I wanted so badly to break down when I first heard the news, but by some miracle, I’ve managed to keep myself standing tall, even if I do feel like I am losing an integral piece of myself – a special piece that makes me the person I am. I have to keep reminding myself to stay strong. My dad needs to see that I am capable, that I can cope and be a source of strength my mum needs. Just like he has always been for her.
Just like Moffy is for me.
I have an overwhelming need to protect her from the pain, too, as well as an intense urge to tell both parents repeatedly how much I love them, over and over and over again.
The nurses come and go throughout the day, each one kind and caring. The support they provide is priceless, and I’ve come to realise I don’t possess the patience they have and need to do their job. They truly are worth their weight in gold. Not only do they deliver medical assistance for my dad, but they have been on hand for a few emotional moments, too, mostly for my mum. It amazes me just how many tea bags and tissues one household can go through in a time of crisis. Just the other day, one of the nurses caught me having one of my brief lapses in control. The advice she bestowed on me repeats on an endless loop in my mind.
Talk to your mother, Paris. It’s very important. You need each other. Look at it this way… Your reluctance to speak with her may be interpreted by her as a need to avoid upsetting you. It’s the best way to avoid isolation in your grief, and it certainly takes a joint effort to keep those family memories alive. Or so I’ve found, having been around many families in your situation.
What she said makes sense, but it is easier said than done. I’ve never been one to sit around and talk about my feelings. It's difficult for me; it's not who I am, and despite always trying to break my emotions down and explain them to everyone like they all seem so bloody desperate for me to do, I just can't do it. It doesn't feel natural. I'm not my dad. I wish I were, but I'm not. This situation is, unfortunately, no exception. The only person I am trying with is my dad. Time is so short, and there is so much to cram in. However, there are those times when talking isn’t needed. Just sitting still in each other’s company is all that is required, a peaceful lull where we can appreciate each other from afar. He needs his rest, and I need a break from digging deep.
This is one of those moments.
As I stand in the doorway, watching over his tired, restless body, I am consumed by the god-awful smell of clinical hygiene products. Even with the window open, providing a loose breeze, the unpleasant scent still lingers. His chest is heaving, and there is a wispy wheeze to his breath, which tells me he’s struggling, even though he’s trying to hide it from me. His eyes remain closed, allowing me to take in his grey, worn face and the sunken bags under his eyes. He is a mere shadow of himself, which pains me in a way I never thought possible. No young girl should have to see her hero suffer like this. It’s torture.
I take one step forward, but stop in my tracks. I have a deep longing to touch his hand, to hold him close, but I’m terrified. My hand begins to shake as I will the vision to be gone. I don’t want to remember him like this – the one man I have adored all my life. He has instilled such strength and courage in me, which only makes me admire him more, if that’s even possible. I desperately try to exchange these moments in my mind with the laughter and good times we shared, reminding myself of his kind, caring heart, especially when it came to Izzy.
He used to joke with us all the time. “It’s a good job you two are friends. I’m not sure people could handle you as sisters. I fear for any boys that you two meet.” The days after he found out he was ill, he told us, “You two need to be stronger than ever now. Always stick together and don’t allow anything to come between you. The bond you girls have is for life, and you need to support each other throughout it.” He was right. We did need each other. We still do. She has been a great friend throughout all of this, even though I know how badly she is hurting, too.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asks softly, standing at the side of me, watching on as I do.
I offer her a sad smile. I don’t need to answer because she knows from my sombre expression the message I’m conveying. There isn’t much time left. Taking my hand in hers, she squeezes tightly, resting her head on my shoulder. The comfort she is giving me now is gratefully received. I lean my head onto hers as we stand supporting each other for a while, jointly watching our dad on his path to the inevitable.
I’m completely helpless. Each sinking breath he takes, I dive with him until the waves die down to a complete halt, sending my whole world crashing down around me.
I just lost of piece of myself… I’m forever broken.
Five
May 2000
For someone who owns plenty of black items of clothing, it takes me the best part of two days to decide what to wear on the day we bury my father. None of the clothes I try on seem fitting. I think I have all the fashion answers in my head, but I guess today I am proven wrong. Each time I put something on, I hear a familiar word of warning from somewhere up above.
Paris… That’s a little short, don’t you think?
Paris… That top should have the next two buttons done up, sweetheart.
Paris… You do know that t-shirt has a hole in it, don’t you?
They are said in a polite manner, attempting to disguise the hidden chastisement. To be fair, looking back on all the times Dad said them; he probably had a point, and that’s why I’m struggling so much to pick the right thing. I want him to look down over me and feel proud, yet all I can think about is how I should have paid more attention to this when he was alive – listened to his critique instead of just waving it off, thinking I knew better.
In the end, I opt for a smart, black trouser suit with a blush pink shirt. I hope if he is looking over me today, he will see the slight rebellion in the choice of colour and smile like it makes me do for a millisecond when I choose it. I am still his daughter, and I want people to see that today. I want to stand out from the array of standard black and white, if only in a small way. I nearly plumped for the full pink suit, but I am also conscious of upsetting my mum. She is hurting just as much as I am.
