as they walked among the giant oaks with their low-slung branches draped in Spanish moss, Ronnie thought that she’d never been anywhere more beautiful.

Strolling under the trees, her arm looped through her father’s, they talked about the summer. For the first time, Ronnie told her dad about her relationship with Will; she told him about the first time they went fishing and the times they went mudding, she described his fancy dive from the cabana roof, and she told him all about the fiasco at the wedding. She didn’t, however, tell him what happened on the day before he left for Vanderbilt or the things she’d said to him. She wasn’t ready for that; the wound was still too raw. And as always when she talked, her dad listened quietly, rarely interjecting, even when she trailed off. She liked that about him. No, change that, she thought. She loved that about him, and she found herself wondering who she would have become had she never come down for the summer.

Afterward, they drove into Southport and had dinner at one of the small restaurants overlooking the harbor. She knew her dad was getting tired, but the food was good and they split a hot-fudge brownie at the end of the meal.

It was a good day, a day she knew she’d always remember. But as she sat alone in the living room after her dad had gone to bed, she once again found herself thinking that there was something more she could do for him.

The following week, the third week of September, she began to notice that her dad was getting worse. He now slept until midmorning and took another nap in the afternoon. Though he’d been taking naps regularly, the naps began to lengthen, and he went to bed earlier in the evenings. As she cleaned the kitchen for want of anything better to do, she realized after adding it all up that he was now sleeping more than half the day.

It only got worse after that. With every passing day, he slept a little longer. He also wasn’t eating enough. Instead, he moved his food around the plate and made a show of eating; when she scraped the remains into the garbage, she realized he’d only been nibbling. He was losing weight steadily now, and every time she blinked, she had the sense that her dad was getting smaller. Sometimes she was frightened by the thought that one day there would be nothing left of him at all.

September came to an end. In the mornings, the salty smell of the ocean was kept at bay by the winds from the mountains in the eastern part of the state. It was still hot, high season for hurricanes, but as yet the coast of North Carolina had been spared.

The day before, her dad had slept for fourteen hours. She knew he couldn’t help it, that his body gave him no choice, but she ached at the thought that he was sleeping through most of the little time he had left. When her dad was awake, he was quieter now, content to read the Bible or walk slowly with her in silence.

More often than she expected, she found herself thinking about Will. She still wore the macramé bracelet he had given her, and as she ran her finger over its intricate weave, she wondered what classes he was taking, whom he walked beside on the greens as he moved from one building to the next. She was curious whom he sat next to when he ate in the cafeteria and whether he ever thought of her as he got ready to go out on a Friday or Saturday night. Perhaps, she thought in her lowest moments, he’d already met someone new.

“Do you want to talk about it?” her dad asked one day as they strolled along the beach. They were making their way toward the church. Since the construction had started up again, things were moving fast. The crew was massive: framers, electricians, men who specialized in trim carpentry or drywall. There were at least forty trucks on the work site, and people flowed in and out of the building constantly.

“About what?” she asked carefully.

“About Will,” he said. “The way it ended between the two of you.”

She gave him an appraising stare. “How could you possibly know about that?”

He shrugged. “Because you’ve mentioned him only in passing over the past few weeks, and you never talk to him on the phone. It’s not hard to figure out that something happened.”

“It’s complicated,” she said reluctantly.

They walked a few steps in silence before her dad spoke again. “If it matters to you, I thought he was an exceptional young man.”

She looped her arm through his. “Yes, it does matter. And I thought so, too.”

By then, they’d reached the church. She could see workers carrying in loads of lumber and cans of paint, and as usual her eyes sought out the empty space beneath the steeple. The window hadn’t been installed yet-most of the construction had to be completed first to prevent the fragile glass pieces from cracking-but her dad still liked to visit. He was pleased by the renewed construction, but not primarily because of the window. He spoke constantly of how important the church was to Pastor Harris and how much the pastor missed preaching in the place that he’d long considered a second home.

Pastor Harris was always on site, and usually he would walk down to the beach to visit with them when they arrived. Looking around now, she spotted him standing in the gravel parking lot. He was talking to someone as he gestured animatedly at the building. Even from a distance, she could tell he was smiling.

