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I remember the last conversation I had with my father the day he died.

It had taken three months of my life, giving up everything to make sure his last days were bearable, all with the expectation that it would be a thankless task he would not appreciate.  Three months of dismissive retorts, insults, insufferable behaviour, cryptic comments, and sometimes, in less lucid moments, ramblings about places he’d been, and discoveries made.

Neither of my brothers wanted anything to do with him, other than to wait for the selfish bastard to die and leave them their sufferance money, their expectation of an incalculable inheritance, and it was left to me, the youngest son, and in their eyes the one he cared about the most to take responsibility.

I didn’t have the heart, nor was I given the opportunity, to tell them I was not the golden boy they thought I was.  Or the fact there was no incalculable inheritance.

But there was that conversation, one I never expected to have.

I’d left the room for a break, heading to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a croissant.  Amelia, one of two dedicated nurses looking after my father, was there, having a coffee before she started her shift.  We had become friends of a sort, each other’s go-to person when my father unravelled on us.

Yesterday’s revelations were about his will, and which one, if there was one, was current.  His mind changed weekly, including who was in and who was out, which made it especially interesting because he sometimes didn’t remember any of all of us.  Or the fact his wife, our mother, had died twenty years before after being dragged along on one of his archaeological adventures.

Yesterday, I was getting nothing, his rant about the child, not knowing I was in the room with him.  He simply didn’t recognise me.  Everything, he said, was going to Elroy, the eldest brother, who, apparently, was in the room with us.

The brain tumour was affecting him more each passing day, and symptoms and behaviour the doctors had told me from the outset, would demonstrate indescribable and at times confronting behaviour.  I think, in that three months, I’d seen it all.

“Another day, not another million dollars, eh Steven?”  She smiled.  She’d caught the last of the spray he gave me.  She was amused by my eligibility as a so-called wealthy bachelor, which changed from week to week.  This week, it was zero wealth, no eligibility.

“I was hoping to propose, but once again, I can’t afford the ring, the wedding, or the honeymoon.”

“You know what I expect, a soda can ring pull, my parent’s backyard, and a B and B in Yonkers.  If I’m lucky.  My parents might charge rent for using their backyard.”

We joked about it, but I’d thought more than once in the last few weeks to ask her on a date, but after telling me about her last breakup and the horrid man, she’d sworn off dating for life.  She was the only light in days of darkness.

“Everything comes to he or she who waits.  I’m sure the right one is out there somewhere.”

“We can only hope.  He had a quiet night, I’m told, and the end is near.  Twice the night nurse had thought he’d died.  Maybe he’s finally done.”

I could only hope.  “Got anything lined up for the weekend?”

She grimaced.  I knew that look.  Duty and obligation led to an inquisition.

“Going home to visit mum and dad, and see the perfect sisters with their perfect families, each with their perfect husband with perfect jobs, and why I’m not married, have no children in a dead-end job.  I sometimes wonder if I should ask you to pretend to be my perfect husband just to get them off my back.  What do you think?”

It was an idea that sent a shiver through me when it shouldn’t.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Nobody is, Steven, except in my family.  Tell you what, the more I think about it….”  Then she shook her head.  “I think I’m going mad.  I’ll see you later.”  She rushed off, and I was not sure if she was late starting or embarrassed by thinking out loud.

It was an idea.  Maybe I’d mention it later.

I opened the curtains covering the windows and looked at the frail man either asleep or feigning sleep.  It was hard to tell.  He was, after the ravages of age and illness, now only a fraction of what he used to be, a big, strong force of nature. 

I arranged the array of newspapers I’d brought with me, just in case he wanted me to read stories from them, or just one.  I had several Dickens novels, which I’d read to him at night.  He liked the classics and Dickens in particular.  I had a bottle of scotch, which we had a drink of sometimes.  Other times, I was not allowed because he thought I was too young.  It was amusing.

Every morning was a waiting game, where I would wait until he spoke to me unless one of the medical staff interrupted this charade.  It seemed to amuse him, and because he was dying, I played along.

Reading the newspaper while waiting, I found a story on page 6 of the local rag, my father’s description of it because he had never anything nice to say about it, or the reporting because the editor was an arch enemy if his, about his impending demise, and how he had been the counties most distinguished archaeologist and celebrity.  It refrained from mentioning he could be and often was abrasive.

“Alfred Biggins in serious condition.” Followed by a catchy subtitled, “Not expected to live.”

It was rather a belatedly written story written by a friend, of sorts; “stodgy”, so named because his journalistic talent was simply writing the facts.  It was a mishmash of everything he’d got from me in a bar the previous Friday in what he thought was a well-disguised interrogation. It was not.  Having every intention of trying to keep the wolves from the door, I managed to head off an assassination piece; those would come from various sources after his death.