We sat for a couple of hours with the local priest and funeral directors’ the other day, discussing the finer details of how today is going to proceed. I have to say; hearing the line, one of life’s saddest occasions is the passing of a loved one, over and over, leaves me feeling numb. It isn’t just “one of” for me. It is the single most agonising incident in my life. It’s impossible to find the right words to describe how I feel. None of them seem to do it justice.
I have struggled to write a speech to give during the service. I sat and stared blankly at the paper for hours, willing the words to come, but every time I tried, I came up blank. Luckily, Izzy is a straight A student in English. When it comes to writing, she is the Don. She has often started writing books, telling me of the little characters running around in her head and how they argue with each other, leaving her restless, particularly at night. I used to think she was going a little bit crazy, but now, I’m thankful for her talent. She offered me help and between us we managed to write a beautiful poem about Dad.
Yet, I still haven’t cried.
Since the day he passed away, I haven’t been able to shed a tear. I fear being strong has become so in-built within my mind that I have lost all ability to show raw emotion. I’ve heard people whispering in quiet corners and behind my back. I’ve heard them question why I don’t cry. If I had the energy, I would argue back but my spark has fizzled out and all I feel is deflated, like I’m slowly moving through time in a zombie-like state.
Standing in the front room, gazing stony-eyed out of the window, I focus on the weather. It’s an average day. No rain. No sun. A few clouds here and there. Nothing is monumentally different. During the occasional funeral I have attended in my short life, the weather seems to be a popular topic of conversation. For some reason, people always remember the weather. I need to prepare. Dad was
always telling me to prepare. I need to…
I make a mental note: The weather is flat. Neither shit nor shine.
It’s exactly the same as I feel… Flat.
Until I hear someone in the room sigh heavily. It reminds me of the day my dad took his last gasp. All of a sudden, I clutch at my chest, willing myself to breathe.
Keep calm.
Keep steady.
You can do this.
Izzy must sense it, too, because before I know it, her arm links with mine, and she provides the support I need right now, as always. I keep my eyes fixated on the registration plate as the hearse crawls at a torturously slow pace down the street. The heave in my chest reminds me of his in those last few days.
Is this how painstakingly difficult it was for him to breathe?
“You’re okay, Goose. You got this. I’m here,” her calming whisper hums at the side of me.
Tightening my grip on her arm in response, the rest of my body remains stiff. I can hear a wail from somewhere in the room. I don’t even have to raise my head to know it’s Mum. I can’t look at her. I’m scared if I do, I will weaken. I have to stay strong. I need to make it through today. I have to. The zombie in me has subsided, replaced by my zealous demand to keep my shit together.
That is until my eyes betray me, casting a curious glance further down the long car. I spot the bike floral tribute first. It’s done just as I specified. My eyes drift to the word ‘Dad’. Such a simple word, but one that holds so much meaning to so many different people.
Then it hits me…
A coffin.
The last layer is stripped back bare, causing my knees to buck, sending me falling straight to the ground. The pent-up emotion of the past week overwhelms me to the point of bursting. I hold my head in my hands. I’m crying; I’m trembling and I can’t stop.
“No… No, no, no. Why him? Why my dad? Why? Why? Why?” are the only words I repeatedly scream from the depths of my lungs.
Her warm arms around my quivering body, I hear her soothing words of consolation. I smell her sweet floral scent, but this time it does nothing to subside the gut-wrenching heartache I’m tortured with. For the first time in my life, I feel alone.
*******
My hand trembles as I place a single pink peony on top of the coffin, whispering softly between the two of us.
“I’ll miss the smile you wore with style. I’ll miss your inspiration and our endless conversation. Your departed influence will cause me strife, but I will always remember the brightness you brought to my life. I love you, Dad. Always and forever.”
Rest in peace, wherever you are.
My dad had a soul that could light up any room in an instant. His comforting presence made me feel safe. I knew that no matter what I was suffering, he would find the right words to say to make me feel better about it. When I was with him, I thought anything was possible. I could achieve anything I set my mind to. His encouragement and faith in me never faltered, no matter how disappointed he was. I guess it is, therefore, fitting to have a song playing that suited his style, as we part ways at the crematorium.
I shed my first calm tear the moment I hear the first word of the song “Unforgettable.” He is unforgettable to me. Nat King Cole was a favourite of his. Many a time I watched him gracefully glide my mum around the kitchen to such music. I watched on in awe at how happy they were, how close we were as a family. He was the heart and soul. I struggle to stop the tears from slowly trickling down my cheeks at the thought of never witnessing this beautiful childhood memory again. I don’t know how my mum and I will cope without him. We’re not strong like he was. He was the glue that kept us bonded. I’m scared for what the future holds in a world without him in it.
I slump over, watching the pall bearers begin to pick his coffin up. I have no idea how many family and friends are left standing behind me. I’m barely aware of Izzy stood supporting my sobbing mother at the side of me. I desperately claw at my mind for memories like they’re drifting away with him. I don’t want to forget a single second of any of them. Each one holds its own meaning and is immensely important to me. They’re all I have left.