She was about to wave in an attempt to get his attention when she suddenly recognized the man he was talking to. The sight startled her. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been distraught; the last time they’d been together, he hadn’t bothered to say good-bye. Perhaps Tom Blakelee had simply been driving by and stopped to talk to the pastor about the rebuilding of the church. Maybe he was just interested.

For the rest of the week, she watched for Tom Blakelee when they visited the site, but she never saw him there again. Part of her was relieved, she admitted, that their worlds no longer intersected.

After their walks to the church and her dad’s afternoon nap, they usually read together. She finished Anna Karenina, four months after she’d first started reading it. She checked out Doctor Zhivago from the public library. Something about the Russian writers appealed to her: the epic quality of their stories, perhaps; bleak tragedy and doomed love affairs painted on a grand canvas, so far removed from her own ordinary life.

Her dad continued to study his Bible, and sometimes he’d read a passage or verse aloud at her request. Some were short and others were long, but many of them seemed to focus on the meaning of faith. She wasn’t sure why, but she sometimes got the sense that the act of reading them aloud had shed light on a nuance or meaning that he had previously missed.

Dinners were becoming simple affairs. In early October, she began to do most of the cooking, and he accepted this change as easily as he’d accepted everything else over the summer. Most of the time, he would sit in the kitchen and they would talk as she boiled pasta or rice and browned some chicken or steak in the pan. It was the first time she’d cooked meat in years, and she felt strange prodding her dad to eat it after putting the plate in front of him. He wasn’t hungry much anymore, and the meals were bland because spices of any kind irritated his stomach. But she knew he needed food. Though he didn’t have a scale in the house, she could see the pounds melting away.

One night after dinner, she finally told him what had happened with Will. She told him everything: about the fire and his attempts to cover for Scott, about all that had transpired with Marcus. Her dad listened intently as she spoke, and when at last he pushed aside his plate, she noticed he hadn’t eaten more than a few bites.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she said. “You can ask me anything.”

“When you told me that you were in love with Will, did you mean it?”

She remembered Megan asking her the same question. “Yes.”

“Then I think you might have been too hard on him.”

“But he was covering up a crime…”

“I know. But if you think about it, you’re now in the same position that he was. You know the truth, just as he did. And you’ve said nothing to anyone either.”

“But I didn’t do it…”

“And you said that he didn’t either.”

“What are you trying to say? That I should tell Pastor Harris?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said to her surprise. “I don’t think you should.”

“Why?”

“Ronnie,” he said gently, “there might be more to the story than meets the eye.”

“But-”

“I’m not saying I’m right. I’ll be the first to admit I’m wrong about a lot of things. But if everything is just as you described it, then I want you to know this: Pastor Harris doesn’t want to know the truth. Because if he does, he’ll have to do something about it. And trust me, he would never want to hurt Scott or his family, especially if it was an accident. He’s just not that kind of man. And one more thing. And of everything I’ve said, this is the most important.”

“What’s that?”

“You need to learn how to forgive.”

She crossed her arms. “I’ve already forgiven Will. I’ve left him messages…”

Even before she finished, her dad was shaking his head. “I’m not talking about Will. You need to learn to forgive yourself first.”

That night, at the bottom of the stack of letters her dad had written, Ronnie found another letter, one she hadn’t yet opened. He must have added it to the stack recently, since it bore no stamp or postmark.

She didn’t know whether he wanted her to read it now or whether it was meant to be read after he was gone. She supposed she could have asked him, but she didn’t. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to read it; simply holding the envelope frightened her, because she knew that it was the last letter he would ever write to her.

His disease continued to progress. Though they followed their regular routines-eating, reading, and taking walks on the beach-her dad was taking more medicine for his pain. There were times when his eyes were glassy and out of focus, but she still had the sense that the dosage wasn’t strong enough. Now and then, she would see him wince as he sat reading on the couch. He would close his eyes and lean back, his face a mask of pain. When that happened, he would grip her hand; but as the days wore on, she noticed that his grip was growing weaker. His strength was fading, she thought; everything about him was fading. And soon he would be gone completely.

