12. Last words

"Coming with you."

"No!"

"You can't travel alone, this state you're in."

"Van der Horst is with me."

"Yes, well, huh. Who is that anyway?"

"Family's solicitor. He is a nice man. It's alright."

"No. It's not all right. I can't let you go. Not again!"

"Please. You're touring! Your people, your fans! You've got obligations!

...and so do I. I have obligations too."

"Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck. Fuck this! Fuck it all."

He kicked a chair, dropped to his knees and slammed the floor with his fists.

A polite knock on the door. It was mr. van der Horst. A friendly bold man with a small moustache and thick glasses. He looked from the raging lion on the floor to me with raised brows and asked if I was ready to go home. Home. To my father who'd had a stroke. It was serious and he needed me. My family needed me. The solicitor was send to collect me.

When I packed my suitcase with summer, I had left my children at my mother's house, and my business to my partner. I had to go back. Things were expected from me. My husband was away with a young and blond Tinkerbell. Somewhere on Bonaire what I last heard. Well good for him. I've had my pleasures too. Pleasure.

My pleasure was lying on the ground. Beaten. I kneeled beside him. Frozen and shivering I was. He crouched on his knees and took me in his arms. Almost chocked me. He held me so tight. To never let go. Then he stood up. Taking me with him. Letting me lean against him. Supporting me. Over my shoulder he said to Van der Horst: "You can use my jet. I'll make a phone call. My man will bring you to the airport. It'll be quicker."

"I'll have a maid pack your things, darling, don't you worry. And October. We'll have October. I'll come for you in October."

I looked up to him questioning. Who was this man? My elf, my lion, my rock star, my poet? Who was this responsible man?

"Dad. Can you hear me?"

My father was lying there in that big hospital bed. Tubes and bleebs and things around him. His wife hysterical. His grey hair. His distinguished looks. It was but a shadow of the formidable man he used to be. The nurse removed the oxygen mask for him to say something, when he opened his eyes. I took his hand. Encouraging.

At first I did not understand. Some hoarse couching. "Ree. ehhh reeee. Ai girl, eeee, eee you. Live."

Again. And then he squeezed my hand. His eyes closed. A long beeb and a cry from my stepmother.

I had a lot of things to arrange. But first I went to mother's house to see my children. They came running. And hugged me. I knelt. Oh my dears. My lovely kids. How I loved them.

"Mommy, mommy" my daughter said, " don't be so sad, we love you." She looked at me with her beautiful big blue eyes, her long lashes. The colour of the ocean. I melted. And when I felt the warm hand of my son on my shoulder I almost felt happy again.

"So," a cold voice said, "you were making a fool of yourself in Italy, I heard."

"Mother."

"You were with that bum again?"

"He is not a bum, mother. In fact; if it wasn't for him I would not have been here so soon. Van der Horst and I would still be at the airport."

"He is some addicted American singer. We have no idea were he comes from. You have a husband!"

"Mother! My father just died! Leave me alone."

"Come, ducklings, we're going home. Say goodbye and thank your grandmother. Goodbye, mother."

With a sigh of relieve I closed the door behind me. My own quiet house in Amsterdam. One of my cats circled around my legs. Meowing. I brought my kids to bed. Kissed my girl on her forehead, caresses her golden locks and read a small story to my cute green eyed son. Left the doors ajar so they could call me if they wanted. They were so beautiful. Both, the image of their father. So different yet each so dear to me.

Then I went downstairs, opened a bottle and poured ruby red wine in a glass. Put on some random music. Sat on the couch with my legs drawn under me. Mistake, big mistake when I heard his voice through the speakers. His beautiful quivering baritone.

And these days, they linger on, yeah, yeah

And in the night, I've been waiting for

A real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams

I go to sleep

If I don't fall apart

Will my memory stay clear?

So you had to go

And I had to remain here

But the strangest thing to date

So far away and yet you feel so close

I'm not going to question it any other way

It must be an open door for you

To come back

I broke down. Cried as I never had done before. Not in years. For my father. No, not only for my dad. I cried for my love, my lost love, for the time wasted.

I had him again. And it was perfect. And now, what would I do?

Throw up. I had to throw up. And as I walked to the bathroom I thought of my father's last words:

"Be free, my girl. Be you. Live."