For some reason, I have one particular saying playing over and over. One he regularly used.
“There are wishbones, jaw bones, and back bones. Those who dream about doing things, those who talk about doing things, and those who accomplish things.”
He was always telling me I needed to strive to have a bank bone. Stop wishing and start believing. Only, I’m not sure how I can do that now. He was the driving force behind my belief. My silent cheerleader. Before he died, he commented on how I needed to find my backbone now more than ever. I stiffen my spine straight as the notion takes hold. I’m already defying his wishes without even realising. I have to pull myself together. I will not allow myself, today of all days, to disappoint him.
I roughly swipe at the tears with my sleeve. I’m certain half my makeup is smeared across my face, and my swollen red eyes look like I’ve been crying for an eternity, but I’m past caring. All that matters to me now is to walk out of here with my head held a little higher. I’m Daniel Hemsworth’s daughter, and to me, that means everything. I want others to hold him in the same regard I do, as a loyal, honest man with a good, kind heart and devotion to his family.
As I stand witnessing the curtain close on the final chapter of his life, I make a pact with myself. I will never allow anyone to forget my courageous, one-in-a-million Dad. His memory will live on through me. I have my arms tightly clasped around my body, making my way to the exit. As I hover by the doorway, following the coffin out towards the graveyard, I pause to cast an eye up to the ceiling, and I say a quick prayer to the guy upstairs.
“Don’t let me fail this one. Please.”
Six
12th June 2000
Birthdays are a girl’s best friend.
At least they always were to me until this one.
The second my eyes flutter open, I fill with dread. I have feared today since the funeral. The first milestone I have to spend without my dad. My 18th birthday. I pull the duvet over my head, burying myself further into my own den of disguise, figuring if I hide in here, maybe no one will find me and I won’t have to face the over-the-top festivities put in place to compensate for his absence. It doesn’t matter what they do, how many gifts they shower me with or how big my party is, it will not fill the gaping hole of emptiness I am in agony with. Every day, I wake up with the same desolate pain in my chest and today is no exception.
Moffy has been a trooper. She can read me like a book. She senses those particular moments when I need her to catch me, and she knows exactly the points in time when I need to be left alone. I’d go so far as to say her understanding of my moods is more accurate than my own. One thing is for certain though: she is more perceptive than my mother who is undoubtedly clueless. It has left me wondering just how much attention she has paid to me over the years, or maybe it is just the fact I was the apple of my dad’s eye and she never stood a chance of getting close. The answer is, I don’t know, but I’m not sure how much longer I can take her smothering.
“You’re going to have to come out of there eventually, you know.”
The bed dips at one side where she perches. I already know what’s coming. She’s here to encourage me to get up. Well, it’s not happening. I do not want to move.
“Go away,” I firmly state before tugging at the duvet. I wiggle further down into the tight, dark hole, hoping she will bog off.
“You should know those tactics won’t work with me, Goose. I’ll happily drag you out of here naked, hanging by your ankle.”
“I have knickers on,” I quickly snipe back before kicking myself for even getting into a debate with her.
God damn you, Mav.
“Oh, you do? Let’s have a squizz at which ones,” she cheekily jokes, her hand clutching at the duvet, trying to pull it back and poke her head in.
“Gerroff, you idiot,” I grunt, fight
ing with her to get it back. “Leave me alone. Just go away.”
“No can do, Goosey Loosey. Not today.” She somehow manages to push her mouth inside a tiny gap at the top, lowering her voice. “I have a promise to keep.”
I falter for two seconds. Two seconds too long, apparently. Before I have time to react, she has swiped the covers from me, jumped back from the bed and is clasping them tightly to her chest.
“Jesus, Izzy. Just give me the covers back.”
I scoot off the bed, cupping my breasts with my arm, attempting to snatch it back. I stand, bouncing from foot to foot, my arm flying around in the air.
“Nope.” She steps further back, sweeping it to one side and lowering her voice. “He didn’t want this for today, Paris. I am not going to let you wallow. You are going to get up and give this day a chance.”
She swiftly pulls a red disposable party camera from behind her back, snapping a few shots of me like a photographer would, acting like the prankster she is.
What a bitch.
“Or I’m posting these pictures all around school,” she threatens, sporting a huge grin.
The thing is, she would, too. I have no choice but to get up and get ready. She has me by the short and curlies. God, do I despise her smart arse tactics sometimes.
“Fine. Fine. I’ll get up, but I’m telling you right now, I will not be enjoying this day. That, my smarmy faced friend, is a promise.”
Moffy is no longer a trooper. Uch.
*******
When my feet land on the bottom floor of our house, my suspicions are confirmed. My mum has gone crazy with the decorations. There are balloons and banners everywhere. I stop in my tracks, letting out a small sigh as my eyes close and my head drops.
Paris Hemsworth's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 2) Page 4
