Tangled In Strings

Chapter Twenty-Seven

"She was...gentle. And innocent. And young in her heart. I've...I've searched for so many years to find someone who would look at me...look at me like she did just once. I should have known I never would."

He sits in silence a few beats, needing to recover his breath. I hold his hand against my face, knowing soon I'll never see him again. Our time to be father and daughter, something we've both been two stubborn to acknowledge and act on, is running out. And I'm stuck here, staring at him, remembering every cruel thing I've ever said, every fight and every glare, regretting it all.

"I-I asked him some things today." He chuckles. "Interrogated is probably a better word."

"You didn't," I say, blinded by my own tears.

"Yeah...yeah, I did. And I'm glad I did."

I shake my head, wishing I could have handled this better. Wishing I could have shown him someone stronger.

"I asked him what he loved most about you. I ex-expected him to say something usual, predictable, like your eyes or-or your ambition. But his answer wasn't something I expected...and it made me understand, Scarlett."

"Understand what?"

He turns his head to me on the pillow.

"Your tears."

"My tears?"

He nods, swallowing deeply. "He said that he loved that they always mean something, that you never cry just to cry. He said you cry and your tears hold the whole weight of the world. That it's when you cry that you truly speak to him, and that it's when you cry that he loves you most."

His hand slowly brushes the corner of my cheek, along the wetness, and I close my eyes, feeling a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest as he brushes my weighty tears away.

"He said it without a thought, without a stutter, Scarlett. That's not normal," he confesses, lowering his hand. "That's rare."

I nod, unable to answer him. I want to beg, beg him not to die. Beg him rewind time, to find a way to do that.

"Don't listen to a word I said before. Don't let him go."

I shake my head from side to side, over and over. "I-I won't. I won't."

"He's right too. Your tears are the statement of your strength and it-it makes me proud that you have any for me."

"Stop," I beg him, overwhelmed. I'm so overwhelmed. This morning, I ate breakfast with this man. This morning, he wasn't at his worst—and now, I'm sitting here, waiting for the moment his eyes are going to close. Every choking gasp, every lingering blink, every meaningful word—I'm expecting it to happen. My body jumps, physically jumps, my heart leaping every time I think he's gone.

But it's not time. He's just sleeping. His eyes are just shut. His chest is still moving up and down. I stare at him, like that for a long time, wondering what life will be like when he's gone. I wonder if I'll be any different, if this will scar me or heal me.

I turn, and look at the door, finding Giovanni leaning against it, his arms crossed over his body. He's simply staring at me. There's so much and so little in his gaze. He knows what this feels like. He's lost a father. He's lost him from disease.

The confession Norman told me about this man in my sight is the only thing I can think of. And I'm blown away by just how powerfully he can love, how much within him is prepared to heel to my needs.

Norman talked of a look...a look only my mother gave him. A look no person could replicate. It was a private, singular declaration—a meaning only someone else can give to you.