Rachel stood and watched the white, accordion-like bellows for a long time. Up and down inside its clear plastic cylinder the round, pleated membrane moved, expanding and compressing in perfect rhythm and with electronic ease, its only sound the soft flow of air drawn into the chamber through a valve on one side and expelled in the next movement through a second valve on the other. Rachel closed her eyes and listened to the machine as it breathed. It had a soothing, hypnotic effect on her, such a mild and peaceful sound, and for a few moments her mind was calm and untroubled. Almost unconsciously she began to move her own lungs in concert with the machine, inhaling when it inhaled, holding the breath for a brief instant, then exhaling when it did so. She found great relaxation in this behavior and she wished that she could continue it indefinitely, but her eyes could not remain closed forever. She opened them once again to confront the hard reality that waited before her.
She approached the bed tentatively, as if her father were only sleeping and might be startled awake by any sudden movement. Delicately she reached down and took his hand in hers. The hand was lifeless, an empty weight that rose from the bed with no more enthusiasm than if she were lifting a corner of the bedding. Still, the thought occurred to her that she had not held her father's hand since she was a little girl, and that thought delivered to her a strange sense of comfort. She felt warmed by the realization that she had been given a final opportunity to say things in gestures and in words that she would otherwise have never said—a precious last chance to unburden herself of a lifetime's worth of feelings which she could theretofore never bring herself to express, overridden as they had always been by the conflicts that separated them.
She looked at her father's face, expressionless save for the mute parting of his lips, his voiceless mouth now occupied only by the tube through which air was methodically pushed into his lungs and then allowed to escape. He could not sense her presence now, she knew. He was unaware of her actions as he was unaware of all else. In an ironic way his unconsciousness made him more accessible to her. No longer did she loathe or deny him; no barrier of animosity remained between them.
She felt the walls of her chest tighten as she accepted his fate. She blinked back the tears that began to well up in her eyes and swallowed hard in an effort to find her voice. Then she leaned over the railing of the bed and put her face close to his as she spoke.
"Dad," she said, "I know you can't hear me now, but there are some things I have to say to you before you go." She paused for a moment to compose herself before continuing. "First of all, I want to take back what I said to you the other day. I was angry and upset at the time and I said some things that, although they may have been true at that moment, they're not true anymore. I don't hate you, and even more importantly, I don't want to hate you. We've always seen things differently—we both know that—and it goes without saying that I've never thought much of your politics, but I'm beginning to see things a little more clearly now. I used to think that I was always right and you were always wrong. I thought I knew more than I really did, and I acted as if anything I did was justified because I knew I was right. But I see now that I was just as fallible in my thinking as you were in yours, and maybe, in some ways, even more so. I was living my life with big blinders on. I only saw the things I wanted to see and I was blind to everything else. And mostly what I saw was you. How much I disagreed with you; how much I wanted you to fail. I'm sure you felt the same way about me, too. I think we both took things way too far and we were each too stubborn to admit it. I see now how very much I am your daughter, and I'm not sorry for that at all. To deny you is to deny a big part of who I am, and I can't do that any longer. I guess I just need to work harder at coming to terms with things like that. I'm going to try to do that from now on. That's a promise that I want to make to you.
"Secondly, I want to let you know that I'm going to take care of Mom for you, just like you asked me to do. She's having a hard time dealing with your absence. She asks about you all the time, and she still doesn't understand what's happened to you. The two of you had such an incredibly close relationship. It amazes me even now how dearly she loves you, even in the depths of her sickness. I don't know if she'll ever truly understand; I don't know if I'll ever find the right words to be able to explain it to her. But I'll look after her as best as I can, and I'll make sure that all of her needs are attended to. I know I won't be able to do it nearly as well as you did, but I'll do my best. I find it a consolation to think that it will bring the two of us closer together. That's something that I've wanted for a long time."
Rachel closed her eyes and steadied herself. She wanted to express her final thoughts as clearly as possible. Tears rolled from her eyes as she looked at her father for the last time, but she made no effort to wipe them away.
"And finally, Dad," she whispered to him, "I want to tell you that I love you. I know it's been a long, long time since I've said that to you, and there were a lot of years when I was unable to say it. But those years are behind us now, and I'm able to say it to you again, and I'm so glad that I've had this final opportunity to do so. I don't want us to part as enemies. I want us to be family again from now on, father and daughter, just like we used to be."
Rachel reached up with one hand and ran her fingers through her father's hair. It fell back into place just as perfectly as it always had. She leaned forward and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.
"Goodbye, Daddy," she said tearfully. "I'll miss you."
She straightened up and looked silently down at him, still holding his hand in hers. After several moments she laid his hand back down by his side, turned away from the bed and left the room.
The hospital chapel was just a short distance down the hallway from her father's room. It was a small room, laid out in the motif of a miniature church, with four rows of short pews leading up to an ecumenical display at the front. A large wooden crucifix was set on the center of the front wall, the gaunt body of the martyred messiah hung properly in place. Several arrangements of freshly cut flowers were set on the floor before the empty altar. Soft lighting prevailed throughout the room. There was no one else present when Rachel entered.
She walked up to the front of the chapel and took a seat in the first pew. For a few minutes she sat alone with her thoughts, staring mournfully up at the pale and lifeless figure above her that she remembered so clearly from her youth. Then, silently, she slipped down to her knees. She folded her arms across the top of the banister before her, laid her head down on top of them, and cried out her emotions. It was a rare and unguarded moment of pure despair for her, and she was grateful for the chance to experience it in a place specifically designated for such a purpose. She had not prayed in more years than she could remember, and although what she did in those few moments she knelt there did not unquestionably qualify as prayer, it felt purposeful and appropriate nevertheless. And whether any god moved in even the slightest way to allay her grief, or whether she simply succeeded in pouring out the worst of her sorrow into another place outside of herself, the result seemed the same. When, after a time, she sat back in the pew and composed herself, then rose to her feet again and left the chapel, in some strange and intangible way she felt better.
As Rachel walked back toward her father's room, Father Andrew and a doctor were waiting for her in the hallway, along with a nurse. The priest offered her some words of comfort and asked her gently if she was ready. Rachel nodded her head. The four of them then entered her father's room.
The doctor and the nurse stood to one side of the room as Father Andrew and Rachel approached the bed. The priest placed a small black case on the table next to the bed and opened the clasp. From the case he withdrew a dark glass bottle filled with a clear oil and removed the top. Turning back to the bed, he bowed his head and asked the others to observe a moment of silence, after which he recited the 23rd Psalm. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . . Andrew then raised the bottle in his hand, placed a thumb over its mouth and tilted it so that the oil touched his thumb. He then applied a fine layer of oil to the eyes, ears, nose and lips of the unconscious man, as well as to the backs of his hands and the tops of his feet, speaking softly as he did so.
"Through this holy unction, and His most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed by evil use of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch or mobility."
When Andrew had finished, he placed the top back on the bottle and returned it to its case. He stepped back from the bed, allowing the doctor and the nurse to approach.
Rachel again took her father's hand in hers and clutched it tightly to her breast. The nurse looked at her watch and recorded the time on the form on her clipboard. The doctor turned to face the machine next to the Mayor's bed, reached out a hand to flip a switch on the front panel, and the bellows fell silent.