David Morrell: Fireflies: A Father's Classic Tale of Love and Loss

Who knew?

But now he was near the top of that wearying flight of stairs, and he’d discover the answer or he wouldn’t, depending on whether there was an answer or merely oblivion.

“I love you,” Sarie said.

Weak, struggling against the oxygen tube in his throat, David nodded. He knew she understood that he loved her as well. He was proud to have been not just her father, but her friend.

You were a gift to me, David thought about Sarie. Just as Matthew was a gift, and it’s too bad we’re not all here together. Years ago I almost killed myself. Now I’m glad I didn’t. Because of you, dear.

But now you’ll have to go on without me. The main thing is, my death isn’t a tragedy. My dissolution is part of the natural scheme. Grieve for me, because you love me, but don’t let my death hold you back. Persist. And maybe one day, we’ll meet in rapturous reunion.

Who knows? Good-bye, sweetheart. I pray I’m about to meet Matthew. I’ve missed him so much. If death is oblivion, it won’t matter because I won’t have the consciousness to know.

But if…!

Sinking ever deeper into the ultimate sleep, David’s dwindling consciousness managed a final burst of strength. As if it were yesterday and not half a lifetime ago, he remembered another poem that Matthew had written, one that David had memorized with a persistence close to mania and could never have forgotten even on the verge of death.

The poem had been written when Matthew was fourteen. Imagine. So young. And it represented everything that Matt’s young heart had wanted.

To be a musician. To be in tune with the spheres.

LOWDER

VOLUME

CO.

Fourteen years old, and to have written a poem so promising of future achievements.

Gone. All lost and gone.

Sinking.

Dimming.

Dwindling.

And yet…

And yet…

In David’s mind, he seemed to rise above his dying body, to float above his soon-to-be corpse, to see his daughter sobbing over him and the nurses rushing toward him, raising the bottom of his bed.

David knew what raising a patient’s feet meant. He’d seen it happen to Matthew. When the nurses raised the bottom of your bed, your blood pressure was dropping, and you were, to use Matt’s words, in serious shit.

So what did it matter? David’s time had come, and he looked forward to it, hoping he’d reencounter a great love of his life, be replenished from his greatest loss.

In his mind, he floated ever higher, through the ceiling, and higher yet, away from the shadows into a brightness, drifting toward it, toward a door that somehow didn’t interfere with the beautiful brightness.

When David’s stepfather had suffered his first heart attack, the weary man had wakened to describe a dream in which he’d been floating through brightness toward a door.

“I reached the door. I knocked and knocked. But no one answered.”

Three months later, when a second heart attack had completed the job, maybe the tired man had reached the door and this time his knock had been answered.

But David didn’t need to knock. Floating to the door, he merely turned its knob. At once he heard power chords. An electric guitar strummed ecstatically.

David opened the door. The brightness increased its glare; the strumming chords became more powerful.

The brightness he saw was caused by fireflies. Millions of them. Radiant. All around him. Enveloping. Silently rejoicing.

The chords throbbed with greater intensity. David peered all around, squinting past the fireflies.

Matthew? David’s joy became frustration.

Matthew? Doubt became despair.

The radiant fireflies swarmed around him. But he recognized none of them!

Matthew?

Where was Matthew?

Fireflies swarmed. Power chords throbbed. David opened his eyes. Sunlight gleamed through a window. Through a swirl, he saw a cupboard above him, the edge of a sink, a stack of dishes. About to vomit, managing not to, he turned his aching head to the left and saw the blur of a kitchen table. His movement bumped an object and sent it rolling.

David strained to clear his vision. He recognized the rolling object, an empty glass that the turn of his head had sent clinking to a stop against a leg of the table.

His hair was soaked. He lay in a pool of water. But his body was drenched with more than water. Sweat. His bare legs, arms, and chest were slick with perspiration. His shorts clung sweat-soaked to his groin and hips. What was going on?

Through misty vision, he focused on the digital clock on the microwave to the left of the table: 12:55.

A calendar (the kind you tear a page off each day) showed…

It couldn’t be.

1987?

June?

Thursday?

The eighteenth?

Impossible! The last moment he’d known had been sometime in March. The delirium of morphine and the distracting pain of his mortal illness had made him unsure of the date. But without doubt he’d entered Intensive Care in March.

Forty years from now. So what was he doing on the floor of the kitchen of a house that he’d sold five years after Matthew’s death because he couldn’t bear the memories of…?

A year after Matthew’s death? Intensive Care forty years later?

With tingling feet and hands, David raised his head from the floor and peered at his body.

No wrinkles in his stomach. No cancerous gauntness in his chest. He was struggling through nausea to stare at the daily-exercised body of a man of forty-four. Despite his nausea, he felt in the middle-aged prime he’d known and then lost after Matthew had died.

After Matthew had died? June eighteenth? One day before Matthew had contracted the septic shock that eight days later had killed him?

Power chords kept throbbing. David squinted through a kitchen archway toward stereo cabinets against a wall in the living room. Lights glowed on a tape player. Stereo speakers thrummed. He still saw the fireflies, but now he realized that they were specks of lights inside his head.

His dizziness lessened. His memory cleared. He’d spent all night at the hospital, sleeping next to Matthew’s bed. Donna had taken her turn to sleep at home, then had come up to the Bone Marrow Ward to trade places with David, to give him a chance to go home, shower, and change his clothes. He’d arrived home at eleven and decided to exercise, to run as was his custom. Frustration had made him run faster than usual, to sweat out his tension. But excessive humidity had added to the ninety-degree temperature, making it the equivalent of one hundred and three. Perspiring worse than usual, he’d stumbled into the house, turned on the tape player, poured a glass of water, raised it to his lips, felt dizzy, seen fireflies, dropped the glass, and fainted on the kitchen floor.