She could tell Pastor Harris noticed the changes in her dad as well. He’d been coming by almost every day in recent weeks, usually right before dinner. For the most part, he kept the conversation light; he updated them on the construction or regaled them with amusing stories from his past, bringing a fleeting smile to her father’s face. But there were also moments when both of them seemed to run out of things to say to each other. Avoiding the elephant in the room was taxing for all of them, and in those moments, a fog of sadness seemed to settle in the living room.

When she sensed that they wanted to be alone, she would go stand out on the porch and try to imagine what they might be talking about. She could guess, of course: They talked about faith or family and maybe some regrets they each had, but she knew they also prayed together. She’d heard them once when she’d gone inside to get a glass of water, and she remembered thinking that Pastor Harris’s prayer sounded more like a plea. He seemed to be begging for strength as though his own life depended on it, and as she listened to him, she closed her eyes to chime in with a silent prayer of her own.

Mid-October brought three days of unseasonably chilly weather, cold enough to require a sweatshirt in the mornings. After months of relentless heat, she enjoyed the briskness in the air, but those three days were hard on her dad. Though they still walked the beach, he moved even more slowly, and they paused only briefly outside the church before turning and heading back home. By the time they reached the door, her dad was shivering. Once inside, she drew him a warm bath, hoping it would help, feeling the first twinges of panic at the new signs of sickness that signaled the disease was advancing more rapidly.

On a Friday, a week before Halloween, her father rallied enough for them to try fishing on the small dock that Will had first taken her to. Officer Pete lent them some extra rods and a tackle box. Remarkably, her dad had never been fishing before, so Ronnie had to bait the hook. The first two fish that took the bait got away, but they were finally able to hook a small red drum and land it on the dock. It was the same kind of fish she’d caught with Will, and as the fish struggled while she freed the hook, she suddenly missed Will with an intensity that felt like physical pain.

When they returned home after a peaceful afternoon at the dock, two people were waiting for them on the porch. It wasn’t until she got out of the car that she recognized Blaze and her mom. Blaze looked astonishingly different. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she was dressed in white shorts and a long-sleeved aquamarine top. She wore no jewelry or makeup.

Seeing Blaze again reminded Ronnie of something she’d managed to avoid thinking about in all her concerns for her father: that she would be returning to court before the month was out. She wondered what they wanted and why they were here.

She took her time helping her dad out of the car, offering her arm to steady him.

“Who are they?” her dad murmured.

Ronnie explained, and he nodded. As they approached, Blaze climbed down from the porch.

“Hi, Ronnie,” she said, clearing her throat. She squinted slightly in the lowering sun. “I came to talk to you.”

Ronnie sat across from Blaze in the living room, watching as Blaze studied the floor. Their parents had retreated to the kitchen to give them some privacy.

“I’m really sorry about your dad,” Blaze began. “How is he doing?”

“He’s okay.” Ronnie shrugged. “How about you?”

Blaze touched the front of her shirt. “I’ll always have scars here,” she said, then gestured to her arms and belly, “and here.” She gave a sad smile. “But I’m lucky to be alive, really.” She fidgeted in her seat before catching Ronnie’s eye. “I wanted to thank you for bringing me to the hospital.”

Ronnie nodded, still unsure where the conversation was going. “You’re welcome.”

In the silence, Blaze looked around the living room, uncertain what to say next. Ronnie, learning from her dad, simply waited.

“I should have come by sooner, but I know you’ve been busy.”

“It’s okay,” Ronnie said. “I’m just glad to see you’re doing okay.”

Blaze looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Ronnie said. She smiled. “Even if you do look like an Easter egg.”

Blaze pulled on her top. “Yeah, I know. Crazy, huh? My mom bought me some clothes.”

“They suit you. I guess the two of you are getting along better.”

Blaze gave her a rueful look. “I’m trying. I’m living back home again, but it’s hard. I did a lot of stupid things. To her, to other people. To you.”

Ronnie sat motionless, her expression neutral. “Why are you really here, Blaze?”

Blaze twisted her hands together, betraying her agitation. “I came to apologize. I did a terrible thing to you. And I know I can’t take back the stress I caused you, but I want you to know that I talked to the DA this morning. I told her that I put the stuff in your bag because I was mad at you, and I signed an affidavit that said you had no idea what was going on. You should be getting a call today or tomorrow, but she promised me that she would drop the charges.”

