Seventy-One, Peace

Seventy-One
Peace
8 October 1824 (cont.)
John told me later that he had been next to me and had caught me before I hit the floor, and had then carried me to the bed.
I could hear, vaguely, John saying to Father, Stay with her.  I shall go fetch some water.  
Then, as though I were in a dream (and perhaps I was), Father was next to me, kneeling upon the floor.  He touched the palm of my hand with one or two fingers, which he lightly stroked.  I could tell from his quavering voice that he was holding back tears as he very quietly told me, Louisa, I am so very sorry.  This is all my fault. 
I heard him inhale, then exhale slowly.  He then spoke slowly, softly.
Louisa, my darling child, my heart, I am not worthy of you, much less your love, and far less, your respect.  I see now that it will be much easier for you to think on me no more.  I want you to know that I do not blame you one bit.
As I opened my eyes, he withdrew his fingers from my palm and sat back, perhaps not wanting me to know that he had touched me. 
I was exhausted, completely spent.  But in that moment, I felt a peace come over me that I cannot explain.  As I looked over at Father who was now settled back into his chair, I saw the sun come through the window, the rays catching his profile and shining on to my bed, to me.  I felt warm.  I felt loved.
I did not fight the feeling, and I did not care that it made no sense to feel this way.
Again, it came to me, those good things that I remembered about Father.  There are not very many, but in that moment, they were enough.
I found myself extending the hand that he had just touched.  He reached over, and the tips of our fingers came together, at first, mine below his, and then, slowly, the fingers became palm above palm, and then wrist above wrist.  I found myself sitting up, reaching over to him, and putting my arms around his neck, my face buried in his nightclothes. 
Oh, Father.
I cried.  Of course, I cried.  I cried for everything, and nothing at all.  I cried for every reason, and none at all.
I was still crying when I heard John’s footsteps at the doorway, stopping just short of coming through it, and then turning back, going back down the stairs.
Father used his nightshirt to wipe my tears, and then I stopped.  The absurdity of the moment, this melodramatic moment, came to me.  For how can one go from hating to not caring to crying into a nightshirt with your arms encircled around his neck?
Just then, Father coughed a little, and then a lot.  He got up and fetched his handkerchief, and went into the hallway where I could hear him cough up some phlegm, or worse.  I heard him hesitate, not knowing what to do, and I called to me, Father, it is all right.  You may come back.
Father came back into the room, slowly resuming his seat in the down-filled chair.
He was again that old, gray man I had seen a few times before and had pitied or worse, but this time, he was my father. Flawed, human, forgivable.