“Mean,” he had called her. “You are an unpleasant girl, Eleanore. From now on, I’ll call you Mean.”
It had brought tears to her eyes that stung to this very day.
More than twenty years had passed now. The day he left she’d just turned eight.
The memory was still a pool of emotions and ragged pains. He’d slammed the door so loud, it sent their porcelain vase crashing to the floor.
Of course, he had been the mean one, but the scars remained.
And now ... he was dying. She had gotten a phone call a few days ago. 'Eleanore James?' a voice inquired. “This is the hospital. Your father Thaddeus James is dying.”
It all came back in a flash. His drunken brawls, his violence, but especially the meanness he displayed towards her great love for writing poetry.
From the day she could hold a pen, the inspiration just flowed. She would retreat with her diary in a corner of their room and composed poem after poem.
In those days, it was the only thing that brought a sense of calm to her life; a tranquil oasis in a chaotic world.
She recalled how one day he snatched the diary out of her hands and read it out loud to his unholy friends. His beer-blurred voice a comical imitation of hers, while the mocking laughter and jeering of the crowd filled the room.
That day, the true meaning of hatred struck her like a blow. Yet, strangely, his attitude had only strengthened her resolve to become a writer, capable of weaving together the agony and aspiration of humanity, a testament to a wounded spirit seeking solace in faith. Years of struggles followed, but she persevered.
She remembered the thrill of seeing her pen name, ‘Mea N. Brooks’ printed on the cover of her first published book.
“Mean,” he had called her. Now the world called her brilliant.
Her literary achievements included three novels and five celebrated poetry books. Recently she had released her new poetry collection, ‘From Mean to Mane’ containing poems that described her search for God, culminating in finding relief in the arms of the Lion of Judah.
And now she had to face ... that man... one last time?
Yes, she had to. God required it of her. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath. She would keep it short.
Eleanore stopped before the doors of the local hospital and swallowed hard. Hospitals were among the things she hated.
Father was here somewhere, fragile and fading.
She walked up to the information desk. “I am here to see Thaddeus James.”
A young girl smiled at her briefly, studied her computer and said, “Take the elevator. Third floor to your right. Room 23.”
Each step felt heavy, as if her feet were made of lead, but she found it without trouble.
And there he was... propped up to a crumpled pillow, staring into nothing. The beeping machines, his pallid complexion made it obvious he was living on borrowed time.
“Daddy?” she said. “I came to say goodbye.”
He looked up. Did he even know who she was?
His eyes showed no recognition. At last, he moved his shoulders and mumbled barely audible: “Nurse, would you do something for me?”
Nurse? She decided she may as well play along. “Yes, Mister James. What can I do?”
A tiny spark of light appeared in his sunken eyes. “Somewhere, I have a daughter, nurse. Her name is Eleanore and we lost contact. My fault. Can you give her something from me?”
Eleanore froze. “Y-Yes, Mister James. What is it?”
With great difficulty he pointed a trembling finger to the night table next to his bed. “My daughter loved poetry. Can you give her that book? It changed my life and I think it may be a comfort to her as well.”
Eleanore’s eyes followed her father’s finger and rested on a poetry book. The title read “From Mean to Mane,” written by Mea N. Brooks.
What? She wanted to stay angry. But the sight of him, fragile and clinging to the one thing she had poured her soul into… it pierced her defences. She could not hold back her tears. She gently put her arms around him and kissed him on the forehead.
The book lay between them as a testimony to the pain, the past and her poetry. “Amen, I forgive you, father,” she said. “I really do.”