“Is that you, Steven?”  My father was awake, and I braced myself.

I put the paper down and looked over to see him sitting up.  If I was to guess, he didn’t look ill or half mad at all, just his usual self.  “It is me.  What can I get you?”

“Nothing I can’t get for myself.  What are you doing here?  What am I doing here?”

OK.  Something was very wrong here.  This person in the bed was not my father.  “You have a brain tumour and you’ve been in a very bad way.  In fact, the night nurse had thought you’d died.  Twice.”

“Died?  Brain tumour?  There’s nothing wrong with me.  I feel fine.”

Then I remembered what the doctor had said a month or so ago when we went through a similar phase.  This moment of clarity wouldn’t last.

“Dad, believe me, you are unwell, and this is just a temporary remission.  The doctor will be here soon and will explain it.”

“Then if I’m ill as you say, where are your brothers?”

“They wanted nothing to do with you once you were put in here.  They delegated me to keep you company.  I’m sure you don’t remember any of this, but it’s been three months now, and it’s getting worse.”

He shook his head and went quiet.  It was as if he was taking in the enormity of it, or just that he didn’t believe it could happen to him.  A few minutes passed, and I wondered if he had slipped back into the fog.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me.  “Yes.  Some of it I remember, firstly going down like a sack of potatoes in Cairo, waking up in some damn hospital with a witch doctor trying to peer into my soul.  Said I had a tumour and it needed to be seen to, said I had six months, at best to live. Of course, I laughed at him, came home, and then the last thing I know was falling over in the study at home.”

“It’s where I found you.  It was a day before I came home.  Scared the living hell out of me.”

“How long since that day?”1

“Three months almost to the day.”

“Plus the three before that, that’s the six months.  I’m on borrowed time.  There’s a journal in the study.  I don’t remember where I put it, but it’s in a safe place.  If I remember before I die, I’ll tell you, but I think that’s a long shot at best.  The will is in a copy of the 1933 Guide to Touring Egypt.  Basically the money goes to the other two, and the house goes to you.  They don’t need a house and they’d only sell it if I left it to them.  The money with more than compensate them.  I should change it and leave the money to a lost dog’s home, but it’s too late.  I’m sorry for a lot of things Steven, but what’s in the journal will make up for everything.  Two things, don’t tell anyone about it, or what’s in there.  Ever.  The other, watch out for Professor Moriarty.  Yes, I know it sounds stupid because he’s a foe of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not joking.  The man is dangerous. and he’s after the same thing you are.  Now, be a good boy and get me some cold water.”

I looked at him, trying to fathom if he was having me on.  It wouldn’t surprise me.  Whether or not this was one of those lucid moments, or he was just a very good actor, I couldn’t tell.  But Professor Moriarty?  Please.  That was where I drew the line.  I took the jug and headed to the cold water dispenser.

Amelia passed as I was filling the jug.  “How is he today?”

“The weirdest thing.  Until he mentioned Professor Moriarty, I thought he’d woken and was lucid again.  Certainly, the conversation was better than anything we’d had before, even before being admitted to the hospital.”

“Maybe some of it was, and his mind just wandered.  Ask him again when you see him.  I’ll be there soon.”

I’d just picked up the jug when I heard a scream, and it sounded like it came from my father’s room.  I left the jug and ran.  I arrived at the same time as the doctor and two nurses, to see him trying to get out of bed, yelling, “He’s trying to get me, he’s trying to get me,  Help.”  He was literally fighting the doctor and nurse off.

Suddenly he went limp in their arms, and they managed to get him back on the bed.  With one look at him, the doctor immediately checked for a pulse.  A minute later, with a shake of the head, he looked at the clock on the wall.  “Time of death, 8:43 am.”  He turned to me.  “Your father just passed.  I’m sorry for your loss.  We’ll give you a moment alone with him.”

It grieved me in the sense that I had not been with him in his last moments alive.  But, it also surprised me that I didn’t feel more now that he was dead.  All those years of making us children a second priority perhaps had made us more immune from his loss than it should.  I sat for a minute and held his hand, quite cold, but not because of death.  His hands had always been cold.

It was then I noticed the piece of paper under the pillow, just showing.  I pulled it out.  He must have made a note in those moments of clarity.

I pulled it out and read it.

“If I am dead, then leave.  Now.  Don’t wait around because it will only invite trouble.  Go home.  Look for the journal.  Trust no one.”

I might have ignored that note had it not for the sound of raised voices coming from the nurse’s station, one being a man who was demanding to see my father.

A last look at him, a memory of a man who no longer looked like my father, and I left.  Just about to leave by the side exit I could hear the doctor saying, “You cannot be here, Professor Moriarty, and if you persist, I will call the police.”

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© Charles Heath 2023