This is for my Dad, whose battle is not with the bottle, but with cancer – one he is losing. Seeing him like this I feel the importance of remembering all the better times, the fun we've & the lessons he has taught me. It has made me appreciate all the things he's done for me. While he is not my Biological father, he's the only dad I have ever known. I love you. x
She had been in the hospital for 18 hours already, and she felt the exhaustion of the day weighing heavily on her. Beckett sat beside her father's bed, the hiss and puff of the respirator a constant in the room. He had been put in a medically induced coma, in an attempt to relieve pressure on his brain and buy him time to heal.
Typically the call had come at near the end of a long shift at work, then already drained, she found herself thrown into emotional turmoil once more. On some level she had been expecting a call like that for some time, it was only a question of when and how. She listened to the information given to her, feeling adrenalin begin to flush through her veins, but she would not allow herself to become panicked. She would hold herself together now as she always did, gathering her fear and compressing it, making it small. She would deal with it through action, this was her coping strategy and it worked for her, for the most part.
She had excused herself from work, giving her Captain the information she had. He was already well aware of her father's situation, and his dependence on Beckett when things were bad. She had earned the respect she now received and just as she was about to rush out, he called after her. "Beckett, let me know if you need more time tomorrow or after, it's yours. Keep me apprised."
"Thank you Sir" she breathed and felt the weight of her captain's support lighten her load somewhat.
She wasted no time and arrived at the hospital in a little under half an hour. When she arrived he had been in surgery. She received an initial update and summation of the accident. On an icy New York day he had been out, probably touring his regular bars, which meant he had almost certainly been on it all day and would have by then been very drunk. However over time, his resistance had been built up and what would have certainly have put your average drinker down on their ass, was something he outwardly seemed to cope remarkably well with, but that didn't change the fact that there was an enormous amount of alcohol in his system, which brought its own inherent risks.
Fortunately he always had the sense to not drive, instead he used the subway and today on making his approach to the steps, he had slipped. In his inebriated state he hadn't been able to prevent the fall. Avoiding the rush hour, there were people available for assistance, but not bodies to hamper and therefore break his fall. He had tumbled down, cracking his head on the way at least a couple of times the first one knocking him out cold, which meant he took the unforgiving concrete drop completely uncontrolled. The first break in the steps hadn't slowed his momentum sufficiently, he tumbled again.
The result was a multitude of fractures. To his ribs, arm and most worryingly of all his skull and a traumatic brain injury. His surgery had lasted for hours and Beckett had endured the wait all alone. Eventually she had received optimistic news from the surgeon, they had managed to stabilise him and initial signs seemed encouraging, though they warned that the next few hours would be crucial. He would almost certainly remain in intensive care over-night, possibly longer depending on how he responded.
She had dozed fitfully, never feeling rested once she had been roused, which between working hospital personnel and alerting noises from the machines her dad had been hooked up to, was frequent. As if the stress alone wasn't enough to keep her from being able to rest.
For now she could only wait and talk to him without hope of response. But helped her, if not him, to do so. She found her mind returned to moments from her childhood, things they had done together, in happier days before they lost her mom, his wife.
"I remember you buying me my first bike. The smell in the shop; new rubber and exotic oils, totally unique. When I bought my first motorcycle it smelled exactly the same, I think that was a major factor in making up my mind to buy. I could say it was your fault you know, even though you didn't want me to ride one, it was you who started me out on that path."
He had taken her to the shop, on a sunny Saturday morning. Already that day her Mom had made one of her special breakfasts, almost certainly in anticipation of them not returning right away once they had made their purchase. She was right.
Her dad allowed her to choose the one she wanted, he bent down to Kate's level surveying the rows and rows of shiny machines. Some mounted on the walls, others suspended on raised stands, others resting in racks on the floor. "Which one takes your eye Katie?"
Young Kate Beckett toured the whole area. She ran her already analytical eye over each and every bike in the shop, not just the children's ones, but the adult size ones too. Their gears and break mechanisms were fascinating. Her father never rushed her with any of her decisions, in fact he actively encouraged all her interests and enquiries. He loved watching her sort through her thoughts and relished her questions as to why or how things worked. He noted her interest here, so he began explaining about the bikes mechanisms, what they were called and what they did.
Kate liked it best when she asked something he didn't know the answer to. "Lets find out, shall we?" he would say, and together they would look for answers in books, often prompting a visit to the library, or by asking someone who they thought would know. Together they would research the answers, all the while developing and broadening her interests, simultaneously satisfying and deepening her curiosity in the process.
She soon dismissed all the pink 'girly bikes', instead she was drawn to a chrome framed BMX, with chunky tires, padded with red guards on the handlebars and cross beam, and a matching red saddle and wheels. Kate being only four, it was a small bike, but she had loved it instantly. For the first couple of weeks she had been content to trundle around with stabilising wheels attached to the rear wheel, but soon little Kate Beckett decided she wanted to ride free of them. Her dad took Kate and her now two wheeled bike to the park, they found a long section of path, straight and flat, lined with grass on both sides. No helmet or pads back then, her dad was her only safety net.
