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When Arthur got Quincey's telegram, he was at his father's bedside.
Of course he was; he had been here for days now, sleeping beside him at night, taking his meals there during the day, doing little more than restlessly stretching his legs from time to time. His father's fever had returned, and his coughing sounded strange. He drifted in and out of sleep. The doctor popped in several times a day and checked his vitals. (The doctor always looked at Arthur with grave, gray eyes and shook his head.)
Arthur's hands trembled as he opened the telegram.
Lucy much worse, has called for you. Do not delay. -Quincey
Arthur put a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle his sob. It wasn't entirely a surprise, but somehow that made it worse. Quincey had telegrammed yesterday to say that he had given Lucy a blood transfusion of his own and that she seemed a bit recovered, and promised to send word should she get any worse. Arthur had read between the lines that Lucy's health was more fragile than Quincey would admit— and so far, every time he'd read between the lines, he'd been right.
If Quincey was telling him not to delay, then it must mean that Lucy was dying.
He stared into space, feeling as if he were standing on a tiny spit of sand in the ocean, with the water rising around him by the minute. He would not survive this. He would drown…
"It's Lucy?" His father's voice was soft, but Arthur started; he had realized he was awake. His father was looking at him with weary blue eyes that still showed concern.
Arthur was barely able to scrape together his voice enough to talk. "She is ill again, very ill. I must—" His voice broke. "I must go to her."
His father reached out his hand feebly, and Arthur took it. The grip, once so strong, felt so fragile. "Then what are you waiting for? Go."
Arthur drew another breath, stuttering with a held-in sob. "I— I don't want to leave you."
His father looked at him for a long moment, his eyes soft, as if he was overlaying him with a faraway memory. "Artie," he said, his breath still labored and his voice raspy with illness, "you can't stop me from dying."
Arthur's face screwed up, trying not to openly sob. He bent his head over his father's hand, pressing a kiss to it.
"I'm going to die whether you're here or not," his father continued. When Arthur was too choked up to answer, he spoke even softer than before. "When you were five and contracted that awful bout of measles, I thought for certain I would lose you. But then you didn't. Artie, I've had twenty-one years of borrowed time with you since then. I've seen you grow up into a fine young man. That's enough for me."
Arthur lifted his head, feeling the tears force their way out of his eyes. "But it's not enough for me!" he cried. He felt like a tiny child, helpless in the face of all this grief. "I'm not ready."
"No one is ever ready for death."
"But it's not— it's not enough. I wanted you to see my— my wedding, my children, my—" And then the realization that neither of these would become reality anyway came crashing down on him, and he crumpled forward and began to weep.
His father squeezed his hand and rested his other hand on his head, letting him cry for a long time. At last Arthur pulled back, wiping his tears on his sleeve, and his father spoke quietly. "Arthur, when your mother died…" He let out a raspy breath, and continued, "it felt like the whole universe should stop, and grieve along with me. But it didn't. The sun kept rising and setting. People went about their business. People were born, and people died. My body continued needing food, and you, my dear little one, still needed caring for. At first I couldn't bear it, that time continued to march on and trample me underfoot."
Arthur sniffed, still wiping at his face.
"But then, Artie, listen to me. One day I woke up, and it had been a year since she'd died. And things were not better— good lord, the grief still felt as fresh as it did that day— but things were different. You were growing up, your hair as golden as hers. The seasons had turned and the world had renewed itself in green. I had found my true friends, who had sat beside me in all my weeping the past year. And in that moment, I found that grief wasn't unchanging. That's what's most unbearable, really— the thought that grief will always feel the same way, that the world will always seem as dark as it does when tragedy strikes. But it doesn't, and it won't. If you can keep living, day after day, and find the tiniest things to hold onto— that's how you get through."
Arthur gulped and nodded, even though it didn't make sense to him.
"The march of time is not a curse, but a blessing," his father continued. "Because no matter what horrors you go through, eventually, things will be different." He laid back heavily against his pillow, his breathing a bit labored after speaking so much.
Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat, and held his hand tighter.
"Go," his father whispered again. "Go to your dear Lucy and treasure every moment with her."
Arthur nodded, still barely able to speak. "I will."
"And let your friends take care of you right now, Artie. Jack and Quincey, they're good men. Don't be afraid to lean on them."
Arthur nodded again, eyes still brimming with tears.
His father smiled at him. "And be sure to grab something from the kitchen on your way out. Grief is ten times worse on an empty stomach."
Arthur laughed, but it came out as a sob. "I will."
"Good. Now go."
Arthur stood, still holding his father's hand, and leaned down to press his forehead against his. "I love you, Papa."
"I love you too, Artie. With all my heart."
Arthur squeezed his hand, and then forced himself to let go. The thin hand slipped out of his, and he felt a strange sensation, like he and his father were on other sides of an earthquake, the two halves of earth splitting apart and sending them in opposite directions.
Arthur stepped to the door, and looked back. A calm, horrible feeling fell over him, that this was the last time he'd ever see his father alive.
"Good-bye," his father said. His smile was weak, but it was as warm as ever.
Arthur smiled back, and hoped that his father could see a lifetime of love in his last look. "Good-bye."