The words came out so fast that at first Ronnie wasn’t sure she’d heard her right. But Blaze’s entreating look told her everything she needed to know. After all these months, after all the countless days and nights of worry, it was suddenly over. Ronnie was in shock.

“I’m really sorry,” Blaze continued in a low voice. “I never should have put those things in your bag.”

Ronnie was still trying to digest the fact that this nightmarish ordeal was coming to an end. She studied Blaze, who was now picking repeatedly at a loose thread in the hem of her shirt. “What’s going to happen to you? Are they going to charge you?”

“No,” she said. At this she looked up, her jaw squared. “I had some information they wanted about another crime. A bigger crime.”

“You mean about what happened to you on the pier?”

“No,” she said, and Ronnie thought she saw something hard and defiant in her eyes. “I told them about the fire at the church and the way it really started.” Blaze made sure she had Ronnie’s attention before going on. “Scott didn’t start the fire. His bottle rocket had nothing to do with it. Oh, it landed near the church all right. But it was already out.”

Ronnie absorbed this information in growing wonderment. For a moment, they stared at each other, the charge in the air palpable.

“Then how did it start?”

Blaze leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, her forearms stretched out as if in supplication. “We were out partying on the beach-Marcus, Teddy, Lance, and me. A little later, Scott showed up, just down the beach from us. We pretended to ignore each other, but we could see Scott lighting up bottle rockets. Will was still down the beach and Scott sort of aimed one in his direction, but the wind caught it and it flew toward the church. Will started freaking out and came running. But Marcus thought the whole thing was hilarious, and the minute that rocket fell behind the church, he ran over to the churchyard. I didn’t know what was happening at first, even after I followed him and saw him torching the scrub grass next to the church wall. The next thing I knew, the side of the building was on fire.”

“You’re saying Marcus did it?” Ronnie could barely get the words out.

She nodded. “He set other fires, too. At least I’m pretty sure he did-he always loved fire. I guess I always knew he was crazy, but I…” She stopped herself, realizing she’d been down that road too many times already. She sat up straight. “Anyway, I’ve agreed to testify against him.”

Ronnie leaned back in her chair, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of her. She remembered the things she’d said to Will, suddenly realizing that if Will had done what she’d demanded, Scott’s life would have been ruined for nothing.

She felt almost ill as Blaze went on. “I’m really sorry for everything,” she said. “And as crazy as it sounds, I did consider you my friend until I was an idiot and ruined it.” For the first time, Blaze’s voice cracked. “But you’re a great person, Ronnie. You’re honest, and you were nice to me when you had no reason to be.” A tear leaked out of one eye, and she swiped at it quickly. “I’ll never forget the day you offered to let me stay with you, even after all the terrible things I had done to you. I felt such… shame. And yet I was grateful, you know? That someone still cared.”

Blaze paused, visibly struggling to pull herself together. When she had blinked back her tears, she took a deep breath and fixed Ronnie with a determined look.

“So if you ever need anything-and I mean anything-let me know. I’ll drop everything, okay? I know I can’t ever make up for what I did to you, but in a way, I feel like you saved me. What’s happened to your dad is just so unfair… and I would do anything to help you.”

Ronnie nodded.

“And one last thing,” Blaze added. “We don’t have to be friends, but if you ever see me again, will you please call me Galadriel? I can’t stand the name Blaze.”

Ronnie smiled. “Sure thing, Galadriel.”

As Blaze had promised, her lawyer called that afternoon, informing her that the charges in her shoplifting case had been dropped.

That night, as her dad lay sleeping in his bedroom, Ronnie turned on the local news. She wasn’t sure if the news would cover it, but there it was, a thirty-second segment right before the weather forecast about “the arrest of a new suspect in the ongoing arson investigation relating to a local church burning last year.” When they flashed a mug shot of Marcus with a few details of his prior misdemeanor charges, she turned off the TV. Those cold, dead eyes still had the power to unnerve her.

She thought of Will and what he had done to protect Scott, for a crime that it turned out he hadn’t even committed. Was it really so terrible, she wondered, that loyalty to his friend had skewed his judgment? Especially in light of the way things had turned out? Ronnie was no longer certain of anything. She had been wrong about so many things: her dad, Blaze, her mother, even Will. Life was so much more complicated than she ever imagined as a sullen teenager in New York.

