Stepping around the janitor's sign, I stopped just short of room 432 and took a deep breath before I entered. The pungent scent of ammonia mixed together with the aroma of meatloaf, making my stomach churn.

"Hi, Daddy. How are you feeling today?"

His head rotated in slow motion. "Oh, hello, Chrissie."

I reached over to adjust his blanket. "Are you warm enough?"

He gave a nonchalant nod.

          "Your feet aren't even covered up."

"I'm fine, don't bother."

Does he even want me here? I thought. Or am I just in the way again?

          I didn't know if my father loved me. He never told me, nor was he an affectionate man. Our family photo album contained a few pictures of me sitting in his lap when I was about three years old, but I considered that unconvincing evidence of his affection.    Consumed with his hobby of restoring classic cars, he was always too busy. He was either at the salvage yard or in the garage tinkering with his treasures. Not so fond of grease, I grew up feeling more like a nuisance than a daughter.

My mother had always been the mediator. If I had something to say, it was channeled through Mom. Dad was too abrasive for me to approach directly. When my mother died in 1985, I screamed out to God, "Why did you take my best friend and leave me alone with my grouchy father?"

I longed for my dad's approval, but after my mother passed, I only saw him on the holidays. Even then, we never shared meaningful conversation. "Get to the point, Chrissie!" was about all he ever had to say. He thought that I talked too much. The truth is that I did the listening and he did all the talking. Our conversations were not dialogues-they were monologues about cars and war stories that I had heard hundreds of times before. 

The metal legs screeched against the vinyl floor as I slid a chair closer to his bedside. Surprise. The war channel was on again. The TV speakers built into in his bed blasted with the constant rattle of machine guns and bomb explosions.  Brrr-dit-dit-dit! Does he ever get tired of that? I wondered.

I glanced at the clock underneath the crucifix hanging on the wall. 6:15. I can hang for one hour. That's long enough.  

Visits were difficult. Not that spending time with Dad had ever been easy, but especially now, I found myself struggling for things to talk about. After we discussed what he had for lunch or dinner, awkward silence became the norm.

Hungering for deeper discussions with my father, I wished that he would talk about things that were important to me. My life had changed in a profound way when my two-year old son Jake died in a car accident in 1998. His death was a defining moment in my life. As unexplainable as it seemed, the tragedy brought purpose to my life. My heart was consumed with a new passion. I started writing and speaking. I longed to share with others the hope and joy I had found in the midst of sorrow.

But each time I brought up the subject with Dad, the dialogue fell flat. Did he even hear me? I wondered. Did he care about anything except his precious cars? Instead, we spoke of trivial chitchat and the weather, and I listened to repeat war stories. Despite our superficial discussions, I had clung on to hope that one day we would develop a closer relationship. But now, I realized that would never happen.

          The more obvious it became that Dad would not recover the more my feelings of rejection intensified. Eventually, the cancer took over to the point that Dad could no longer tolerate food. Then the inevitable came: Dr. Hahn called in Hospice and ordered a feeding tube.

Dad's feeble hands flailed about like a fish out of water as he tried in desperation to remove it.

"It's for his own good," the nurse assured us as she tied his arms down.

Later, when Dad managed to pull the tube out, Dr. Hahn advised against reinserting it. "We've done all we can," he reassured. "Call your family. He won't make it past tomorrow."

For some reason, Dad hung on.

Ten days later, I spoke to Barbara, one of Dad's Hospice nurses. "It's inconceivable," I began. "How long can he last without food, water or an IV?"

"He must be holding on for something. He is obviously very determined."

"It's hard to see him, just lying there."

"It may look like he's just lying there," she explained. "But we have no idea what is going on between them and God-unfinished business...preparation."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Sometimes, they are waiting on something," she continued. "Sometimes they are waiting on a date."

I sat up straight. "Really?"

I hadn't told anyone. It was a private matter. I didn't want to expose my thoughts for others to judge. I worried that others would think my question juvenile or even morbid.

I hesitated before I began. "When Dr. Hahn said Dad's condition was terminal, I couldn't help but wonder." I let out a deep sigh. "I asked God when my dad would die. I wasn't sure whether or not He would answer such a question...but the first thing that came to mind was June 13, the day that my son Jake died." I hung my head and closed my eyes.

"I've cared for many patients in their last days," she explained. "The terminally ill have lost control over much of their lives, but one thing they still have command of is the time and circumstance surrounding their death. They often wait with quiet resolve until they feel a sense of completion."

            Suddenly, I couldn't think of a sweeter picture: My dad waiting for Jake. Jake waiting for Grandpa. I could almost hear Jake's gleeful greeting at the gate.

