“She’s not a little girl anymore. You know that. I know that. When I look at her, lying in a hospital bed, I want to open a vein and say, ‘Vanessa, take my life. I don’t want it anymore, and I want you to have one, and if that’s all I can do for you, I’m begging you, let me do this.’”

Paul Hoffman said that to his wife just before heading off to the hospital. There, stepping out of his car, standing on three-plus acres of asphalt – almost all parking spaces filled – he said this out loud: “Good Lord.”

Inside he took an elevator, stepped out, turned and walked to his daughter’s room, entered to find her sitting up and holding a book with a big smile on her when he entered her room. He sat, pulled the chair closer, dropped elbows to the arms and puffed. It was good to see his daughter smile.

“You talk with Mom?” Vanessa asked. She averted her eyes, looked at the book in her hands. One of the other patients had given it to her; it had been passed around. A biography about some athlete beating all the odds, coming back from cancer.

Her father shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “I did. And with Taylor and Ethan. We all talked.” He paused. “Vanessa, there are no secrets anymore.” Another shrug, an attempt at a smile. He kept his eyes on his daughter, and an image flashed in front of his eyes. He saw his mom, old and ill and resigned to what was coming and at times, amazingly tranquil. His mother hadn’t smiled much while she was waiting, but she would talk him silly, and almost all of it made sense.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Vanessa said.

“Ahh, c’mon, Vanessa,” her father said, “don’t say that.” He stood, worked his chair so that it was sideways, up against her bed, sat, put an elbow down and leaned toward his daughter. “Tell me,” he said. “C’mon. Say what you’re thinking. I’m your dad. I want to hear.” He reached over and tapped his daughter’s arm. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Vanessa nodded. She stayed quiet, and her father could almost hear the wheels spinning in her head, could see the story gathering at her lips.

“Whatever it is,” his father said. “No rules. You can get away with anything today.” Paul Hoffman smiled. He hadn’t intended to be easy or humorous. “Man to man,” he said, and she smiled a big smile, and that was good.

Vanessa looked up at the television that wasn’t on, looked at the clock, then back to her father. “I’m going to die in here.” She got it out without a crack in her voice, took a breath, heaved a sigh. “And …” She stopped, pushed herself up, adjusted the covers up over her lap just a little bit more. Modesty. Vanessa Hoffman could be modest. She opened her eyes wide, her mouth went to that half-smirk/half-grimace she used when arguing a teenage point, and she leaned toward her father. “I want to ask about some stuff. That okay?”

“Sure,” her father said. “Absolutely. Come on.”

The half-smirk/half-grimace relaxed.

“Okay,” she said, “first, here’s what I’ve been thinking about, okay? Like, about church and religion. I know we go every once in a while. You know, couple times a year. So tell me what you think about all that stuff. Religion.” She stopped and saw she’d caught her father flatfooted. Big question. Really big one. No one else in the family mentioned this one.

“Umm, well …” Wheels spinning. A tongue slipped out and licked the top lip. A finger went up to his nose, rubbed it. He pushed himself up out of the seat, stretched, lowered himself back down. “So … I’m a believer, Vanessa. I am. No doubt in my mind. But bear with me here: I don’t see God … I don’t know that I ever saw God as being a guy, a guy with a beard, up above us somewhere. You know, keeping an eye on everybody all over the world, all the time. That just … that one goes by me completely. Always has.” A brief pause. Had he dealt it out a little stiff? “The stuff I was taught, you know … the Bible, the whole story. A burning bush that talks. The Red Sea parting. Jesus in the desert with the devil and the walking on water thing and riding a donkey and getting arrested … that stuff. Angels and devils and winners and losers, and some people get to do this, and some don’t, a prayer for this and a prayer for that. One religion is better than another because …” He stopped and looked at his daughter. “Vanessa, I’ve thought about that as much as anybody does, I guess. I really have, and I decided some time ago to avoid talking about religion with people. I just don’t. I do not, under any circumstances, want to offend anyone, and I don’t question people’s beliefs, okay? I don’t want to insult someone’s religion, okay? I mean, it’s really personal, isn’t it? It is intensely personal, and it matters. That’s why we’re talking about this, right? Because it matters. And I’m certain, one hundred percent certain, that I’m no smarter or better, and I’m no more important than anyone else and don’t think anyone is more important than me. People are people, okay? And this is my experience; most people are okay. Most are pretty good. Maybe even better than that. Most people are all right. That’s my experience. So, do I believe in God? I sure do. But who is God, right? What is God? Is that what you’re wanting to know?”

He stopped, smiled, chortled in relief, and watched his daughter smile, and that was a relief as well. “That’s the best I can do,” he said. “God is. That’s all there is to it for me. For me, it’s like there’s not nothing, right? There’s isn’t nothing, right? Think about it. There’s everything, everywhere. Is that proof of the existence of God? I don’t know, but that’s about my speed, right? That’s how I think, at least. And I don’t see God as a person. Certainly not like us. Just can’t see it. A human? A human shape? God resembles us? I think that’s underestimating God.” He paused, narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want to argue religion with anybody, ever. I have no desire to have some debate on the subject. Who am I to question somebody’s beliefs?”

Another weak smile and Paul Hoffman got comfortable having this talk with his daughter. It was good to talk about it. He felt the urge to hold his daughter. He knew why they were having the discussion, and it made him feel weak. He wanted to feel strong. He was fearful, and then he looked at her, sitting up in a hospital bed, smiling, happy to see him and happy to be talking about God. What next?

About the Author:

Victor Kreuiter’s stories have appeared in EQMM, Halfway Down The Stairs, Bewildering Stories, Tough, Frontier Tales, Del Sol SFF Review, Literally Stories, and other online and print publications.