The first time she saw her father ill was when he catapulted to the floor faster than a man over 70 should be able to. Of course, it was gravity doing the work, instead of the man, but she still sees him keel over and never thinks for a moment that he faltered. He does nothing without purpose.
"Papa…" she starts, wondering what was going on. When he fails to respond, she starts to fret. "Papa! How can I help?"
His glassy, confused eyes seek hers out, and he makes an aborted movement to touch her shoulder, as if to get up again, but he realizes quickly his body is no longer obeying him.
She calls 911, rattles off information to the paramedics when they arrive, while her nerves rattle around in her body.
One paramedic asks if it is her father, and what his name is.
"He's my Papa. He doesn't get sick," is all she says.
The doctors tell her it is a stroke, and that he may yet recover, but only time will tell.
"Time doesn't talk."
She takes off work to spend time with him. With no other family close, except in the cemetery, she waits by his bedside, hoping he'll look at her with clear vision again. He doesn't.
On the fifth day, four men show up. One is very tall, one is very handsome, one is mischievous, and one is uncomfortable in his own skin. The tall one tries the sympathetic route, but it grates on her nerves.
"You don't know my Papa. So stow the touchy-feely-self-help-yoga crap and either help me bath him or get out." Her voice is calm. Her eyes flash. Tall-guy snaps his mouth shut, and looks to Handsome-guy, who shrugs and snickers. Uncomfortable guy makes a step forward, and her face turns to him quickly enough to fling her hair.
"I will assist you in any way you require, if it be within my capabilities."
She nods to Uncomfortable guy in thanks and tells the rest of them, politely, to get the fuck out.
With her father, words were never minced. There were no long conversations about nothing. They said what they meant and meant what they said. And when the conversation was over, nothing more was said. Nothing else needed to be said. There were many companionable silences between them, sometimes stretching days at a time. But she never, never felt unloved or unwanted, the way she had with her ex-husband. After that disaster of a marriage, she had lived with her parents for several years, built her identity back up from the tattered remains that the man had left her with, before she moved out. When her mother passed, she moved back into the same neighborhood, and spent much of her free time with her father, and he spent much of his free time with her. He helped her rebuild classic cars, and she helped him garden. One would cook, and the other would show up unannounced, and enter the house without knocking at dinner time. The doors were never locked. There was an understood, but never vocalized, understanding that while that was his house and this was her house, they could come and go at will. There was an unconditional open invitation.
Neither of them did well alone.
The woman thought on this as she and Uncomfortable Guy bathed her father in silence. It wasn't stilted or awkward, like so many things about the man were, and the familiarity of it calmed her.
While she was trimming her father's fingernails, she asked why they had come.
"I was looking for my father."
She raised an eyebrow at him, taking the time to look him in the eye, before she queried, "Was?"
"I found him."
She nods, because that is enough information for her. She wonders about this man's father, what condition he was in when he was found, and if he still lived. But she does not ask, because if he wanted to tell her, he would have.
She goes back to clipping his nails.
The next day, Mischievous comes alone. Except, he isn't the Mischievous one anymore. He feels… old, but not worn out. Like a man who just came out of a year-long depression and wonders why his house is a mess, right before he cleans it.
He says nothing, but raises his hands, holding washcloths, and arches an eyebrow at her. She nods. They begin bathing him together. Neither say anything.
The other two guys, Tall and Handsome, never come back, but the other two come, every day, for two weeks. No words are spoken, but they fall into a routine. It feels comfortable and familiar. Two hours after they leave on the last day, her father dies. She never sees them again, but when she returns to her house, there is a 1964 ½ Mustang in sorry condition sitting on her front lawn, with an envelope attached.
Inside is the title to the vehicle in her name, and a note, penned in formal calligraphy—like her mother used to do, and it almost makes her cry—that says nothing but "I am glad we found our Father. Thank you for letting us visit." It is signed "Cas and a Gabriel."
She wonders what the two things have to do with each other.
A few months after her father died, the headline news was once again about the weather, the Super Bowl, and all the normal things, instead of fire and ice, blood and tears. No more major disasters end-to-end. She wondered if her father were alive, what he would think.
Many years later, laying on her own deathbed, with her adopted son, Gabriel, at her side, she hands him the keys to the Mustang. His golden eyes twinkle with mirth and mischief, so much like the not-stranger that visited her father, but he smiles and says nothing. She understands. When the reaper comes, he is old, cadaverous looking, and carries a cane. He looks exactly like her uncle.