Passing Fancy

Passing Fancy

Alfred, called Al ever since he discovered Alfred was Batman’s butler, stood tall and straight on the beach, barefoot, the warm wet sand at the ocean's edge squishing up through his toes, his eyes shut against the sun, his face tilted toward the sun while sea breezes blew through his wind-tousled white hair which had somehow remained full and thick while the hair of his friends whitened and eased away with age.

The tropical beach was totally empty and he soaked up its calm, feeling better and more content than he had in many a decade.

Dad? Dad? Can you hear me?

He felt a squeeze on his right hand and remembered he was in hospice care in his home, in a hospital bed set up in the library at his request, his daughters and wife taking turns sitting with him. All his old friends sat on the shelves that encircled the room, and the loves of his life took turns sitting at his side.

Yes, he said and squeezed back, never opening his eyes.

He was back on his beach, but it was no longer empty. Almost out of sight, and far down the beach he saw a patch of white and some movement. Then inexplicably he was there and the white was a table and chairs with a white table cloth set for two people, canapes, caviar, wine glasses and an open bottle of Merlot wine.

Al. He felt his name rather than hearing it. He looked to see a woman coming up from the waters edge, sheathed in white, and like him, barefoot. He stared at her. It felt like it was someone he used to know before dementia demented him and took away the world he knew. For all he knew it could be his wife, or his mother, maybe both.

Can I serve you?

Do you need anything, Dad? Some water? His only response was a blink and a furrowing of his forehead.

She was already seated and filling their glasses with the Merlot wine. He found he was also seated and accepted the glass she extended. And perhaps some caviar? she offered, already dolloped onto sour cream atop a slice of boiled egg.

First, a Toast! Al finally joined the conversation. Here’s to now and today, and may all of our tomorrows be spent in such a beautiful place and with such compatible company.

I can drink to that, she smiled, and blew him a gentle kiss across the small cafe table. They drank to Al’s toast. Al had never tasted wine so good and found the caviar heavenly.

Dad. Mom’s here.

This confused Al because Mom was back at the beach. Wasn’t she? He managed to open his eyes, attempted a smile, and squeezed her hand. I love you and the girls. Thank you for loving me. He tried to say.

Back at the beach the sun was waning as the moon began to wax. The moon rose and cast a reflection that was a pier of light crossing the water and directed straight to their table.

Take my arm AL. She paused and they looked at each other. Are you ready?

He nodded yes, and they walked down to the water, to the moonbeam, and then on the moonbeam, toward the moon until they were out of sight.

The seabreeze calmed, the table, the wine, the trimmings, all faded away.

I’m calling it 8:17, the hospice attendant said to the grieving family. As he and you wished, we will take it from here, paperwork, direct cremation as discussed. Now I'll leave you alone for a while, and she left the library.

Girls. Is there anything in the room you want to take as a memento? You’ve both spent a lot of time here with your Dad these last two weeks.

I would like the calendar he’s been staring at all week, one said.

This one with a picture of a beach with a set table and no one there? Sure, Mom said, taking it down from the wall and handing it to her daughter.