She remembers the odd sensation as she sat on the saddle, the bike tilting awkwardly, even with her dad holding her upright with a hand on the seat and another supporting the handle bars. They covered the length the path several times over with him holding her up while she got a feel for it, gradually getting faster and without realising it, she was soon finding the point of balance. Unbeknown to Kate at the time, her dad was able to gradually lessen his degree of support, eventually lifting his hand from the handlebars, giving her full control over her steering.
"You've got it Katie!" he said, now running at an awkward crouch to keep up while she cranked the pedals with increasing confidence and fluidity of movement. He felt it when she had the bike perfectly balanced, and dared to let go completely. He slowed his run, watching his little girl as she rode off.
"Don't let go!" he heard her say, already fifteen yards separating them.
"I wont!" he called over the ever widening distance. Of course that tipped her off, causing her to attempt awkward glance back and soon after a panicked wobbling stop, which she almost managed but at the last moment - when she needed to disengage her feet from the pedals, which, up until that point hadn't been necessary and was therefore a totally foreign idea - she lost control. The bike ditched to the left and Kate spilled with it.
She remembers being so angry that he had let her fall, she was shaken up and her elbow was grazed and stinging. Her dad scooped her up and she clung to him even so. "Why did you let go?" she cried.
"Because you, my little Spitfire, were riding too fast and I couldn't keep up." His smile was all encompassing, brighter than the sun that day. "You did it Katie, you did it."
Realisation and belief settled upon her simultaneously, "I can do it?" There was only the slightest hint of a question in it. But her dad recognised it for what it was and he was quick to affirm her tenuous self-belief.
"You can do it." He confirmed proudly, as always he was keen to show her. He pressed a huge kiss to her head. "You're the best and I love you so much." She felt his confidence in her bolster her, the discomfort of her scraped elbow instantly forgotten. She smiled with her dad and hugged him with everything she had.
"Do you want to go again?" he asked, already knowing what her answer would be.
With hardly a moment's hesitation, Kate said "Yes" and with one extra squeeze Jim Beckett popped her back on her feet and together they righted her bike. By the time they were both worn out, Kate was able to set off alone, ride and steer, and even stop safely - without crashing.
Sitting with him now she relates her memories of this event, telling him the stories of their shared past, and how special they are to her, of how they shaped the person she has become. And while the terrible event of her mother's murder and thereafter her father's downward spiral, have beaten both of them down, these moments and memories can never be taken from her, not so long as she holds fast to them. As she talks, her memories begin to flow in a stream, she gives voice to them as they come to her, each one leading to the next.
"Remember the trick with the boiled egg?" she asks holding his hand, still talking to him, but lost now, in her own mind.
Sunday mornings were lazy in their house, her dad would comb over the Sunday papers during breakfast and Kate's mom would sometimes make her a soft boiled egg with toasted soldiers to dunk into the runny yolks. It was one of her childhood favourites, still something she craved even now as an adult. It was a taste as rich in memories as it was in flavour.
After each and every time young Kate finished her egg, having scooped it clean with her teaspoon, she would turn the egg shell upside down and place it back in the egg cup. Then she would place it in front of her dad, who would on queue drop the paper to find the offered egg. "Daddy, I can't finish my breakfast." she would tell him. "Do you want my egg?"
He would thank her, collect her spoon and prepare to crack into the egg, always hovering just over the point for a second, absorbing and relishing the sound of her giggles. Then he would break into the egg with gentle taps until it shattered hollowly. Finding the shell empty he would pull a face of shocked disappointment, then he would exclaim "You tricked me again!" which would of course delight Kate and make her laugh even more.
Sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair she smiles at the silliness her dad had cultivated, "It never seemed strange that you would fall for it every time."
Then she remembers the time they decorated her bedroom. Again she had been responsible for choosing the colour scheme she wanted, he accepted her choice without question, even though thinking about it now she wonders how her 7 year old mind had worked. "What was I thinking when we decorated my room?" She muses.
They went to the hardware store together to buy everything they would need. Her dad bought two sets of rollers and paint trays and two soft bristled brushes one for him, one for her.
They also bought paint in the right colours which Kate had selected from the colour cards, Yellow gloss paint on the woodwork, with both midnight and sky blue paint on the walls. "Guess I was never a girly girl huh?" By the time they left, their cart was stuffed full.
He talked to her about all the jobs they still had to do. In the days before they had emptied out all off her stuff, left large items stacked in the middle of the room covered in a gigantic white sheet. In the mean time she was temporarily sleeping in a guest room. They had washed the walls down, and her dad had painted the ceiling white, cleaned and undercoated the wood.
Before they had even got out of the car when they returned home, he asked "Are you ready to start?"