She shook her head as she moved around the house, turning out the lights one by one. That life-a parade of parties and high school gossip and squabbles with her mom-felt like another world, an existence she had only dreamed. Today, there was only this: her walk on the beach with her dad, the ceaseless sound of the ocean waves, the smell of winter approaching.

And the fruit of the Holy Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Halloween came and went, and her dad grew weaker with every passing day.

They gave up their walks on the beach when the effort became too great, and in the mornings, when she made his bed, she saw dozens of strands of hair on his pillow. Knowing that the disease was accelerating, she moved her mattress into his bedroom in case he needed her help, and also to remain close to him for as long as she could.

He was on the highest dosages of pain medicine that his body could handle, but it never seemed enough. At night, as she slept on the floor beside him, he uttered whimpering cries that nearly broke her heart. She kept his medication right beside his bed, and they were the first things he reached for when he woke up. She would sit beside him in the mornings, holding him, his limbs trembling, until the medicine took effect.

But the side effects took their toll as well. He was unstable on his feet, and Ronnie had to support him whenever he moved, even across the room. Despite his weight loss, when he stumbled it was all she could do to keep him from falling. Though he never gave voice to his frustration, his eyes registered his disappointment, as if he were somehow failing her.

He now slept an average of seventeen hours a day, and Ronnie would spend entire days alone at home, reading and rereading the letters he’d originally written to her. She hadn’t yet read the last letter he’d written to her-the idea still seemed too frightening-but sometimes she liked to hold it between her fingers, trying to summon the strength to open it.

She called home more frequently, timing her calls for when Jonah got home from school or after they had finished dinner. Jonah seemed subdued, and when he asked about their dad she sometimes felt guilty about holding back the truth. But she couldn’t burden him that way, and she noticed that whenever her dad spoke with him, he always did his best to sound as energetic as he could. Afterward, he often sat in the chair by the phone, spent from his exertions, too tired even to move. She would watch him in silence, chafing at the knowledge that there was something more she could do, if only she knew what it was.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked.

They were seated at the kitchen table, and Ronnie had a pad of paper open before her.

Steve gave her a quizzical smile. “That’s what you wanted to ask me?”

“This is just the first question. I’ve got a lot more.”

He reached for the can of Ensure she’d placed before him. He was no longer eating much solid food, and she watched as he took a sip, knowing he was doing it to please her, not because he was hungry.

“Green,” he said.

She wrote down the answer and read the next question. “How old were you when you first kissed a girl?”

“Are you serious?” He made a face.

“Please, Dad,” she said. “It’s important.”

He answered again, and she wrote it down. They got through a quarter of the questions she’d jotted down, and over the next week, he eventually answered them all. She wrote down the answers carefully, not necessarily verbatim, but she hoped with enough detail to reconstruct the answers in the future. It was an engaging and sometimes surprising exercise, but by the end, she concluded that her dad was mostly the same man she’d come to know over the summer.

Which was good and bad, of course. Good because she’d suspected he would be, and bad because it left her no closer to the answer she’d been seeking all along.

The second week of November brought the first rains of autumn, but the construction at the church continued without pause. If anything, the pace increased. Her dad no longer accompanied her; still, Ronnie walked down the beach to the church every day to see how things were progressing. It had become part of her routine during the quiet hours when her dad was napping. Though Pastor Harris always registered her arrival with a wave, he no longer joined her on the beach to chat.

In a week, the stained-glass window would be installed, and Pastor Harris would know he’d done something for her dad that no one else could do, something she knew would mean the world to him. She was happy for him, even as she prayed for guidance of her own.

On a gray November day, her dad suddenly insisted that they venture out to the pier. Ronnie was anxious about the distance and the cold, but he was adamant. He wanted to see the ocean from the pier, he said. One last time, were the words he didn’t have to say.

They dressed in overcoats, and Ronnie even wrapped a wool scarf around her father’s neck. The wind carried in it the first sharp taste of winter, making it feel colder than the thermometer suggested. She insisted on driving to the pier and parked Pastor Harris’s car in the deserted boardwalk lot.

