The Last Stop

The Last Stop

She inhales the garden’s intoxicating perfumes from the patio of their favorite museum restaurant. Low enough to shine under the rim of the green canvas umbrella, the morning sun warms her back. These gardens aren’t merely Crayola crayon colors, they are the fluorescent colors enhanced by AI and digitized fantasy films. While her skin crackles with joyful anticipation, she focuses on a spotted ladybug resting on a peach rosebud. In minutes, her mother will walk through the garden path to join her on this glorious day.

“Jayne?” A low-pitch, vaguely familiar voice interrupts her thoughts.

A male figure walks out of the shadows from the restaurant’s bathroom hallway. Feeling a chill, Jayne wraps a red shawl around her shoulders. The garden is dusted in a misty fog that must have drifted in from the coast. When his features focus into view, she is shocked beyond belief.

“Dad! What are you doing here? It’s been thirty years; we thought you were dead. How did you know I’d be here? This is a place I’ve only shared with Mom.” The fog thickens like syrupy gray taffy, sticky and sour. Jayne feels a chill inside her bones, the kind of cold that settles in for the long haul.

“Sweetheart, may I sit?” She nods. Her Hollywood handsome father reminds her of a Raku clay pot, full of splintery lines that betray a shiny facade. He continues, “I have much to tell you in so little time.” Jayne holds her breath, not sure she’s ready to hear his story.

When he takes her hand, she feels a deep sorrow. “Again, why are you here?” Jayne looks for the ladybug, but in its place, a black widow spider devours something crunchy.

Her father runs his hands through his dark wavy hair, her same hair. “I’m in a program that requires me to make amends before I can move on to the next phase of my passing. I made the greatest mistakes with you and Soren.” His gold pinky ring appears dull and cheap.

Jayne stares into his emerald green eyes until he looks away. “Dad, they were not mistakes. They were choices.” The fog disappears with the onset of strong breezes. Strands of wet hair stick to her eyes and mouth. She is no longer freezing; her bones begin to thaw.

“Okay, Father, answer the questions that have been burning in my chest since you left us as children: Why did you tell Mom that Soren’s eleven-year-old needs were solely her responsibility when you remarried? Why wouldn’t you loan me money for one measly college book when you knew I was working two jobs? Why did you let your wife dictate your absence in our lives?” Jayne tries not to cry; she decided years ago that he wasn’t worth the tears.

The green umbrella bends and sways with the wind. Flower petals spin through the air. Jayne feels like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz before her farm house was ripped off its foundation. Her father looks at his watch. His anxiety escapes through his shaky hands. He searches for the nearest exit. She notices his evasive tactics, the same ones he used when she was a child.

“Time is running out, but I will try to explain. I was selfish. I wanted a new start. I didn’t understand your sensitive brother and I was jealous of your successes. Your mother’s love suffocated me. She made me a father at nineteen. I felt trapped. I drank. I didn’t see what I know now—you and Soren are amazing people, yet it’s too late for us. I’m truly sorry.” Her father has aged twenty years in this moment.

While the garden awakens in cinematic splendor, the pink sky reveals orange solar rays that shoot like flares across the horizon. When Jayne stands, reaching out to her father, an invisible force field blocks their embrace. A sandaled man in a white suit approaches from the dark hall. His long black ponytail accentuates strong features and olive skin. He could be from any continent on Earth. If she were a religious person, she could believe he was some kind of disciple.

“Sweetie, this is my director, Peter, but we call him The Saint. My time is up, I have to go back where I belong. I loved you kids then and I love you now. I have no excuses for being a bad father. Truly, my loss.” Peter takes her father’s arm and leads him back through the bathroom hallway. Jayne feels detached and weightless. She has so many other questions about the side of her life he should have filled.

Peter The Saint looks back and smiles. “Jayne, your mother will be here shortly.” She watches the way Peter the Saint floats on air, his white suit is almost flourescent. His arm supports the small of her father’s back. Her father trips trying to look back at her.

Short movie clips play in her mind of the times when she and Soren called him “Dad.” She remembers pancakes on Sundays, then scrambling into her father’s lap to hear him read the comic section of the newspaper he called “The Funnies.” One time, she and her father danced the Mexican Hat Dance at her brother’s Boy Scout meeting. When Jayne’s father left the family, she was eight, her brother eleven. After that, his new wife took over his life. She and Soren became the children of a court order for intermittent weekend visits. Eventually, they grew into adolescents and adults he didn’t have the time to get to know.

The hard sounds of klieg lights switch on—clunk, clunk—one at a time, jarring Jayne out of her memories. The garden lights up like a Broadway stage. Her stunning mother appears at the end of the garden path in the lacy taupe dress she wore for her 50th wedding anniversary to her second husband, her true soulmate. Looking ageless, she radiates a lifetime of unconditional love and sacrifice.

“Mom! I remembered our favorite table, just like old times.” Jayne jumps up, unable to contain her joy.

“Baby, I’ve been waiting for you.” Her mother runs into Jayne’s arms.

No invisible force field prevents this embrace.