"Come on, Grandpa," he would shout, his pudgy fingers tugging on Grandpa's bony arm. "Let's skip. Remember how?  Look, I'll show you all the cool places. Come see my fort. It's in the highest tree in heaven. Come on...come see!" 

As I hung up the phone, I considered that my father's tarrying now seemed almost purposeful.  

June 12th arrived with its fateful shadow. It was a busy day and I had to work late, but on my way home, I couldn't help but think, This could be the last night I ever spend with my dad.  I know some people camp out in hospitals with their loved ones. That wasn't my thing. I was partial to my own bed, but after dinner, I packed a bag to stay overnight.   

"You should take this," my husband John insisted as he handed me a CD.

"Phil Driscoll?"

"You and your dad may not have agreed on music styles before, but how could he not like these?"

I glanced at the song titles, which included Hosanna and The Lord's Prayer. "You're right. Dad has listened to these hymns his entire Catholic life."

          "Yea, mostly in off key a cappella," John joked as he opened the car door for me. "But I bet he's never heard them played like Phil on his trumpet."

"You should take your Door of Hope CD too," John advised pointing to a copy of the last message I delivered to our single's group still sitting on the dashboard. "Your dad should hear you preach. You know, music and a message."

Hmm...finally my turn for a monologue.

          A blanket of gloom was waiting outside Dad's room. Pushing open the door, I could hear the rattling of his lungs as he struggled to breathe. "Hi Daddy," I said, trying my best to sound cheerful. "We are going to have sort of...well-a slumber party. I'm spending the night with you." 

          The corner of his mouth drew upward in his attempt to smile.

"I brought some music," I said as I turned off the war channel. Trumpet sounds and Phil's raspy voice filled the room. It almost seemed like church, only better. The atmosphere shifted and Dad seemed to be hypnotized in glory. When I put my sermon in the CD player, I couldn't help but hope, "Maybe he'll listen to me now."

When my message was over, I made a pallet on the fold-out chair. My eyes were heavy and the room was quiet. The only light illuminated from the digital clock that cast a dim circular glow on the wall. Just as I was about to nod off, I heard the clock's announcement.

"Click."

The sound of the numbers rotating to the midnight hour echoed against the backdrop of silence. My body froze in awareness and my sleepy eyes now opened wide. It was officially June 13. Spellbound, I watched my father's chest rise and fall, and with each hesitation in his breathing, I wondered, Is it time?

I tried my best to stay awake. I didn't want to miss his departure but when I could no longer keep my eyes open, I fell asleep. Throughout the night, I heard his nurse come in every hour to check his vital signs. In the morning, he was still hanging on. Surely he knew that I wanted to be holding his hand when he went. I wanted to stay but I couldn't afford any more time off of work.

"Please don't go without me, Daddy." I whispered. "I'll be back soon."

A labored inhale was his only response.

Just after I left the hospital, the nurse on duty called. "I'm sorry, Christy...your dad has passed."

Days later, my family gathered together for my father's funeral mass in the church of my childhood. My teary eyes gazed at the same wooden pews and the fifty concrete angels surrounding the courtyard. The enormous brass cross hung over the altar like the heaviness hung over my heart. I realized now more than ever that I would never hear my dad speak the words I longed to hear. The ultimate rejection settled in on me like the fog on a dark rainy night.

Father McSherry cleared his throat as he began his homily reflecting upon my father's life.  "Classic cars were John Tarnacki's passion," he began. "His love for cars began in the World War II when he served in the 880^th Ordnance Heavy Automotive Maintenance Company. John had a great eye for detail and a tremendous amount of patience to scour salvage yards looking for just the right parts."

         The microphone let out a loud shrill that seemed to emphasize his next point. "John knew that restoration depended on attention to precise details. He used to say, 'A car is not truly restored unless the parts are an exact match.'"

Exact match? The words ran through me like a run in my hose. The rest of Father McSherry's words faded as my thoughts wandered. Maybe that's why it was so important for Dad to wait until June 13.

A tear traveled down my check as I realized that my dad had held on for two weeks to make a point. He didn't want to leave this earth without making it clear that he loved me and affirmed my dreams and passions. I guess my dad is still in the restoration business, I mused.

Dad didn't know how to say that he loved me. He only knew how to show me.  And now, like the last piece placed in a puzzle, the picture was complete. My father's love had been there all along. Until now, I had looked right past it, but there it was-cloaked in camouflage.

The words I longed to hear all my life never came, but sitting on the hard wooden pew, my heart softened. It may have taken a lifetime but I finally understood my father's love.

"I hear you, Daddy," I whispered. "Give Jake a kiss for me...and I'll see you both soon."