It took a long time to reach the end of the pier. They were alone beneath a cloud-swept sky, the iron gray waves visible between the concrete planks. As they shuffled forward, her father kept his arm looped through hers, clinging to her as the wind tugged at their overcoats.

When they finally made it, her dad reached out for the railing and almost lost his balance. In the silvery light, the planes of his sunken cheeks stood out in sharp relief and his eyes looked a little glassy, but she could tell he was satisfied.

The steady movement of the waves stretching out before him to the horizon seemed to bring him a feeling of serenity. There was nothing to see-no boats, no porpoises, no surfers-but his expression seemed peaceful and free of pain for the first time in weeks. Near the waterline, the clouds seemed almost alive, roiling and shifting as the wintry sun attempted to pierce their veiled masses. She found herself watching the play of clouds with the same wonder her father did, wondering where his thoughts lay.

The wind was picking up, and she saw him shiver. She could tell he wanted to stay, his gaze locked on the horizon. She tugged gently on his arm, but he only tightened his grip on the railing.

She relented then, standing next to him until he was shuddering with cold, finally ready to go. He released the railing and let her turn him around, starting their slow march back to the car. From the corner of her eye, she noticed he was smiling.

“It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” she remarked.

Her dad took a few steps before answering.

“Yes,” he said. “But mostly I enjoyed sharing that moment with you.”

Two days later, she resolved to read his final letter. She would do it soon, before he was gone. Not tonight, but soon, she promised herself. It was late at night, and the day with her dad had been the hardest yet. The medicine didn’t seem to be helping him at all. Tears leaked out of his eyes as spasms of pain racked his body; she begged him to let her bring him to the hospital, but still he refused.

“No,” he gasped. “Not yet.”

“When?” she asked desperately, close to tears herself. He didn’t answer, only held his breath, waiting for the pain to pass. When it did, he seemed suddenly weaker, as if it had sheared away a sliver of the little life he had left.

“I want you to do something for me,” he said. His voice was a ragged whisper.

She kissed the back of his hand. “Anything,” she said.

“When I first received my diagnosis, I signed a DNR. Do you know what that is?” He searched her face. “It means I don’t want any extraordinary measures that might keep me alive. If I go to the hospital, I mean.”

She felt her stomach twist in fear. “What are you trying to say?”

“When the time comes, you have to let me go.”

“No,” she said, beginning to shake her head, “don’t talk like that.”

His gaze was gentle but insistent. “Please,” he whispered. “It’s what I want. When I go to the hospital, bring the papers. They’re in my top desk drawer, in a manila envelope.”

“No… Dad, please,” she cried. “Don’t make me do that. I can’t do that.”

He held her gaze. “Even for me?”

That night, his whimpers were broken by a labored, rapid breathing that terrified her. Though she had promised she would do what he asked, she wasn’t sure she could.

How could she tell the doctors not to do anything? How could she let him die?

On Monday, Pastor Harris picked them both up and drove them to the church to watch the window being installed. Because he was too weak to stand, they brought a lawn chair with them. Pastor Harris helped her support him as they slowly made their way to the beach. A crowd had gathered in anticipation of the event, and for the next few hours, they watched as workers carefully set the window in place. It was as spectacular as she’d imagined it would be, and when the final brace was bolted into place, a cheer went up. She turned to see her father’s reaction and noticed that he’d fallen asleep, cocooned in the heavy blankets she’d draped over him.

With Pastor Harris’s help, she brought him home and put him in bed. On his way out, the pastor turned to her.

“He was happy,” he said, as much to convince himself as her.

“I know he was,” she assured him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “It’s exactly what he wanted.”

Her dad slept for the rest of the day, and as the world went black outside her window, she knew it was time to read the letter. If she didn’t do it now, she might never find the courage.

The light in the kitchen was dim. After tearing open the envelope, she slowly unfolded the page. The handwriting was different from his previous letters; gone was the flowing, open style she’d expected. In its place was something like a scrawl. She didn’t want to imagine what a struggle it must have been to write the words or how long it had taken him. She took a deep breath and began to read.

Hi, sweetheart,

I’m proud of you.

I haven’t said those words to you as often as I should have. I say them now, not because you chose to stay with me through this incredibly difficult time, but because I wanted you to know that you’re the remarkable person I’ve always dreamed you could be.

