A little taster - The Prologue

Prologue

Tifi

I’d taken the afternoon off work to give my mother a break from the hospital. She hadn’t left my father’s side in the two days since he’d been admitted for respite care. I drew back the curtain, took her coat off the back of the chair and placed it on her shoulders. She was too shattered to argue with me as I ushered her out of the door. I slipped a twenty pound note into her hand and told her that a taxi was waiting for her outside the main entrance. Then I kissed her on the forehead and watched as she slowly walked away, still gripping the carrier bag full of fruit that she’d bought in the hope that he’d regain his appetite.

In the run up to his finale, my father had babbled incessantly about angels and three foot tall rabbits. I do believe that in some respects, he actually spoke more during his last weeks on earth than he had in the thirty odd years that I’d known him. The morphine, of course, had a lot to do with it. That day, like any other, I’d been expecting the usual banter, a few rude jokes about the nurses, an enquiry into the football scores. I returned to his side and noticed instead that his favourite cotton pyjamas bagged around a protruding collarbone. His beautiful ebony skin, having already lost its healthy sheen months before, had further diluted to the colour of dirty dishwater. Drips with different coloured taps fed the bruised yellow veins that protruded from his shrivelled hands. His face sank into the mass of pillows that framed his head, proud features slowly caving into the skull that had once supported them. That day, for the first time since the doctor had provided her prognosis, my fathers eyes laid bare the fear that the drugs had so carefully concealed.

He held my hand tight for the four hours that I was there and didn’t say a single word. He stared at a section of ceiling above my head. I tried to meet his gaze but gave up after the first hour. At ten to nine on the dot, a disembodied voice heralded the last ten minutes of visiting time. In that same moment, my father pulled his hand violently across him, yanking me onto his chest. He brought his free hand over and held me still with the little strength that remained in his body. He strained to plant the dry touch of lips on the back of my neck. Lying with the side of my head pressed against his heart I noticed that his skin smelled sweet, like syrup. He whispered urgently into my ear.

“Tell me that I am forgiven! Please tell me that I am forgiven!”

I tried to move my head without hurting him but he held me firmly in place. Managing to mumble through the cotton of his nightshirt, I asked, “Forgiven for what Dad?”

He remained silent for a good while before he grasped me painfully by the shoulders and pushed me away.

“I need you to tell me that I’m forgiven,” he growled, “I need you to tell me now!”

His conduct betrayed him and I reacted as any terrified child would when gripped by a stranger.

“It’s alright, Dad. I forgive you. Everything’s alright. You’re forgiven, OK?”

His features softened instantly, slumped back into his bed, exhausted. In that brief moment I saw a flicker of the man he used to be. My big strong dad, my protector, my comfort, my kin. A beaming smile lit up his face. The glint returned to his eyes.

“My black angels are silver swords in disguise, Elizabeth. They live in the sugar cane. I can hear them calling my name.”

I felt the cold blade pierce my heart as he spoke. I reached out for his hand in a futile attempt to stop him from leaving, but he placed it on his chest, caught his breath and fell soundly asleep.

My father, George Labelle, died at 8.59 p.m. 20 January 2005. It was cancer and he was only 52 years old.