Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was quite absurd that she wore the fox costume when the doctor gave them the bad news. She stood, clenching the papier-mâché mask that she had found at a local flea market and liked because of the sly smile painted on it with broad strokes. That day had been sunny, lively, and she had been hopeful. Now everything had diminished to the feeling of adrenaline pulsing through her body. She held the mask in her hands just to have something to cling to as the doctor explained how the brain tissue affected by the blood clot that had paralysed her dad would now slowly die, and how her dad’s situation would deteriorate. He said coldly, matter of factly, that they should prepare themselves for the worst.

The reason she wore the costume was a good one, it was not just an strange idea, as Godmother seemed to think.

Until her mobile rang, it had been a wonderful day, filled with a nervous energy. Her looking forward to the evening. Where she would be busy hosting a Halloween event at the café. She did not know, that her dad would collapse in his living room at the same time, that she would open the doors to the café. She had no idea, that Godmother, in a panic, would called 911 and then Claire—because, of course, she could not dream of calling her directly. She did not know, that in the same moment as Claire answerede the phone, she herself began pouring a bloody punch for the first costumers.

The fox mask, she had bought without a second thought. She had laughed to herself, looking forward to halloween and what with no doubt would be a whimsical and funny costume. It was a way for her to honor their story. Even though he was gone from her life. To her it was a small, private acknowledgement of a meaningful time in her past.

Now, in the hospital, the mask was the only thing she had to clutch in her hands. The Godmother and her could not offer eachother any kind of solace. So the rough materiality of the mask, became a grounding remedy. Something to do with her hands, as reality sank in. Something to help her feel real and somehow stay present. The fox mask started to crumble between her fingers, small pieces of paper loosened from it and flew to the ground. But she did not care, only the feeling of the crumbling paper was important. It let it her do something, when there was nothing to do. She pulled and scratched in it, holding it thight between her hands.

In the years that had passed, she had drawn her own conclusions about the foxes that had followed him, and the result had been one of metaphors and hidden meanings.

She would have liked to knock on his church to tell him her findings. But then again, she had grown, and even though it had hurt—and still hurt sometimes—she would respect his choice and not come to his church again.

The past was the past.

And then again the past was a strong thing. His gaze, and the way he lifted his eyebrows, would sometimes return to her.

Mostly during sleepless nights.

… I have never truly wished for it to pass…

Claire had told her that it was amazing that she had been capable of love in that way, and that in its own way it was a success to feel like that. Sometimes she agreed; other times she did not. especially because Claire in reality, was referring to herself, and her lovefilled life with Klare.

The Halloween event had been well planned. It was a local event; she had even made a hashtag for Instagram, with a photo-op featuring Hilary in the corner of the café. Here, people could stand next to her cage. She created and printed different scenes—from a haunted house to haunted forests—on cardboard plates, which could be used as a background for the cage and her. It was a semi-popular gimmick, and for a while after her dad’s death, when the phone screen became an escape and solace, her instagram feed was flooded with pictures of witches, cowboys, princesses, or more obscure Halloween characters next to Hilary. The guinea pig had gotten old and looked fluffier and more tired.

She had read somewhere that they have a lifespan of 6–8 years; Hilary was in her eighth year. This led her to analyse the animal’s every move. She actually considered letting her retire, but it was as though she never had the courage to make that decision, and Hilary did seem content in the café.

… You will never forget the moment when you receive bad news…

She realised, that she would never forget how the café looked, with fake spider webs and people huddled together and enjoying themselves in the small, confined space—how it looked exactly at the moment when her mobile rang. For a long time, she would still relive that exact moment as if she could go back and change the outcome.

— Hi, she had said, and instantly realised that something terrible had happened. Because Claire was rambling on the other end. Calm, logical Claire was dumping a lot of information on her while driving hurriedly to the airport. Then the words hospital, Godmother, dad, brain, blood clot—along with flight details and room numbers—became clear, and, way too slowly, she comprehended the severness in the information that Claire tried to convey. Their dad was in the hospital, unconscious, his life slipping away.

