Chapter 3
Sky
The past eight hours have been worse than any nightmare I've ever had. Now, after the strangely unsettling encounter with the man at the entrance, I stand in front of the ward where I will see my father for the first time in over six years.
Intensivv?rdsavdelning , the sign reads in bold letters above the double doors. When Lil told me earlier where to find my father, I briefly thought that the hardest part would be behind me. However, when she mentioned the word "intensive care," it felt like I was getting even less air than before. And when she told me that he might not be responsive, I had to lean against the wall because my legs could no longer support me.
"It was the right thing to come," I tell myself to muster some courage, but it doesn't work. Fear and worry for my father grip me tightly.
At the same time, I can't stop hoping that one day, when this difficult time is behind us, I will cautiously lean back into his embrace. That we will both forget everything I've done to him.
I could be his daughter again. The child he was once so proud of.
"Can I help you?" A male voice interrupts my thoughts. "Are you looking for something?"
I turn my head and, through the veil of tears that has silently covered my eyes, I recognize a nurse. He smiles kindly.
"Gustav Blohm," I say with a hoarse voice. "I'm..." In the nick of time, I bite my tongue. "I need to see him."
He tilts his head. "We don't have a patient by that name."
How foolish of me. Of course, my father wouldn't be registered under his real name here. "Yes, I'm sorry," I reply weakly. "Lil sent me."
He eyes me skeptically. "And you are...?"
His daughter , who can hardly breathe from worry. "Someone Lil sent. Feel free to call her and ask." Just hurry up , I add imploringly in my mind.
Finally, he takes a phone from his coat pocket and moves away from me as he dials a number. I'm left behind, breathing in the disinfectant-laden air, listening to the bustling activity of the staff in the hallway, and hugging myself tighter. It doesn't help; despite the warm temperatures, I continue to shiver incessantly.
"Approximately six feet tall, I'd estimate. Cool outfit. Long red curls," the nurse whispers into the phone.
Oh no, hopefully, this won't become a problem. When Lil and I were still best friends, my hair was blond.
"She didn't say." He waits, then nods. "But seriously, they're like the winter sky—extremely blue."
Thank goodness. The mention of my eye color is clear.
"Okay, I'll do it," he says, ending the call, then returns to me. "Show me your left arm."
I swallow hard, but I still remove my trench coat and push up the sleeve of my fine-knit sweater to my shoulder. Without looking, I turn my arm so he can find what he's looking for immediately.
"Can I see him now?" I ask, my gaze fixed firmly on him.
He leans down to get a closer look. "I'll accompany you," he says with a friendly smile and signals for me to follow him.
A few minutes later, in protective clothing, I enter a dimly lit room that smells even more sterile than the hallway. Soft beeping fills the room, interrupted by a constantly recurring scraping sound.
The nurse instructs me to disinfect my hands, then gives me a stern look. "Maximum five minutes."
I'm not able to say anything. Instead, I just nod.
It's really happening now.
We're going to see each other again.
Trembling, I take one step after another, turn the corner, and lift my eyes. In the semi-darkness, I can make out the outline of the hospital bed; the heavy curtains are partially drawn, and there's a dim light on the nightstand.
Despite all the anxiety threatening to consume me, I approach and notice my father's motionless body in the bed.
The sight takes my breath away. In my memory, he is strong, a bear with blond hair and paws that still threatened to engulf my hand on my eighteenth birthday. Despite his massive frame, he looks small—emaciated and frail.
Bandages almost swallow his head, and abrasions and bruises cover his face. The right side is so swollen that he wouldn't be able to look at me, even if he wanted to.
Although a sheet covers his body, I understand that it must be severely injured as well. Broken bones, bruises, maybe internal injuries.
I can't comprehend this. The situation is so surreal that I would rather convince myself that I'm dreaming.
With bated breath, I lower myself onto the edge of the bed and touch his fingers. "Hey," I whisper with a choked voice. "It's me."
The lid of his left eye lifts. "Ida?"
"No. Sky." My nose swells up, and suddenly pressure spreads in my head as if all the emotions I carry within me want to break free at once. Grief. Pain. Hope. And so much love. Despite the tough times we've been through, I love my father with all my heart. I owe him everything; he was the only one who was always there for me.
His lips move, but I can't understand him. So I lean over him, bringing my ear closer to his mouth.
"What are you doing here?" he rasps.
Everything in me freezes. "I want to be there for you."
His fingers twitch imperceptibly. "You wanted a divorce, so go away now."
"No, I'm not Ida. I'm Sky. Your..." Tears well up in my eyes. "Your daughter."
He looks at me unbelievingly with his uninjured eye. "Daughter?"
The pain that this question triggers in me catches me off guard. Apparently, he's confused; it doesn't mean anything.
"Yes, your daughter," I whisper tonelessly, as all the years we shared together flash through my mind. How he explained the intricacies of different fabric types to me when I was five. How he put his arm around my shoulders when I was eight, flipping through photo albums of past shows. And how proud he was when, at twelve, I helped him conceptualize a runway presentation.
My response gets lost in the room, unanswered, swallowed by the constant beeping of the machines around us.
"You shouldn't be here," he mumbles, and that's when I know he's recognized me.
Six years have passed, but time seems to have changed nothing. He is still infinitely disappointed in me.
I understand that. Truly.
But now things have changed. He might not survive this. What if he goes without making peace with me?
"I can't undo my mistake, but I swear to you that I've learned from it." I will never allow history to repeat itself. Never.
A weary sigh escapes his mouth. "Why should I believe you?" he whispers with fluttering eyelids, then exhales slowly. "Go, it's better this way."
The last words are nothing but a murmur; he closes his eyes, and his muscles go limp.
No, what's happening here?
"Father!" With bated breath, I whirl around to the monitor measuring his pulse.
His heart is still beating.
Thank goodness.