Alan was accepted to the Art Center College of Design, and he and McKale moved to an apartment in West Pasadena, near the school. The house was quiet without my son. I was grateful to see them most Sundays, when we gathered for dinner.
Just three weeks after Alan graduated he was offered a job with Conan Cross, a prestigious advertising firm in Seattle. I was pleased that he got the position but upset that he would be living so far away. He did well at the agency and won a wall-full of awards.
Three years later Alan struck out on his own, starting a firm called Madgic. Again, it seemed as if my son could do no wrong. The firm grew by leaps and bounds, and Alan continued to win award after award. He and McKale purchased a large, beautiful home in Bridle Trails, an upscale suburb near Bellevue. Then, on September 8, 2011, McKale was thrown by a horse and broke her back, paralyzing her from the waist down. A month later she died of an infection. During this time Alan’s business partner, whose name does not merit mention here, stole all of his clients, leaving my son bankrupt.
Alan had lost everything a man holds dear: his sweetheart, his home, and his business. The loss of any one of those things has brought lesser men to their destruction, but my son has persevered.
I learned in the jungles of Vietnam that when faced with overwhelming loss and stress, a man must choose to live and find his own way through his broken heart. Alan chose to endure. He decided to walk away from Seattle, Washington, to as far as he could go in the continental United States—Key West, Florida—the very place our family story began.
As of this writing, Alan has nearly completed his journey. I have no doubt that he will. I don’t know if it was a coincidence that led him to Key West or if maybe he was guided by some ethereal force, but either way, Alan has shown himself to be a man of courage and substance. He is a good man with a good heart—his mother’s heart. It is hard for me to fully express my feelings to him, but I love him more than I could ever say. I am honored to be his father.
My father’s writing ended there. I turned the page. There was a note in an unsealed envelope taped to the inside back of the binder. I extracted the paper from the envelope. The note was handwritten in my father’s disciplined script.
My dear son,
This brings our family history to the present. The rest of the story is yours to complete. You are the last leaf on this branch of the Christoffersen family tree. Whether your leaf turns into another branch, or even another tree, is up to you and God. Should you choose to continue our family name, then this book will contain your story and your children’s and grandchildren’s stories as well. Your experiences on your walk will be a great addition to our family history and will inspire all who read it.
I have compiled this history so that someday, after I’m gone, you will know who you are and where you belong. Always remember that you are not alone. I may not have always said it, but I always tried to show you that I love you. I am proud to be your father. Always remember this, my son, and Godspeed, until you have finished your walk to Key West and your even greater journey after.
I finally understood. My father hadn’t written our family history for himself. He’d written it for me. Only for me. He knew that someday he’d be gone and I would be completely alone. He was giving me a harbor from the squalls of time; he was giving me a place to belong.
CHAPTER
Sixteen
It is the heroic spirits in flawed men of flesh—not the whitewashed, heroic-sized renditions society fabricates—that deserve our adulation.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I brought the book with me to the hospital the next morning. There was so much I wanted and needed to say to my father. Most of all, I wanted to thank him for all he had done for me. For all the sacrifices he had made for me.
When I arrived he was still asleep. I sat down next to his bed and looked at him, my heart full of emotion. Now I knew the Great and Powerful Oz was not an illusion. The man behind the curtain was far greater than the contrived illusion of my flawed childhood perspective. What would I say to him? I sat there for nearly two hours listening to his heavy breathing, worrying about what to say. I never got the chance.
Suddenly my father’s breathing stopped, then he groaned. His eyes opened wide and he looked over at me. “Al . . .”
“Dad?”
He clutched his chest and grimaced. Perspiration beaded on the side of his face. An alarm went off.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Alan,” he said. Another alarm went off.
I jumped up. “I’ll get help.” I ran out of the room. A nurse was already hurrying toward us. “I think my father’s having another heart attack,” I said.
The nurse ran into the room. She looked at my father, then shouted out the doorway to the woman sitting at the nurses’ station. “I need some help in here. Get me an EKG and page the doctor.”
I put my hand on my father’s shoulder. He was clutching his chest and breathing heavily. Suddenly he went limp. “Dad, stay with me.”
The nurse tilted my father’s head back, then put two fingers to his wrist. “Mr. Christoffersen? He isn’t breathing. Code blue!” She pushed a button on the wall next to the bed, then turned to me. “Stand back, please.” She lowered the side bar of the hospital bed and began performing chest compressions.
I heard a voice over the intercom. “Code blue, second floor, room B237.”
Two more women ran into the room, one pushing a cart packed with medical equipment. They rolled my father onto his side and placed a board under him. The nurse continued doing chest compressions.
The room exploded with action as more people began rushing in. One nurse put a mask over my father’s nose and mouth while another placed pads on his chest.
