He ate last weekend while we were here. He seemed all right then.
“I—I don’t—know,” he says, seemingly more perplexed than us.
She takes her father’s face within her hands but as she does, his body leans forward, the weight of his face and head becoming too much for her to hold. “Papa!”
I drop to my knees to help them and ease Mr. Kaufman off the side of his seat and onto the ground.
“What is it?” I ask, my words feeling jumbled on my tongue. How could she even know what’s wrong? Why am I asking her at a moment like this?
“It’s his heart,” Rosalie whimpers, folding over him as his head slips into her lap.
“What can I get? Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, holding my hand over my mouth.
“A cold compress,” Rosalie says, almost as if without thinking.
“Of course,” I say, pressing up to my feet and hurrying to the kitchenette. He’s very pale, almost gray, and I hear quick, short breaths catching in his throat. It’s as if his heart is trying to outrun him and he can’t catch it.
Watching as Rosalie fights for him, I realize this must be what I look like when I’m unconscious. I’m not sure I ever understood how much pain I must be causing. No one ever knows when it’s coming.
I keep my eyes on them while rinsing a rag beneath the faucet, watching as Rosalie takes her father’s hand into hers once more, but this time, presses her fingers to his wrist. Her gaze lifts toward the shadowed face of the town-square’s clock, as if listening for its rhythm to match his pulse. Tick…tick…tick.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…twelve—” Rosalie’s voice cracks as she struggles to speak each number in quick succession rather than in sync with the measured seconds.
I nearly stumble upon returning with a damp compress, but steady myself while draping it over her father’s crimson forehead.
“Papa, it’s all right. Try to stay calm,” Rosalie coos, calmly, even though he’s not moving. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. You’ll be all right. You will.” Her chin quivers, and the sight of her pain breaks my heart into a million small pieces.
I’ve never felt so helpless being on this side. The side that can only sit and watch.
She continues talking to him as if he’s awake, still in her smooth calm voice, despite the distraught look on her face. “You told me life isn’t measured in time. It shouldn’t be something we run out of—but rather, something we eventually no longer need. Is that—that what this is?” Her voice breaks into a breath of silence and she swallows hard. “You’ve raised me. You’ve done more than I could ever ask. You’ve given me everything, Papa…But there’s nothing wrong with more time. There isn’t. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
Everything.
This is her everything.
A small space behind a town clock.
A place to sleep. Food.
And love.
Our lives couldn’t look any different from that perspective, but I see now…
Anything beyond everything is just extra.
“What’s happening,” I whisper as I sit down beside her. “Is there nothing?—”
She shakes her head. “It must be his heart—it’s giving out, but I don’t know why,” she replies, her voice barely a whisper now. “I’m brave now, Papa. Don’t go. Please. I’m—I’m not ready. I still need you.” Her breath shudders and I consider her words being the last thing he hears when the choice isn’t ours when we come and go from life. “That’s selfish of me—I’m sorry. I just—please?—”
“I’ll make sure she always has everything she needs,” I say, the words burning as they hit my tongue. I’m letting him go while she’s begging him to stay. I want him to know she’ll be all right. “I promise. Whatever she might need in life, I will give her that.”
Rosalie gasps before her shoulders collapse. Tears skate down her pale cheeks.
“Papa,” she says, her voice squeaking. “Will you tell Mama I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t save her. And I miss her with every breath I take. Tell her that I think about her and my baby sister, all the moments we could have shared, and even the ones that only live in my mind. I’ll continue to do good, to help those who need help, and I’ll listen for the signs, the patterns, the silent signals that matter most. And for you, I’llkeep track of time. I’ll make each second count. I won’t let time run out for those who still need more.”
She knows it’s the end. And she’s being forced to sit here and watch. She’s already witnessed her mother die. This isn’t fair.
I wrap my arm around Rosalie and press her head gently to my shoulder. “I’m here,” I whisper to her. “I will always be here.”