She had to be there. Nothing else mattered; she knew this down to her core. Instantly, she threw her keys to one of her regulars.

— Close up after you, will you? I have to leave; my dad is in the hospital, she yelled as she ran through the front door. Still in her fox costume, pulling her mask off—thus clutching it in her hands—as she arrived by taxi at the hospital.

She did not think as she ran to the reception to ask for her dad and where she could find him. She began running down one hall, then, realising in her panic that she had already lost her way, she slowed until a nurse with kind, big eyes—and experience evident in his expression and movement—stopped her.

She gave her dad’s name. The nurse gestured down another hall.

— Follow me.

She followed, forcing herself to keep pace with the nurse’s measured tempo. Then they came to a door; the nurse opened it and gestured for her to enter. And there, limp in a bed, connected by wires to bags of fluids and whatever else, lay her dad. Alone, looking way too small in the large bed. His open mouth and raspy breathing filled the whole space. His eyes were closed. He was not conscious, but neither was he sleeping. The notion of being ‘in between’ life and death was all too apparent—she knew he was teetering between the two, and she felt he would die.

The nurse placed a hand on her shoulder and gestured toward a chair.

— The doctor will be here shortly. Your dad’s wife is out making phone calls. I will tell her you are here.

Thankfully, he had not referred to her Godmother as her mum.

The nurse left, and she was alone with her dad. Instead of sitting down, she walked to the side of the bed. Her dad’s face was pale. He looked pained and different, as if a great wave of something unknown were washing away even his physical features. Slowly, she reached out to touch his hand very lightly. His hand was cold in a way a hand is never supposed to be. His fingertips had a blue hue. She closed her eyes, and for a short moment she remembered another deathbed—and suddenly she could not breathe.

Then her Godmother entered the room.

— You are here, she stated, eyeing her husband’s daughter,

— what in the world are you supposed to be?

She noticed the costume she was wearing, the red furry jumosuit and the mask that she held in her hands. It was still smiling at her, and she no longer found it amusing.

— A fox, she said in a tiny voice.

Then the doctor came. Godmother asked a question. She herself tried to breath. The doctor kept his distance—it was his job to deliver bad news. He could not engage with their feelings, nor give them the good news they were hoping for. That was when the mask became a tool of grounding. Her dad was dying; it was just a matter of time. The doctor left. Godmother said something—perhaps she cried. Then she left too, only to return a few moments later.

She still felt as if she could not breathe, as though her dad’s raspy breathing were the only breathing allowed. Maybe if she did not breathe, leaving the oxygen for him, that might make a difference? She thought of Claire. Would Claire make it?

Then Godmother said something that made her gasp for air.

— Dear, I have called our priest. I want him to give the last anointing.

Chapter Text

She had to take a deep breath; so many things were going on inside her. How was she to digest this? She found her voice again.

— The anointing... to be honest, I’m not sure my dad would want that.

Godmother caught her eyes. Her own eyes were red. If she had ever wondered whether Godmother truly loved her dad, there was no doubt about it anymore, as the woman had been crying. There was no playact about the way she appeared. 

— Of course he would, darling.

Godmother stepped a little closer to her.

— Of course he would, darling. And wouldn't I, as his wife, know this? To be honest, darling, I understand that you're upset, but for you to question my judgment in this situation... I mean, just...

Godmother drew in a breath, closed her eyes, and sniffed, as if the sorrow was overwhelming her.

She looked at her dad. The few moments her eyes had been on Godmother were enough for him to appear even weaker. She couldn’t find the energy or will to communicate with this woman now. Where was Claire? She looked at the clock in the room—each tick brought her dad closer to something unknown.

— I just... I need... I will...

She paused.

— I’ll get coffee.

She left the room. Outside, she looked around, not able to remember where she had come from. She needed air.