I stepped back toward the corner of the room, my eyes riveted on my father. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“He’s gone into cardiac arrest,” the first nurse said.
Just then Dr. Witt hurried in. He looked at the monitor on the cart and began directing the rest of the team. “Give him one milligram of epinephrine,” he said.
A nurse inserted a syringe into my father’s IV. “One milligram of epinephrine in.”
“Pause the compressions,” Dr. Witt said. He studied the screen for a moment. “Start again. We have a shockable rhythm. Let’s prime one more minute and then we’ll start. Two hundred joules.” The defibrillator made a high-pitched noise as it charged up.
“Clear.”
My father’s body heaved.
“Two hundred joules delivered,” said the nurse.
“Continue CPR for two minutes, then check for a pulse,” Dr. Witt said.
“No pulse,” the nurse said.
“Again,” Dr. Witt said.
Again my father’s body jumped.
An alarm went off. They repeated the cycle many more times, but my father showed no response.
After what felt like hours, the doctor turned to me. “I’m sorry.” He said to the nurse, “Stop the compressions. I’m calling it.” He looked at the clock. “Time of death is eight fifty-three.”
One of the nurses walked to the machine and pushed some buttons. The room suddenly became quiet. Dr. Witt turned back to me. “Alan, I’m sorry. We did everything we could, but your father is dead.”
Even though I had witnessed the entire scene, the pronouncement still, somehow, came as a shock. I walked to the side of the bed, and the nurses stepped aside, allowing me to take my father’s hand and feel the last of his warmth. I leaned over him and kissed his forehead. Already the heat was leaving his body. The difference just a few seconds of life make—just a few breaths make. I felt cheated. I still had things I wanted to tell him. There was gratitude left unexpressed. I knelt down next to his bed and wept.
CHAPTER
Seventeen
The last line to my past has snapped. My father is gone.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Everyone just stood around the bed for a moment; then
Dr. Witt touched my arm, said he was sorry, turned, and left. The nurses followed him out.
I don’t know how long they left me alone, but it seemed a while. Then one of the nurses walked back into the room. She said to me gently, “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to pull the sheet up.”
I nodded. I watched as she draped the sheet over his head. I stood there, still. More time passed. A petite, thirtysomething woman walked into the room. She had long, nut-brown hair pulled back over her elvish ears. She wasn’t dressed as a nurse, and even though I had never seen her before, I knew who she was. Or at least why she was there. A social worker had come to me after McKale’s death.
“Alan?” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“I’m Gina. I’m a social worker for the hospital. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I didn’t reply.
“If you would like to talk, I’d be happy to.”
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“Do you have any questions about what will happen now?”
I shook my head. “No. I just went through this with my wife . . .” My eyes filled with tears, and I was unable to speak. The woman looked at me sympathetically, then reached out and touched my arm. “I’m so sorry.”
After a moment I said, “I can’t think. What do I need to do?”
“Your father’s body will be kept in the hospital mortuary until you arrange for a funeral director to collect it. Have you made any contacts, or would you like some help?” I swallowed, trying to compose myself. “Take your time,” she said.
I breathed out slowly. “He made arrangements . . . Beard Mortuary.”
“I’m familiar with them,” she said. “Would you like me to contact them for you?”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“In just a moment we will bring you a medical certificate that shows the cause of death. You’ll need to register the death and a few other minor details. There’s a little checklist to help. Do you know if he wanted his body cremated?”
“He’s going to be buried in Colorado. Next to my mother.”
She nodded. “Very well. Let me go see if I can expedite the certificate.” She left the room.
A minute after she left I took out my phone and called Nicole.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m on my way over right now.”
I didn’t respond. Emotion had frozen me.
“Alan?”
“He’s had another heart attack,” I said. “He’s gone.”
There was a long pause. Then I heard her crying. In a muffled voice she said, “I’ll be right there.”
The social worker returned carrying an envelope. “Here you are. I put the checklist inside. You’ll need to sign the certificate, and we’ll need to gather your father’s possessions. The nurses will do that; I’ll remind them.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m happy to help.” She took out a business card. “Grief can be an unpredictable thing. If you change your mind and would like to talk, please give me a call.”
Nicole arrived a few minutes later. Her cheeks were tearstained and her eyes were red and puffy. She was out of breath. At first she looked only at me, afraid to look at my father. Then she turned toward his shrouded body. She gasped lightly. Then she softly said, “Oh, Bob.” Tears fell freely down her cheeks.
She walked to the side of the bed and slowly peeled back the sheet. When she saw his face she groaned out, “No.” She pulled the sheet back up, then turned back and fell into me. I wrapped my arms around her. She laid her head against my shoulder and began to sob with such emotion that I had difficulty holding her. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
A few moments later a nurse walked in carrying a canvas bag. She waited until I looked at her. “I’m sorry to disturb you. These are your father’s belongings. Would you mind signing that you received them?”
