Part 3:
Running his fingers along the thin, silver frame, he smiled at the amused, half cheeky expression on her face. Though the simple clothes rendered her barely distinguishable from her comrades, the determination in her eyes burnt out even through the black and white copy to capture his gaze. He saw her then, stepping up purposefully, almost defiantly to receive her doctorate, and yet unable to resist the half glance back to where he stood at the back of the grand hall, willing him to partake of her success. And in truth he had rarely felt such joy as he did at that moment; his heart felt fit to burst as memories of her youth crowded in on him though tinged as ever with the acrid sense of regret that he alone was there to witness her transition to independence. Whilst she had always maintained that she would be there to stand beside him on this momentous occasion, the fate of Elizabeth Quinn had been quite to the contrary. Much weakened by the burdens of her grief, when sickness came, she had not the strength to fight it. Yet wilful to the end, she would call only for Michaela and it was this latter who had clasped her hand until it turned cold within her own and sat till dawn in the small chamber with the diminished form, lamenting her loss in solitude before issuing forth to wire home the date of the funeral.
Sighing softly, he placed the image next to the dull, metal frame: they then stood, side by side as they always should have been; mother and daughter.
Though he did not resent her request to remain behind, a curious sort of loneliness crept over his heart as he moved away from the two pictures to the fireless hearth and with it came an indescribable fatigue; a leaden weight that he had been resisting for so long. She had drawn him out, borne him along on her Life's excursions, just as when a child she had dragged him through shady woodland and icy lake in what she dubbed "adventures". Yet the walls that had once reverberated with her gentle laughter were now still, the hallways hushed and dark. Gaze drifting across the familiar surroundings, he could not now draw comfort from the tangible objects that bore witness to the passage of time; merely abject memories issued forth, accentuating the helplessness that clung to his thoughts. With great effort, he rose from the chair and ascended the wooden stairs for the last time, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty house.
"Pa?" she called pushing open the door – yet instinctively she knew he wasn't there. It had not yet been long enough for the layer of dust to settle upon the polished floor, the soft furnishings; instead an unfamiliar emptiness seemed to emanate from the depths of the foundations, so potent that for a moment she was hesitant to enter. Despite the house being too large for the two of them, he had struggled, always, to maintain the identity of the structure as a home, filling it with the comforting scent of warmth and love that she still carried in her heart. He had transcended the role of father to encompass friend, confidant, companion and interlocutor; his absence now rendered her a stranger in her own home.
"He's not here," she said quietly, stepping inside.
"How do you know?" came a voice from behind her.
"I just know," she replied enigmatically, walking to the mantle piece. Her eye fell on the two photographs, the features of the two subjects so alike it was almost impossible to tell them apart. A bittersweet smile curled her lips yet suddenly noticing the gap at the very centre of the shelf, it faded quickly into a frown.
"Michaela," insisted her companion, "don't you think perhaps you should check up stairs, I mean…"
"No," interrupted Michaela quickly, hurrying to the door, "no…"
"But Michaela…."
"I know where he is!" she exclaimed, rushing down the steps and across the yard before disappearing into the barn. A moment later she emerged, mounted on the now aged chestnut mare that she had befriended during her youth.
"What if you get lost?" called her companion, "it's going to be dark soon."
"I won't get lost," she maintained, pulling off her hat and letting her long hair cascade free down her back.
"This is my home" she cried, urging the horse forwards; the elite, cultured blossom was quite forgotten as the youthful daughter returned and vanished into the woods.
He lay so still, she was certain he was asleep; yet one touch indicated that his sleep was not natural. Every so often a tremble would run through his frame and his skin would burn beneath her fingers, each breath becoming an effort. Dampening the cloth, she ran it tenderly over his forehead, bending so low that her hair waved against his cheeks. For several moments, he remained in a stupor but as the moisture chilled his feverish brow, he became more lucid.
"Pa," she called softly, "Pa, it's Michaela."
Beneath her gentle gaze, his eyes opened. The image before him blurred into his senses; the long tresses caressed his skin, their softness well remembered; the curve of her jaw, the curl of her mouth, contours long imprinted on his heart; the mismatched eyes welcoming him into their embrace.
"Michaela…" he breathed.
"It's alright," she replied, brushing back his hair, "I'm here now."
"I didn't think I could do it without ya…" he sighed, his eyes slipping shut as he spoke.
"Do what?" queried Michaela, her brow creasing in consternation.
"I wish…wish ya could see her," he continued, not hearing nor heeding her question, "ya'd be so proud…"
As his right hand loosened, she noticed a folded piece of paper caught amidst his fingers. Laying down her cloth, she eased it carefully out of his grasp and opened it up. The corners were wholly battered, the edges yellowed with age. His frequent caresses had faded the hue along the contours of her face yet the form was undeniable; it was her mother. And he stood beside her, strong and proud as he once had been, the laughter etched deep in his features, the love.
At that instant, the realisation dawned on her; dropping the picture, she threw herself against his chest, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him vigorously.
"No Pa," she sobbed, "no, you can't go…"
At the slight touch against her cheek, she instantly raised her head, her eyes seeking his. A small smile pulled at his lips as the words broke from his lips, "Noxa'e….I'm comin'."
The End
Thank you all so much for reading...I hope you enjoyed it!
Just to note that Noxa'e means "wait"...
I don't own any of the characters and have only borrowd them :)