In front of the hospital, she drew in the cold air with long breaths. Then she realised she must have left her mask in the hospital room. Her hands were empty. The red jumpsuit was ridiculous, with a fluffy faux fur tail. Unfortunately, it was sewn solidly into the fabric. If she tried to tear it off, she might rip a big hole in the suit, and it would be even more improper to walk around with her underwear visible.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and wondered: What should she do? What was one supposed to do in this specific situation? She could feel her own heart, and the blood and adrenaline pumping through her body. She truly felt the fact that soon she would be an orphan. Had she said all she needed to say to him?

She had to go back in.

She walked in to find Godmother sitting on a chair next to her dad’s bed. Godmother was looking at him with a sorrowful gaze while holding his hand, stroking it.

The sterility of the hospital room hit her, and the contrast between the love radiating from Godmother towards her dad, the situation, and her own feelings for the woman paralysed her. Then she heard what Godmother said.

— Dear, my dear, I just want you to know that it’s okay. You can let go when you’re ready. The priest is on his way, but if you need to go, it’s okay.

— What?

She exclaimed.

— Claire isn’t even here, and you’re telling him to let go?

— Don’t be so selfish, can’t you see he’s suffering?

Godmother answered as she stood up.

— What are you playing at?

She sneered.

— I’m not playing at anything. I’m accepting the harsh truth.

Godmother replied.

— This is neither the time nor place for a fight.

A calm voice interrupted.

She quickly turned around, and there, in the doorway, stood he. He met her gaze directly. He didn’t smile, which would have been terribly inappropriate. And when it came to inappropriate things, she actually forgot, for a moment, the situation as he stood there and looked at her. His eyes, his large brown eyes. The last time she had seen him, they had been filled with tears.

How had the years treated him? He looked the same, but was that a touch of grey in his hair?

— Hi,

she said.

Then reality flooded back over her, and she looked down.

— I’m sorry, he said, first to Godmother, then to her.

Godmother bowed her head and greeted him softly:

— Father.

He went to her dad’s bedside, and with a calm voice, told her father that he was there. It was impossible to say whether her father could feel it, or even sensed their presence. But she had to respect the priest for the care that emanated from him. Then it dawned on her that this was part of his job. That this was far from the first deathbed he had stood by. This was part of the loving mission he had devoted himself to.

The priest explained in detail what he would do, in a direct and calm tone. Her father was not able to take communion or confess, so it would mostly be blessings and the anointing oil. Then she watched how his demeanor changed, as he took on his full role, laying his hands on her father and, with a calm voice, going through the ritual.

Godmother sat in a chair with folded hands. She herself went to the window and looked out at the world outside the hospital. Autumn had truly settled over the city now. The wind made the treetops sway from side to side.

A jolt ran through her when a hand was placed on her shoulder. She turned around, and there stood the priest, with eyes that seemed to see everything inside her.

… Or so I always thought…

— Don’t do that, he said.

— Do what?

— Don’t disappear. I know this is tough, but don’t disappear.

She tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat.

— I don’t know if I can do this, she said.

He looked firmly into her eyes.

— You have to.

— I’m sorry that you have to, I mean... here, me, she gestured towards herself.

— That’s not important now. All that is in the past.

She closed her eyes.

… Not for me…

— Don’t disappear, he said again.

— I’ll try not to, she said.

Then it was as though he saw what she wore.

— My GOD, what is that?

— Oh, she said, that, that’s my fox costume. Well, I was at a Halloween party. I had a mask. But I don’t know where it went.

— Is that it? he said, pointing at a crumpled, shredded mess. She had unknowingly torn it to pieces. Now it lay abandoned on one of the chairs.

She nodded.

— That thing is terrifying.

He collected himself.

— I know, you might think that I don’t want to see you, but if I can help in any way at all... then yes, let’s forget the past.

— Why would you?

Her voice wasn’t accusing in any way, just filled with wonder. In the background Godmother had returned to her dad’s bedside. She did not seem to notice them, and then she realised that it did not matter if Godmother payed them attention or not. It did not seem important when everything was so terrible.

