Page 3 of Unexpected Hero

With my free hand, I wipe the remaining tears from my cheek and offer a watery smile to the man who raised me.

Right then and there, I decide I’m done talking about it. I’d rather make the most of our limited time together by reminiscing about happier days.

“Papa, do you remember that time Stella came over with them fake arms for Colonel Sanders?”

My bestie Stella has always been a troublemaker.

Papa’s weathered face brightens in response to my abrupt subject change, his smile slowly spreading. “I thought your mama was gonna have a heart attack.”

I snicker into my hand. “From running after the chicken or from how mad she was at me and Stella?”

“Both.” His chuckle turns into a cough, making my heart pinch. He shakes it off, then asks, “How long did she chase the bird before she finally caught her?”

“About an hour, I think.”

“I still say the damn chicken liked it.”

A snort laugh escapes me. “Of course she did. It made her look tough.”

There wasn’t much to do in Climax during summer breaks. Stella came over one day with nothing more than some string, two plastic arms she’d taken off an old baby doll, and a hilariously bad idea. She tied the arms together with a string. With my help, she threw the contraption over the back of Colonel Sanders — our female chicken — so the arms hung down on both sides. The damn hen looked like she was ready to tussle.

Mama was fit to be tied. She doted on her sweet baby chickens more than she ever did on me. Needless to say, she was not amused with the Colonel’s new accessories. She’s never had a sense of humor, though. Mama, not the bird. On the contrary, the hen had a terrific sense of humor. Case in point, how she loved wearing her fightin’ arms.

Papa and I trade stories for the next hour or so until he grows tired. As he sleeps, I sit by his bed, holding his ever-weakening hand.

The next few days pass in much the same manner. Laughs, tears, and lots of hand holding.

And waiting for the inevitable end to his suffering.

Stella comes over once a day to check on me. She sits with him while I shower and freshen up.

Then I’m back in my seat. Right by his side. Just like he’d be for me if the tables were turned.

Even if he’s not my birth father, he’s still my daddy.

Day by day, his naps grow more frequent.

His breathing becomes more labored.

His voice eventually fails as his body prepares to do the same.

And when he takes his last breath, I’m there.

Holding his hand.

With one final kiss on his head, I say goodbye.

Two weeks later, I stand at his grave site.

Alone — inside and out.

All the mourners have left. I asked Stella to wait for me in the car. The grounds crew excused themselves to give me privacy. The pastor stood with me for a while before he realized I wasn’t going to reciprocate his sentiments of Lionel Holt being in the Promised Land, smiling down on us.

That’s nice and all, but I guess I’m as selfish as they come. Because I still want him with me.

Mama made her appearance, gave me an awkward hug, and left with her Bible-thumping friends. She seemed sad enough, considering how ugly their divorce was five years ago.

Alone in a Georgia cemetery on an overcast Tuesday afternoon, I scream into the wind.

---