Thank you for staying. I know it’s hard for you, surely harder than you imagined it would be, and I’m sorry for the hours that you’re going to inevitably spend alone. But I’m especially sorry because I haven’t always been the father you’ve needed me to be. I know I’ve made mistakes. I wish I could change so many things in my life. I suppose that’s normal, considering what’s happening to me, but there’s something else I want you to know.

As hard as life can be and despite all my regrets, there have been moments when I felt truly blessed. I felt that way when you were born, and when I took you to the zoo as a child and watched you stare at the giraffes in amazement. Usually, those moments don’t last long; they come and go like ocean breezes. But sometimes, they stretch out forever.

That’s what the summer was like for me, and not only because you forgave me. The summer was a gift to me, because I came to know the young woman I always knew you would grow into. As I told your brother, it was the best summer of my life, and I often wondered during those idyllic days how someone like me could have been blessed with a daughter as wonderful as you.

Thank you, Ronnie. Thank you for coming. And thank you for the way you made me feel each and every day we had the chance to be together.

You and Jonah have always been the greatest blessings in my life. I love you, Ronnie, and I’ve always loved you. And never, ever forget that I am, and always have been, proud of you. No father has ever been as blessed as I.

Dad

Thanksgiving passed. Along the beach, people began to put up Christmas decorations.

Her dad had lost a third of his body weight and spent nearly all his time in bed.

Ronnie stumbled across the sheets of paper when she was cleaning the house one morning. They’d been wedged carelessly into the drawer of the coffee table, and when she pulled them out, it took her only a moment to recognize her father’s hand in the musical notes scrawled on the page.

It was the song he’d been writing, the song she’d heard him playing that night in the church. She set the pages on top of the table to inspect them more closely. Her eye raced over the heavily edited series of notes, and she thought again that her dad had been on to something. As she read, she could hear the arresting strains of the opening bars in her head. But as she flipped through the score to the second and third pages, she could also see that it wasn’t quite right. Although his initial instincts had been good, she thought she recognized where the composition began to lose its way. She fished a pencil from the table drawer and began to overlay her own work on his, scrawling rapid chord progressions and melodic riffs where her father had left off.

Before she knew it, three hours had gone by and she heard her dad beginning to stir. After tucking the pages back into the drawer, she headed for the bedroom, ready to face whatever the day would bring.

Later that evening, when her father had fallen into yet another fitful sleep, she retrieved the pages, this time working long past midnight. In the morning, she woke up eager and anxious to show him what she’d done. But when she entered his bedroom, he wouldn’t stir at all, and she panicked when she realized that he was barely breathing.

Her stomach was in knots as she called the ambulance, and she felt unsteady as she made her way back to the bedroom. She wasn’t ready, she told herself, she hadn’t shown him the song. She needed another day. It’s not time yet. But with trembling hands, she opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the manila envelope.

In the hospital bed, her father looked smaller than she’d ever seen him. His face had collapsed in on itself, and his skin had an unnatural grayish pallor. His breaths were as shallow and rapid as an infant’s. She squeezed her eyes closed, wishing she weren’t here. Wishing she were anywhere but here.

“Not yet, Daddy,” she whispered. “Just a little more time, okay?”

Outside the hospital window, the sky was gray and cloudy. Most of the leaves had fallen from the trees, and the stark and empty branches somehow reminded her of bones. The air was cold and still, presaging a storm.

The envelope sat on the nightstand, and though she’d promised her dad she would give it to the doctor, she hadn’t done so yet. Not until she was sure he wouldn’t wake, not until she was sure she was never going to have the chance to say good-bye. Not until she was certain there was nothing more she could do for him.

She prayed fiercely for a miracle, a tiny one. And as though God Himself were listening, it happened twenty minutes later.

She’d been sitting beside him for most of the morning. She’d grown so used to the sound of his breathing and the steady beep of the heart monitor that the slightest change sounded like an alarm. Looking up, she saw his arm twitch and his eyes flutter open. He blinked under the fluorescent lights, and Ronnie instinctively reached for his hand.

“Dad?” she said. Despite herself, she felt a surge of hope; she imagined him slowly sitting up.