— You’ve been crying the whole time, and I just... I can’t stand here and ignore that.

She touched her own cheek; it was wet from tears. How had she not noticed that she was crying?

He raised his hand as if to wipe her tears away.

Chapter Text

He paused, stopping himself from touching her, and locked eyes with her —
Asking with his very being if it was okay for him to touch her. His hand lingered in the air between them.

The seriousness in his face. He had to know what to do in these kinds of situations, she thought. He was familiar with the process of dying; he must have seen it before, due to his profession.

She wanted his guidance — wanted him to tell her how to handle this.

His tousled hair. The lines around his eyes.

She wanted nothing more than to give in, to let him touch her, to let him embrace her.

Then reality returned to her. The sounds, the smells of the hospital. And her father’s continuous raspy breathing.

He was standing in front of her as a priest.

He had chosen priesthood before and would choose it again.

…tell me what to do…

You are disappearing, you are doing it again

… I cannot do this …

Please don’t

She had to get out. She had to breathe. She had to think.

… I need to breathe…

Everything was a blur as she found her way to the door, down the halls. Main entrance. Air.

Fresh, cold air. The wall against her back.

… I can’t think…

Without seeing them, she sensed a person next to her. Someone was watching her.

… Oh God, I can’t think…

… I don’t know what to do…

— Breathe

The words got through the haze of her mind, and she could centre herself on the simple instruction.

Breathing air in. Letting it out. Cold air against her skin.
This situation was so suffocating. Everything about it. And she wanted to refuse it. She would not accept her dad dying — or anything about these circumstances.

— Keep breathing

His voice was calm, and it slowly spread to her.

… His voice…

— I don't think you need that. You don’t need to disappear.

She breathed in, out, in, out.

She turned her face towards him. He stood next to her, just out of reach. His eyes watching her calmly.

— Well, fuck you, she finally said.

— Well, you did, he laughed in reply and sent her a grin before returning to a serious attitude.

— Not afraid of anyone hearing you? she snickered.

— Mmm, he stepped closer and added,
— I have confessed, and I am only human.

— You sure?

He did not answer, taking it as a rhetorical question.

She looked at her phone. Claire had not written yet.

— What about Claire? he said, as if reading her mind.

— She is on her way.

— Good, family need each other in these kinds of situations.

She looked at him again, observing the differences time had carved into him. Then she sighed. The adrenaline was still pumping through her body; she felt like running. But she also felt like there was not enough time. Not enough time for anything.

… Not enough time…

He did not say anything this time, but his brown eyes lay on her. Thoughtful.

— If my being here makes everything worse, just say so. But I thought you might need a friend.

— A friend? Since when have we become friends? she answered, her voice not angry or accusing, just sad.

— We never stopped being friends.

— We haven't seen each other for God knows how long.

— True, He does, he answered, and I know as well as you what happened, but I— Look, all I am offering you is comfort. Me being there, as a friend.

— What a good Samaritan you are, she said.

After a period of silence, her just observing the hospital, the people coming and going, and well, him being there, he said:
— Should we get back inside?

She really did not feel like returning to the room. But at the same time, she was painfully aware that time was scarce.

She had no idea how and when death would arrive. Which form it would take. She drew in a long breath and said, without really having contemplated the consequences, just letting the need for comfort, and having someone by her side, now that she had to go through this,

— Will you go with me?

— I will, he said.

Later, after having observed her father for a long time, and trying not to react to her Godmother’s sly comments, that she somehow managed to make despite the situation. Comments like,

— He so wondered if he had been a good dad, if it was his fault, you know, you struggling.

or

— Why isn’t Claire here? It did hurt him so, that she had to move so far away.

The priest said:

— You need to get something to eat.

She hesitated to leave the room, but he continued:

— You really should get something to eat. What would your father have said?

She imagined her father being capable of saying anything to her at that moment. She did not feel any hunger. The whole time, the priest had sat next to her, and now she had to wonder which obligations and appointments he had to miss in order to be there.

