This time, when Daisy’s father calls to announce he is going to die, she doesn’t grumble about changing her plans. Yes, it puts a rapid end to any ideas she might have had for the weekend, but she is not generally one for weekends and so, in a twisted way, it really suits her (not that she’d ever admit to such a thing).
Besides, she quite enjoys packing. The whole process of choosing the clothes and laying them out on the bed gives her a quiet thrill. She likes to assemble little piles which she arranges by type of garment, colour and day they’ll be worn; this one going with this, and that one going with that. She stands back to admire her handiwork. The bed is patterned by neat ensembles which she complements with a simple, pastel floral scarf and a thin tan leather belt. It gives her enormous pleasure to mix and match in this way. Daisy wraps the outfits in tissue paper before placing them in the suitcase. As she lays them down in the bag, the paper softly crinkles, a small rustle of excitement at the centre of her house.
At the airport, the passengers must board the plane from the tarmac. This is not something Daisy expected, having to climb up one of those narrow, portable sets of stairs, but the terminal is under construction. She grips the handrail and tries to walk on her toes, paying special attention so that her heels won’t catch in the woven metallic surface beneath her feet.
The stairs remind her of teeth in a giant zip. Like an errant thread, she feels herself caught in a situation that she can’t quite define. It is something about her father. Something about his practical inability. Like the way he can be dying but still well enough to meet her at the airport. Even though she told him that she’d catch a taxi. It’s his crazy way. Because taxis are too expensive. And what’s the use of having a car if you’re not going to drive it?
As the captain waits for the all-clear from air traffic control, the flight attendants review the air craft’s safety procedures. Daisy watches as, like well-choreographed synchronised swimmers, they gracefully move their heads and arms in unison to the video demonstration, indicating the nearest exits.
Although Daisy’s father has forecast his death many times before, he is yet to be correct. This is frustrating for a man who takes himself so seriously. Which is why in his mind his headaches have become migraines, his stomach-aches ulcers, and his lack of sexual desire a symptom of a low-grade form of pre-diabetes, a kind the medical profession has never heard of. That his doctors won’t corroborate his diagnoses does not perturb him. If anything, it confirms what he already knows, that doctors are stupid and far too expensive. Which doesn’t prohibit him from seeking their counsel, mind you, but does get in the way of him heeding their advice – exercise, George, and try to watch what you eat – what do they know, he thinks. And who could know better what he needs than he does himself?
And yet he does not die. He eats terribly. He calls on his GP far more frequently than he should. He makes frantic trips to emergency in the dead of night. But they cannot find anything wrong with him. Despite the hours of waiting, the tests, and the occasional overnight stays for observation, he is always dismissed eventually with, if not exactly a clean bill of health, then parting words such as take it easy for a couple of weeks, George, followed by some inane platitude like look after yourself. It is a brush-off equivalent to don’t call us, and although George seems to smile and wave as he goes on his way, somewhere just outside of his conscious awareness he is boiling mad that they won’t take him and his ailments seriously.
Even so, the prospect of surgery does not fully please him. He is frightened. The doctor attempts to comfort him with her this is routine routine. She sees growths like this one all the time. He shouldn’t worry, they have caught it in time. But George can’t help himself. He gets on the telephone. ‘Daisy,’ he says, ‘it’s cancer.’ The silence on the other end confirms what part of him has been hoping for. At last, it’s something serious. She asks him when they’ve scheduled the procedure. ‘Next week,’ he sighs. Daisy says she’ll arrange her flight then call him right back.
They have planned the rehearsal for two days before the operation, to be followed by the rehearsal dinner. Here is how it unfolds:
Daisy wishes to establish whether she should play herself or perform the role of the doctor. For maximum realism, she argues, she should play the doctor – being there with him in the operating room when he passes away, etc. That way it will make sense, she says, to urge him on, then to reluctantly accept his demise and so forth, right up to the turning off of all the machines and the pulling of the sheet up over his head. On the other hand, if it’s emotional punch they’re after, then it makes sense for her to play herself but for them to suspend some sense of disbelief. For example, she could be in the operating room ‘watching’ and they would just have to overlook the improbability that she’d be permitted to do that in real life.
Daisy’s father calls for a compromise: he wants Daisy to play herself, but also to perform some of the actions previously reserved for the doctor role. ‘I could die afterwards, in the recovery room,’ he proffers. ‘That way we get the realism, but with the enhanced dramatic effect – you can do the sheet thing and break down crying over my body, and nobody will throw you out because you’re not wearing sterile robes.’ This seems like the best idea.
Daisy also wishes to clarify some minor prop details: which clothes he would like to be buried in – a suit or something more casual – the kind of funeral service he has in mind, the exact wording of the epitaph. George says she should keep it simple, simple, simple. ‘Something to make them feel the tragedy of my passing, the senselessness of my death. But let’s not overdo it. I’d prefer to be interred wearing white.’
And so they begin. George lies down on the couch. Daisy places a sheet over his body, folding it in a sharp crease across the base of his neck. She sits beside him on the edge of the cushion. They stare at each other, just for a moment, then George groans and closes his eyes. For all intents and purposes he is dead. Daisy says, ‘Daddy. Daddy.’ George does not respond. Daisy leans over him and shakes his shoulders. ‘Daddy. Daddy.’ But George does not move. Daisy screams, ‘Daddy!’ She then throws herself down onto his chest and simulates hysterical weeping. After a couple of minutes she rises up again and, still crying, says, ‘Daddy, oh Daddy, how could you die on me, Daddy, how?’ There is a short pause, after which she says, ‘I will always love you, Daddy. Goodbye.’ Daisy then kisses George on the cheek and pulls the sheet up over his head.
George sits up and says he thought it worked very well. He found her emotion believable with out being over the top, and the dialogue was particularly inspired. Daisy agrees it made real sense to enact the scene in the recovery room, because she really enjoyed getting to play herself but with that extended range of emotion.
They continue to congratulate each other over the celebratory meal of vegetable soup, followed by roast chicken and potatoes, and for dessert, jelly with fruit and whipped topping.
After the operation, the nurse is telling Daisy that they only agreed to administer George a general anaesthetic because he is so neurotic. ‘Let’s face it,’ he says, ‘it’s on his thigh and not much bigger than a mole. We do most people under a local.’ Daisy can see his point. It is faster that way and the person doesn’t have to stay overnight. But George didn’t want it like that, so prosaic.
Even now, contrary to all of their preparation, it isn’t going as planned. For one, the room is too bright. And two, the nursing staff are so casual, breezing in and out, talking in anything but hushed tones. If he were conscious, he would be so disappointed.
George is still sleeping when the nurse leaves them alone.
Daisy sits for a while longer, softly stroking her father’s hand, until the time comes for her too to depart. She stands to kiss him once more on the forehead before placing the pillow over his face. Singing, ‘hush little baby, don’t say a word’, she tenderly caresses the last breath out of him with a lullaby. His favourite. The room is quiet. The tone, appropriately reverential. Then she says, ‘I will always love you, Daddy. Goodbye,’ and pulls the sheet up over his head, just like in their rehearsal, rendering what would have been an inadequate denouement just about perfect.