Without a word I signed the form.
“And the certificate,” she said.
I took the form out of the envelope, signed it as well, and handed it back to the nurse.
“Thank you.”
Nicole broke down crying again. I put our family history inside the bag. I don’t know how long we were there. A half hour, maybe more, but finally I couldn’t stand being there any longer. “I need to go.”
We both walked over to the bed. I touched my father once more. “Goodbye, Dad,” I said. Then I walked out of the room.
Nicole came out a moment later. As I held her, Dr. Witt walked up to us.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking at Nicole. “There was nothing more I could do.”
His tone wasn’t that of a doctor, and I realized that there was something to what my father had said about them.
She looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Mark.”
“May I check on you later?”
She nodded. “I’d like that.”
He glanced over at me with an anxious expression, then turned and walked away. I looked at Nicole. I sensed that she wanted to say something about them, but it wasn’t the time.
We took the elevator to the main floor and walked out to the parking lot. I stopped on the sidewalk and looked into Nicole’s eyes. “Stay with me.”
Her brow fell. “Alan . . .”
“I don’t want to be alone,” I said. “Would you come over? Please?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “I need to get my things from the hotel.”
I walked her to her car, where she broke down crying again. “I’ll see you in a minute,” she said. She wiped her eyes and climbed in.
I walked back to my father’s car and drove to his house.
CHAPTER
Eighteen
While flailing about in an ocean of grief we must be mindful not to drown those trying to rescue us.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
There were more of the women’s offerings on the porch when I got home. I didn’t bother to pick them up or even look at them; I just pushed them out of the way with my foot. I went to my room and lay down on the bed to wait for Nicole. I heard her car pull into the driveway about twenty minutes later.
I opened the front door and met her on the porch. We embraced. After a moment she said, “Come here.” She took my hand and led me inside to the dimly lit living room.
Heavy with grief, we sat next to each other on one end of the couch. Then she lay back and pulled me into her. I laid my head against her breast while she softly rubbed the back of my neck.
“I feel like everything’s finally gone,” I said. “There’s nothing left to lose.”
“You have a lot to lose,” she said. I looked up at her. Her deep blue eyes locked on to mine. For a moment we just looked at each other. The power and complexity of our emotions rose around us like a vapor. Then the vacuum of our loss and want collapsed the void between us, drawing us to each other. We kissed. I pulled her into me, and our kissing grew more and more passionate. Suddenly she pulled away.
“Wait,” she said breathlessly.
I looked at her. She had a blank, dazed expression.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s not right,” she said. “It doesn’t feel right.” She looked into my eyes. “I’m so sorry. It feels like—” she stopped. “You’re going to think this is so weird after the way I’ve been chasing you . . .”
“What?”
Her face strained with pain. “Please don’t take this wrong; you know how much I love you . . .”
I had no idea where she was going with this. “What, Nicole?”
“It feels like I’m kissing my brother.”
CHAPTER
Nineteen
Déjà vu. Again. (I know that’s redundant. I suppose that’s my point.)
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next morning I woke in the familiar haze of grief. It wasn’t as heavy as it had been when I lost McKale, or even the same as when I’d lost my mother. It was different. When my mother died, it felt like my world had ended. When Mc
Kale died, my future had vanished. When my father died, I felt like I’d lost my past.
Nicole had slept upstairs in my old bedroom, and now I could hear her outside the room where I’d slept. I didn’t know what time it was, but my room was bright with a late sun. I pulled on the shirt and pair of pants I’d worn the day before and walked out to the kitchen. It smelled of bacon and pancakes.
“Hi,” Nicole said sweetly.
I raked my hair back with my hand. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost eleven,” she said. She took the frying pan off the flame and came over and hugged me. “I’m glad you got some sleep. The next morning is always the hardest.” She held me for a moment, then asked, “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“I made blueberry pancakes and bacon.”
“Where did you get the food?”
“I had to go shopping. All your dad had was Wheaties and TV dinners.” She walked back to the stove. “Sit. I’m just about done.”
I sat down at the table. Nicole brought over a stack of pancakes with a glass of orange juice, then another plate with bacon. “Go ahead and start,” she said. “I just need to finish this pancake.”
I poured syrup over the stack. “How’d you sleep?” I asked.
“Not very well,” she said. “I got up early.” She brought her plate to the table and sat down across from me. “As you can see.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“It’s okay, I like cooking. It’s peaceful.”
“I meant for not leaving me,” I said.
She smiled sadly. “You’re my best friend. You always will be.”
“Like a brother, huh?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.” She looked at me sheepishly. “You don’t feel bad, do you? I mean, you’re the one who rejected me first.”
“It’s just a bruised ego,” I said.