— You really don’t have to stay, you know, she whispered.

He ran a hand through his hair as he looked at her.

— Well, I want to. This is part of, well, you could say, my calling.

— Well, in that case, just until Claire is here.

….

A while later, Claire entered the room. She and Godmother stood up, the priest keeping slightly to the back. Claire stopped when she saw their dad.
Frozen. Perhaps frightened.

For a moment, she saw her own feelings reflected in Claire’s face.

Then Claire turned, and exclaimed when she noticed the priest:

— what are you doing here?

— He’s being a friend, she found herself saying.

Claire shook her head, as if trying to make sense of the situation, and then must have simply given up — unable to deal with, or relate to, her sister’s priestly ex-lover.
Godmother took little notice of the situation. Perhaps she had accepted the priest’s presence. Perhaps she thought it fitting that he should stay. Godmother nodded to Claire and said:

— It is good that you are here.

Claire nodded in reply and said that she would like a moment alone with their dad. She entered the hallway but heard Claire repeat in the background.

— I would like to be alone with him

Godmother had not seem inclined to leave the room. Now she left the room looked at her and with hurried steps walked alway.

As she stood in the hallway, she found herself wondering if that was what was expected of her — to take a moment alone with her dad, to tell him all the things she needed to say. Wasn’t that what people did? But what was she supposed to say in such a moment?

Godmother, perhaps hurt or frustrated at having to leave, disappeared down the corridor.

She turned to the priest, who stood not far from her.

— What will happen?

He hesitated.

— Depends what you mean by that.

— When people die?

— When people die, he repeated, you know what I believe.

She hesitated.

— I don’t mean after they die, but when they die?

— Weren’t you at your mother’s deathbed?

— Yes… or no. I said my goodbyes, but she died after I had just left the hospice. I thought I had more time.

— People often do that, you know.

— Do what?

He shrugged.

— It really is one of those little mysteries, but people often die when their loved ones leave — as if they need the space to, you know… go.

… I don’t want to remember…

A hand on her shoulder, and a kind gaze. He said softly, calling her back:

— You’re doing it again — disappearing.
She closed her eyes.

— I know. Not the healthiest coping mechanism. I’m just afraid of not being there.

— Then stay. And if he dies when you’re not there, it was meant to be that way.

She leaned against the wall, wanting to rest for a moment, to sleep and forget.

— Thank you for being here. It’s all very confusing, but… thank you.

He took her hand and squeezed it gently.

— I’m just not prepared for this.

— You can’t be prepared for this, he said and added:

— I really am your friend, you know.

— Please stay, she whispered.
…

Later, she stood alone in the hospital room, she had to take a deep breath. At first, she was afraid to take his hand, but then she reached out anyway. Quietly, she held his hand in hers.

The last thing the doctor had said was that, at this stage, when people are close to death, even the slightest touch can feel uncomfortable — so one must be very gentle. He had added that the last sense to fade, they believe, is hearing.

With a voice that sounded strange, as if it had to fight its way up from her chest, she said:
— I love you..

[...]

That night, her father died with her Godmother, herself, and Claire by his side. Claire embraced her—one of their rare hugs. She wondered if her own face was as tight with grief, if she looked like someone on the verge of breaking, just as Claire did. Godmother remained by the bed. She did not reach out for either of them. A doctor declared their father dead. Two nurses came to prepare him. Godmother stood up. For a moment, she looked truly vulnerable.

— I must… I must get his clothes, she stammered.

Claire and she locked eyes. She nodded to Claire, who said:

— I’ll come with you.

Godmother’s lip quivered as she looked at the two sisters.

— Thank you, she said quietly.

As they stepped out of the hospital room, the priest was sitting on a chair. He stood up and walked towards them.

— So good of you to be here, Godmother murmured before she and Claire disappeared down the corridor.

He looked at her, and she looked at him.

… I have no words…

He spread his arms, and she stepped into them, letting him embrace her.

… I feel nothing…

— And everything at the same time, he answered.