The Gift

“I have something for you,” he said, his voice hoarse and weak from incessant sleep. “A gift for you Sue, and I suppose, also a gift to me.”

The room was heavy with pre-emptive grief. The hospital bed stood awkwardly by the window in the otherwise cozy bedroom where my parents usually slept. Their soft queen bed was pushed up against the closet to make room for this industrial contraption, aquired in an effort to ease my father’s suffering as he said goodbye. We were grateful that we could bring this bed into the comfort of his home, but we also hated it's necessity and the way it never let us forget that he was leaving.

“I have been preparing it for the last 4 months,” my father continued breathlessly. “I need to tell you about it now before the morphine gets to be too much and I make no sense. You know that is coming Sue – I am going to be snatching butterflies from the air again soon,” he chuckled. I too smiled at the thought of the last time they gave him an extra dose to ease the pain of the cancer ravaging his body. He looked childlike as his hands moved gracefully above his bed, grasping at the wings of the butterflies he saw dancing above him. “So many colours,” he told me and I said, “Wow Dad, I have never seen you stoned,” and he smiled and kept caressing the wings of his new companions. “I know, I don’t know what I am talking about, but it is lovely.” It was such a departure for him, Captain Jack Dale. He was a man of rules and authority. He ascribed heavily to the motto of “manners maketh man” and did not tolerate crude or impolite behaviour. He had a quiet, dignified presence that demanded respect, and a heart that was full of fierce love.

“The gift is over there in my top drawer. Go grab it Sue. I want you to have it now.” I pulled open the top drawer of his dresser, a skinny drawer used for random identification cards, old pictures and rogue screws. On top of it all was a black book with a soft sleek cover. It looked like leather which made me laugh because I had incessantly teased my Dad about his love for leather hats and vests. “Dad, seriously?” I would say as he would appear for a movie date with his black leather vest buttoned over his plaid shirt. “What? This is cool!” he would say, “I am like Johnny Cash. The man in black,” he would muse as I would roll my eyes and giggle at the pure embarrassment of Dad-ness on display.

I pulled the book from the drawer and felt the smooth weight in my hands as I walked back to the window and my fragile father. “That’s it,” he smiled as he glanced at my hands. “Sit now and I will explain what this book contains. It is pretty important to me. Because I made it for you.”

I let my hand run over the cool cover, and then slowly lifted it open to reveal the white lined page filled with my father’s perfect, precise handwriting. “What is this Dad?”

“When I found out I was sick I felt like I had to write this. It is something I always thought you and I would do together when I retired and your children were a bit older. Death has other plans for me, but I still really want us to do this together Sue. You and Me.”

My eyes began to burn and my heart cracked as it dawned on me what I had in my hands. His stories. His handwriting becoming blurry as I looked down at the pages filled with blue ink.

“ I am not a writer Sue. I mean, I can write technically, but I can’t write to make these stories come alive. You can. You are such an amazing writer, Sue. You have a gift that makes me so proud.” He stopped for a moment to take a laboured breathe. “I started my life at sea when I was 16 years old. I left my parents and did not see them again for a year as I travelled to every nook and cranny with a crew of old seadogs and rogues. I lived like a nomad for so much of my life, and I have had some amazing adventures as well as some incredible life lessons. I have written them all here Sue. For you. As a reference and a guide in case you would write my story properly. I want my grandchildren to know about me Sue. About my life. But more importantly, I want you to create.”

“My goodness, Dad. You wrote all of this?”

“Yes. I wrote it all down. The time the crew and I almost accidentally buried a man at sea only to find him alive a few weeks later. Oh, and the one about visiting the voodoo doctor in the Borneo jungle, and what a good lad I was not getting a doll made of that bastard old Captain.” Dad chuckled as he congratulated himself on refraining from the temptations of dark magic. “I wrote about that time all those ladies of the night chased me up the street with their high heels as weapons in Thailand. Yes, and the time I thought I found a mystic fox in the Arctic who led me back to the ship in a snowstorm, only to find out nothing mystical was happening at all, the crew had been feeding him so he was just looking for another hotdog.” He weakly laughed again and I could see the glint in his eye and he recalled this memory. The snow on his face, the fear when he realized the snow storm had obscured the ship and the wonder of the Arctic fox appearing and leading him to safety.

“I wrote about carrying water to Aruba when it was just a desolate island, and ferrying oil through Vietnam in the middle of the war. Oh yes! And that time I was diving off the ship and all the locals gathered to watch and I thought it was because I was doing so well, but found out after they were cheering for my bravery but because I was diving into shark infested water!”

“God Dad, some of these stories are nuts. It is incredible that you even made it this far.”

He laughed out loud. “Yes it is, dying in my own room surrounded by love. That is a pretty happy ending.”

“Oh Dad, I love you. This is such an amazing gift.”

“That is not all. I have looked into this and I know that great writers always get an advance on a book deal, right? Money to keep you going while you focus on your craft. So I have set aside $20,000 for your advance.”

“My God, Dad! I can’t take that! Dad! That is too much.”

“No it isn’t. Your Mom is aware and is in full agreement.” He smiled, “So you will take it and you will use it to ease your burdens while you do this project with me. I want you to write Sue. You can use my stories as inspiration or you can write whatever your imagination brings you – but I want you to create. To put ideas and stories in the world. From the moment you were born I knew you were meant to do that, and I have done all of this to spur you on Sue.”

“Gosh Dad, I don’t know. I don’t think I can do this without you. The thought of doing it without you Dad…..I just…”

“Ah Sue, you will be doing it with me now. You have my stories, you have my love, and I will always be with you. I know that I am being cute by half, that you will feel obligated to write this given it is a dying wish from your father. But I love you so much that I am okay with this last manipulation because I want you to write. And this book will be me nudging you until you are ready.”

I ran my hand over the smooth black cover again. I could feel energy radiating from the book in my hands. Adventure. Intrigue. Laughter. But mostly love.

“I will Dad. It will be our project.”

He smiled. “Good. Then I think it is time to catch butterflies again, darling. Perhps you can call the nurse?”