Lucien looked up at the sound of the nurse's voice and nodded grimly.
"He's been waiting for you," she said, her soft Norwegian tones carefully non-judgmental. Lucien caught the implied criticism all the same, and swallowed down the instantly defensive answer that burned in his gut. He shrugged out of his coat instead and moved to sit on the vacant plastic chair next to his father's bed, then let his eyes linger on the barely recognisable man prostrate beside him.
He just seemed so small. Had illness reduced him, or was the illusion of time playing tricks? Was it simply that he was looking at his father through the eyes of a man now rather than a boy? Whichever it was, it came as an unnerving shock.
"I'll leave you alone. There's a buzzer just there." The nurse indicated a switch above the bed with a nod. "He's drifting in and out of consciousness now. Press it if you need me."
The door closed silently behind her, and Lucien brought his hands up to either side of his face and rubbed his jaw. What was he supposed to do now? Would his father hear him if he spoke? Would he wake up?
There seemed little point in pleasantries. "Olaf gave me your letter."
If his father heard him, he gave no outward signal. His chest rose and fell harshly with the aid of the machine beside the bed, and his arms lay bone still atop the starched white sheets. Lucien considered the idea of touching his hand but found that his fingers wouldn't obey his brain, so he reached instead for the letter inside his jacket on the back of the chair.
"I haven't read it," he said, turning the envelope over in his fingers. His own name was the only word written across the front of it, his father's handwriting familiar from the many letters received and unanswered across the years.
Lucien had carried the letter around ever since Olaf had handed it over. He hadn't especially planned on opening it at his father's bedside, yet he found himself unpicking the edge anyway. Where else would he do it? He'd almost opened it several times, but suddenly, here in the presence of the man who'd written it seemed the only appropriate place. He lifted his eyes from the envelope as he eased the folded sheet from its confines, and for a moment he thought he saw the slightest flicker of movement behind his father's eyelids. He studied him closely for a few seconds, but his stillness was so absolute that Lucien felt certain he'd been wrong.
The sheet of paper tried to fold itself back into the position it had held for so many years. Lucien smoothed it out against his knee, and with a last uncertain glance up at his father, began to read aloud.
Dearest Lucien,
I have tried so many times to say sorry. Please know that I understand why you have never felt able to accept my apology, and know also that I do not blame you for that choice. I admire you. I know that you loved your mother very much, you have always been so much more her boy than mine. You have her wonderful courage, her conviction, and her ability to see what is really there.
I have no right to expect you to believe me when I tell you that I loved your mother very much, but it is the truth, nonetheless. What happened to her was entirely my fault. I am a weak man, son, and I have lived my life crippled by regrets. She lost her life, you lost your mother, and I lost you both because of one meaningless indiscretion.
I have watched you grow into a man that she would have been incredibly proud of. Did you know that we chose to name you Lucien because it means light? As a Norwegian man you will understand how precious light is. You were her light, and mine also.
You are not a weak man, Lucien. Do not live your life consumed by hatred. Be your mother's son and let the light in.
Courage always, my child.
Pappa
When Lucien glanced up again his father's eyes were open and full of watery tears, and, without hesitation this time, Lucien reached out and gripped the weakened hand on the sheets.
"Pappa."
A small, serene smile warmed the features of the man in the bed. As Lucien dropped to his knees and pressed his face against the back of his fathers hand, the machines around them flat-lined, beckoning the nurse as if she'd been waiting outside, expectant.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sophie paced the floor of the lodge, unable to settle. Lucien had been gone for the majority of the day, and given the update from the hospital before he'd left that morning it was unlikely that he would return with anything but the worst news. They'd talked long into the night, and Sophie had woken this morning with a new understanding and respect for the man still sleeping beside her.
He'd lived two lives. One ordinary life, before his mother's suicide, the other spent fighting a constant battle to make peace with his demons. Anger at his father. Guilt that he hadn't returned home from school in time to save his mother. And grief, because he'd lost them both at the same time, in one way or another. The sudden change he'd endured from happy child to troubled orphan was unbearable to contemplate, making Sophie wish she could reach back across the years and hug him. She could only wait and hope that visiting his father after all of these years would bring him some kind of solace.
The only thing they hadn't discussed at all last night was their relationship. Things had changed between them since her arrival here in Norway. Lucien had reacted very differently from the way she'd anticipated. He hadn't put up a fight or thrown up barriers; there was only relief in him, and gratitude, and gladness. He'd kissed her as he'd left for the hospital that morning, slow and agonisingly tender before he'd crushed her against his chest.
Her heart thumped at the sound of a car outside, and she crossed to the window, her footsteps silent in the fur slippers Lucien had found for her that morning.
He was home. Sophie watched him walk the few steps along the snow-cleared front path, his head bowed against the cold night air. She was at the front door before he was, opening it to gather him in.
His usual golden skin tone was underscored with a grey pallor, and one look at the expression on his face was enough to tell Sophie everything she needed to know. She held her hands out to take the coat he silently shrugged off, then walked with him to the warmth of the fireside.
Bowls of soup warmed their bellies, and brandy warmed their throats as they sat close together on the sofa. Afterwards they stretched out, Lucien on his back, Sophie tucked alongside him. It was a time when words seemed less effective than actions. The protective circle of a hug. The tender stroke of a cheek. The long press of mouth against mouth as they drifted into sleep, unaware of the housekeeper quietly clearing the dishes and laying a fur throw over their exhausted forms.
Lucien roused at around three in the morning, and for a while he studied the woman asleep on his shoulder. There was much he needed to say to her, and as if by sixth sense she stirred and her eyelashes flickered open. He watched her eyes and saw concern replace the comfortable bliss of her dreams.