Kate eagerly nodded "Yes." They dressed in old clothes and set to work as soon as everything was unloaded from the car. She remembers the roller being ridiculously heavy in her hands when it was loaded and the way it would leave a cold spay of tiny droplets of paint on her hands.
Her dad was meticulous in his work, she remembers watching how precise he was in everything he did. He instructed her and gave her tips to help her as they worked side by side. Him working on the ladder at the top of the walls, her on the lower half. She stretched up on her tiptoes to get as high and cover as much wall as she possibly could. They worked up until dinner time, and by then they were both very hungry and Kate was worn out.
"And then you told me, years later, that you waited until I had gone to bed to go back and patch up all the bits I had missed." She chuckled with a slight shake of her head. "I decorated my whole apartment myself though, you taught me really well dad."
She thinks of the bear he got her. And while you couldn't quite call it a teddy, it was her soft companion, the one she took everywhere with her and remembers it being especially comforting when she was little and was feeling ill. The bear was made of cream fabric, similar to the texture of sheep's wool, so very soft and warm, giving back the warmth of her body when she hugged him tight. He had a brown snout and lovely warm eyes. When she was older she discovered that the bear had been hand made by a colleague of his and he had instantly fallen in love with it. He bought it on the spot knowing that his Katie would fall for him too. She had named him Bossley, though no one was quite sure how or why this came to be, they only knew that it fit and that he was her favourite.
Kate recalls the first baseball game he ever took her to and tells him to story from her point of view, that of en excited 8 year old, already with a massive interest in the game, which she loved because he did, because they played catch together and he would pitch for her to hit in the park on sunny afternoons. She remembers the sense of excitement as she walked towards the stadium hand in hand with him and how huge it felt as the shadow of the stand fell over them on their approach.
Even now, she is incapable of walking past a hotdog vendor without thinking of that day. And even without the aid of the smell of hot franks, cooking onions alone will often do the trick and she will think of her dad.
It is then that she realises just how much she has been missing him over the years he has been lost, battling his own grief and then addiction. It catches her unaware and it chokes her, constricting her throat as hot tears spill silently. Kate allows herself a rare moment where she lets her grief have her. She realises that without him, a large part of her history will be lost. She remembers a lot, but she knows he would remember so much more. She succumbs to the grief of having that link, not only to him, but to her mom also, severed.
She hopes beyond hope, that he will pull through this, and he will have the chance to re-do this conversation, this time with him. "Pull through this for me dad." She pleads and places a kiss to his head. "I love you." She retires to the slightly more comfortable sofa in the lounge, and sleeps fitfully until dawn.
The next couple of days passed in a blur, she worked a few hours each day, mostly paperwork support, then would head off to the hospital to visit her dad. She continued her story telling, covering everything from squashing his sandcastles at the beach as fast as he could build them, to the way at four years old she would scream when anyone tried to cut her toenails, and one day in desperation he handed her the scissors and told her to do it herself. She did, and that was just fine.
His scans indicated that the swelling to his brain had reduced considerably, his doctors were beginning to discuss the strategy for weaning him off the sedatives which had so far been keeping him under. While he had been unconscious they had also been treating him for his addiction and Kate remained cautiously optimistic that perhaps this could end up being a blessing in disguise. She dared to hope.
She was there when they brought him round. She will never for as long as she lives forget the look on his face when he realised she was there. His eyes were clear for the first time in a long time "There's my Spitfire." he said with a smile and lightness she once feared would be lost for good.
Tears spilled before she realised they were coming "Hi dad."
His recovery went well while he was still in the hospital. They decided he should have an extended stay, not only because of the head trauma, but because of his detoxification, which he was on board with. But Kate knew that the acid test would come when he was released, even though there was a support package in place for when that time came. Then it was all up to him, he had fallen at the first hurdle before.
On the day he was due to be released, she arrived having prepped the house, ready to take him home. She felt an odd mix of excitement and trepidation, promise and dread.
He was up and gazing out of the window at the rain lashed grounds of the hospital. "It's a beautiful day." he said, with a complete lack of sarcasm accompanying that statement, he turned to see her, a smile on his lips. She felt some of her worry drain away, her hope strengthen. What he did next bolstered her beyond words, beyond measure.
He held out a square black box, about big enough to hold a baseball, tied neatly with a yellow ribbon. "This is for you."
She took the package, tilting her head with a quizzical expression. She knew he had not left the hospital, he was to be released into her care. "What did you…?"
"Just open it." He advised. She nodded and turned her attention to the box, the pulled the ribbon to release the lid. Inside nestled in loosely scrunched black tissue paper was his watch. She looked up to find him looking intently at her. The question on the tip of her tongue. "It's time" he said simply.
"For?"
"For putting this behind me. For getting on with life. For letting the pain go. For holding on to you.
"I love you so much Katie, this time it'll stick."
And for the first time after such a promise, with her constant support, this was the one which was kept.