He now slept an average of seventeen hours a day, and Ronnie would spend entire days alone at home, reading and rereading the letters he'd originally written to her. She hadn't yet read the last letter he'd written to her--the idea still seemed too frightening--but sometimes she liked to hold it between her fingers, trying to summon the strength to open it.
She called home more frequently, timing her calls for when Jonah got home from school or after they had finished dinner. Jonah seemed subdued, and when he asked about their dad she sometimes felt guilty about holding back the truth. But she couldn't burden him that way, and she noticed that whenever her dad spoke with him, he always did his best to sound as energetic as he could. Afterward, he often sat in the chair by the phone, spent from his exertions, too tired even to move. She would watch him in silence, chafing at the knowledge that there was something more she could do, if only she knew what it was.
"What's your favorite color?" she asked.
They were seated at the kitchen table, and Ronnie had a pad of paper open before her.
Steve gave her a quizzical smile. "That's what you wanted to ask me?"
"This is just the first question. I've got a lot more."
He reached for the can of Ensure she'd placed before him. He was no longer eating much solid food, and she watched as he took a sip, knowing he was doing it to please her, not because he was hungry.
"Green," he said.
She wrote down the answer and read the next question. "How old were you when you first kissed a girl?"
"Are you serious?" He made a face.
"Please, Dad," she said. "It's important."
He answered again, and she wrote it down. They got through a quarter of the questions she'd jotted down, and over the next week, he eventually answered them all. She wrote down the answers carefully, not necessarily verbatim, but she hoped with enough detail to reconstruct the answers in the future. It was an engaging and sometimes surprising exercise, but by the end, she concluded that her dad was mostly the same man she'd come to know over the summer.
Which was good and bad, of course. Good because she'd suspected he would be, and bad because it left her no closer to the answer she'd been seeking all along.
The second week of November brought the first rains of autumn, but the construction at the church continued without pause. If anything, the pace increased. Her dad no longer accompanied her; still, Ronnie walked down the beach to the church every day to see how things were progressing. It had become part of her routine during the quiet hours when her dad was napping. Though Pastor Harris always registered her arrival with a wave, he no longer joined her on the beach to chat.
In a week, the stained-glass window would be installed, and Pastor Harris would know he'd done something for her dad that no one else could do, something she knew would mean the world to him. She was happy for him, even as she prayed for guidance of her own.
On a gray November day, her dad suddenly insisted that they venture out to the pier. Ronnie was anxious about the distance and the cold, but he was adamant. He wanted to see the ocean from the pier, he said. One last time, were the words he didn't have to say.
They dressed in overcoats, and Ronnie even wrapped a wool scarf around her father's neck. The wind carried in it the first sharp taste of winter, making it feel colder than the thermometer suggested. She insisted on driving to the pier and parked Pastor Harris's car in the deserted boardwalk lot.
It took a long time to reach the end of the pier. They were alone beneath a cloud-swept sky, the iron gray waves visible between the concrete planks. As they shuffled forward, her father kept his arm looped through hers, clinging to her as the wind tugged at their overcoats.
When they finally made it, her dad reached out for the railing and almost lost his balance. In the silvery light, the planes of his sunken cheeks stood out in sharp relief and his eyes looked a little glassy, but she could tell he was satisfied.
The steady movement of the waves stretching out before him to the horizon seemed to bring him a feeling of serenity. There was nothing to see--no boats, no porpoises, no surfers--but his expression seemed peaceful and free of pain for the first time in weeks. Near the waterline, the clouds seemed almost alive, roiling and shifting as the wintry sun attempted to pierce their veiled masses. She found herself watching the play of clouds with the same wonder her father did, wondering where his thoughts lay.
The wind was picking up, and she saw him shiver. She could tell he wanted to stay, his gaze locked on the horizon. She tugged gently on his arm, but he only tightened his grip on the railing.
She relented then, standing next to him until he was shuddering with cold, finally ready to go. He released the railing and let her turn him around, starting their slow march back to the car. From the corner of her eye, she noticed he was smiling.
"It was beautiful, wasn't it?" she remarked.
Her dad took a few steps before answering.
"Yes," he said. "But mostly I enjoyed sharing that moment with you."
Two days later, she resolved to read his final letter. She would do it soon, before he was gone. Not tonight, but soon, she promised herself. It was late at night, and the day with her dad had been the hardest yet. The medicine didn't seem to be helping him at all. Tears leaked out of his eyes as spasms of pain racked his body; she begged him to let her bring him to the hospital, but still he refused.
"No," he gasped. "Not yet."
"When?" she asked desperately, close to tears herself. He didn't answer, only held his breath, waiting for the pain to pass. When it did, he seemed suddenly weaker, as if it had sheared away a sliver of the little life he had left.
"I want you to do something for me," he said. His voice was a ragged whisper.
She kissed the back of his hand. "Anything," she said.
"When I first received my diagnosis, I signed a DNR. Do you know what that is?" He searched her face. "It means I don't want any extraordinary measures that might keep me alive. If I go to the hospital, I mean."
She felt her stomach twist in fear. "What are you trying to say?"
"When the time comes, you have to let me go."
"No," she said, beginning to shake her head, "don't talk like that."
His gaze was gentle but insistent. "Please," he whispered. "It's what I want. When I go to the hospital, bring the papers. They're in my top desk drawer, in a manila envelope."
"No... Dad, please," she cried. "Don't make me do that. I can't do that."
He held her gaze. "Even for me?"
That night, his whimpers were broken by a labored, rapid breathing that terrified her. Though she had promised she would do what he asked, she wasn't sure she could.
How could she tell the doctors not to do anything? How could she let him die?
On Monday, Pastor Harris picked them both up and drove them to the church to watch the window being installed. Because he was too weak to stand, they brought a lawn chair with them. Pastor Harris helped her support him as they slowly made their way to the beach. A crowd had gathered in anticipation of the event, and for the next few hours, they watched as workers carefully set the window in place. It was as spectacular as she'd imagined it would be, and when the final brace was bolted into place, a cheer went up. She turned to see her father's reaction and noticed that he'd fallen asleep, cocooned in the heavy blankets she'd draped over him.
With Pastor Harris's help, she brought him home and put him in bed. On his way out, the pastor turned to her.
"He was happy," he said, as much to convince himself as her.
"I know he was," she assured him, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "It's exactly what he wanted."
Her dad slept for the rest of the day, and as the world went black outside her window, she knew it was time to read the letter. If she didn't do it now, she might never find the courage.
The light in the kitchen was dim. After tearing open the envelope, she slowly unfolded the page. The handwriting was different from his previous letters; gone was the flowing, open style she'd expected. In its place was something like a scrawl. She didn't want to imagine what a struggle it must have been to write the words or how long it had taken him. She took a deep breath and began to read.
Hi, sweetheart,
I'm proud of you.
I haven't said those words to you as often as I should have. I say them now, not because you chose to stay with me through this incredibly difficult time, but because I wanted you to know that you're the remarkable person I've always dreamed you could be.