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‘Maybe you’ll start having good sex now.’
I pull my tongue at her, and she swats at me and shoves me out.
God, I love her.
I try not to notice how little my dad eats. I ordered him a small plate, and I’m still hungry after I demolish my large dinner. Jan, bless her, doesn’t eat much of hers, either, but I don’t think she wants my dad to feel bad. I want to order dessert, but I don’t want to keep him here any longer. I can tell by his pinched lips and down-cast eyes that he wants to leave.
As I wheel him out, he points with a shaking, skeletal finger to the sky. ‘Look, Frankie-ming.’
A flurry of snowflakes spatters my face and cling to my lashes as I glance up. My dad laughs, and even as something in my chest tightens at the sound, I close my eyes and let the snow fall on me.
Is this the world’s way of giving me one last day of happiness?
I look over at my dad to see him wheeling his chair after Jan, holding out his tongue to catch the flakes. For so many years I wanted it to snow for my own joy, but sometimes the things that bring you happiness is watching the people you love most be happy.
And I can’t shake the feeling that this is our last happy day.
We open our presents when we reach my dad’s. But as I watch my dad tear open his, I keep thinking of that moment just thirty minutes ago. Already I can’t recall how the snow felt on my skin, or how my dad’s laugh sounded, or how a hush suddenly fell upon the street. Time constantly slips away from me, and I grasp at it, but that moment has gone. There’s no getting it back. All I can do is live in the present of each moment and try to pretend there isn’t a clock ticking down each second, each minute, each hour; try to ignore the reality that this could be the last time I ever see him.
Kevin sticks his tongue out as he rips open the paper and holds up the photobook of memories—the times we spent in Scotland and having picnics and my dad and I smiling on a quadbike—but my eyes follow the slip of paper that flutters into his lap.
I hold out my hand for it. ‘Here. Let me read it.’ All the words I’ve wanted to say for so many years now.
‘Dad,’ I read, and my throat closes up. How many times did I cry writing this? ‘I know this is probably the shittiest Christmas present you’ve ever received, but I’ve recently learned that grief is all the things you wished you’d said, and I don’t want you to go without knowing how much I love you. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that—I love you. I think a part of me wanted to preserve it, because once I said it, that was it. There’s nothing more than that. But I was wrong: even if someone knows you love them, you shouldn’t ever stop telling them, because those words might be the only thing holding them together. You should remind them, every single day.’ I take a shuddering breath. ‘Thank you for giving me the best childhood I ever could have dreamed of. Thank you for reminding me to be kind, always. Thank you for your weird little mandate every morning before school—‘ We both chuckle at that. ‘Even when I lose myself, you make me remember who I am. You make me the best version of myself. But enough about me.’
I swat my stupid tears. ‘You’re the most incredible human being I’ve ever known, and I am so thankful you’re my dad. You’re strong, and compassionate, and I—‘ My voice breaks. ‘And I love you. So much. And I promise to rescue cats with ridiculous names, and pick up roadkill, and show as much compassion for wildlife as you always have. So I wanted you to know this, before it’s too late, and when you go, you’ll know how much I love you. That I have always loved you—‘ I break off into a sob, my hands coming up to cover my face.
I hear the squeak of wheels, and a moment later my dad’s arms come around me. The treatment he’s having makes him smell funny, but I sink into his warmth. I clutch him as he rubs my back, ashecomfortsme, and I hate myself for doing this to him. He’s the one who’s dying.
But as I feel his tears splash my arms, I realise he needs this as much as I do.
‘I love you, too, kiddo,’ he says. ‘You’re my favourite daughter.’
‘I’m your only daughter, Dad.’
He laughs, and I smile against his dressing gown, even as every part of me breaks.
We open the rest of our presents. I got Jan a tub of coconut chocolates because she’s strange, and she’s bought me a grey cardigan, which I’m so thrilled about I hug her. I open my dad’s—and gasp.
It’s a painting. Of me, smiling, wearing an apron, stood before a quaint, stone building. A shop, called Frank-Bees Foundation; through the window are pictures of bees and all sorts of invertebrates. A sprawling garden spreads before the shop, full of blooming flowers and blossom trees.
‘Where did you get this done?’ I whisper, running my fingers over the frame.
‘Friend of Jan’s,’ Kevin explains. ‘I remember you saying how you love bugs and stuff… Do you like it?’
I nod, beyond words. ‘I love it.’
He laughs, and Jan smiles, but I feel only dread at taking such a precious gift back home.
I hug them both goodbye before walking to my car, snow still falling, cushioning the ground.
‘Don’t be a stranger,’ my dad calls after me. ‘Merry Christmas, Frankie.’
He waves and smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. And every part of me tugs me back towards him, urging me to stay, and even though those words are finally out, more build up, cresting and cresting, and I can’t help but think that this is the curse of life.
Too many words, but never enough time.
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