But he didn’t. He didn’t even seem to hear her. When he rolled his head with great effort to look at her, she saw a darkness in his eyes that she’d never seen before. But then he blinked and she heard him sigh.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he whispered hoarsely.

The fluid in his lungs made him sound as if he were drowning. She forced herself to smile. “How are you doing?”

“Not too well.” He paused, as if to gather his strength. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital. You were brought here this morning. I know you have a DNR, but…”

When he blinked again, she thought his eyes might stay closed. But eventually he opened them.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. The forgiveness in his voice tore at her heart. “I understand.”

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not.”

She kissed him on the cheek and tried to wrap her arms around his shrunken figure. She felt his hand graze her back.

“Are you… okay?” he asked her.

“No,” she admitted, feeling the tears start to come. “I’m not okay at all.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

“No, don’t say that,” she said, willing herself not to break down. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I never should have stopped talking to you. I’ve wanted so desperately to take it all back.”

He gave a ghostly smile. “Did I ever tell you that I think you’re beautiful?”

“Yeah,” she said, sniffling. “You’ve told me.”

“Well, this time I mean it.”

She laughed helplessly through her tears. “Thanks,” she said. Leaning over, she kissed his hand.

“Do you remember when you were little?” he asked, suddenly serious. “You used to watch me playing the piano for hours. One day, I found you sitting at the keyboard playing a melody you had heard me play. You were only four years old. You always had so much talent.”

“I remember,” she said.

“I want you to know something,” her dad said, gripping her hand with surprising force. “No matter how bright your star became, I never cared about the music half as much as I cared about you as a daughter… I want you to know that.”

She nodded. “I believe you. And I love you, too, Dad.”

He took a long breath, his eyes never leaving hers. “Then will you bring me home?”

The words struck her with their full weight, unavoidable and direct. She glanced at the envelope, knowing what he was asking and what he needed her to say. And in that instant, she remembered everything about the last five months. Images raced through her mind, one after the next, stopping only when she saw him sitting in the church at the keyboard, beneath the empty space where the window would eventually be installed.

And it was then that she knew what her heart had been telling her to do all along.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll bring you home. But I need you to do something for me, too.”

Her dad swallowed. It seemed to take all the strength he had to say. “I’m not sure I can anymore.”

She smiled and reached for the envelope. “Even for me?”

Pastor Harris had lent her his car, and she drove as fast as she could. Holding her cell phone, she made the call as she was changing lanes. She quickly explained what was happening and what she needed; Galadriel agreed immediately. She drove as though her father’s life depended on it, accelerating at every yellow light.

Galadriel was waiting for her at the house when she arrived. Beside her on the porch lay two crowbars, which she hefted as Ronnie approached.

“Ready?” she asked.

Ronnie merely nodded, and together they entered the house.

With Galadriel’s help, it took less than an hour to dismantle her father’s work. She didn’t care about the mess they left in the living room; the only thing she could think about was the time her father had left and what she still needed to do for him. When the last piece of plywood was ripped away, Galadriel turned to her, sweating and breathless.

“Go pick up your dad. I’ll clean up. And I’ll help you bring him in when you get back.”

She drove even faster on the way back to the hospital. Before she had left the hospital, she’d met with her dad’s doctor and explained what she planned to do. With the attending nurse’s help, she’d raced through the release forms the hospital required; when she called the hospital from the car, she paged the same nurse and asked her to have her dad waiting downstairs in a wheelchair.

The car’s tires squealed as she turned in to the hospital parking lot. She followed the lane toward the emergency room entrance and saw immediately that the nurse had been good to her word.

Ronnie and the nurse helped her dad into the car, and she was back on the road within minutes. Her dad seemed more alert than he’d been in the hospital room, but she knew that could change at any time. She needed to get him home before it was too late. As she drove the streets of a town she’d eventually come to think of as her own, she felt a rush of fear and hope. It all seemed so simple, so clear now. When she reached the house, Galadriel was waiting for her. Galadriel had moved the couch into position, and together they helped her father recline on it.

Despite his condition, it seemed to dawn on him what Ronnie had done. Ever so gradually, she saw his grimace replaced by an expression of wonder. As he stared at the piano standing exposed in the alcove, she knew she had done the right thing. Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek.

“I finished your song,” she said. “Our last song. And I want to play it for you.”