Peter & Mariska - Fourteen [A Short Story]

Ten - Losing Mickey

"Okay but did you have to bring up how much I sobbed when I saw my Dad?"

Peter chuckled as he took a sip of his wine. He always did love teasing Mariska about her emotional breakdown she had when she saw her father shortly after she'd had August. Mariska could laugh about it now as well, as she remembered so vividly how she burst into tears when she hugged her dad as a rush of emotions came crashing into her. It was understandable though; she had just given birth to her first child and so her hormones had been out of control. Besides, she remembered that look of pride in her father's eyes, and that's most likely what made her break down then...and what sometimes made her tear up now when she thought of her dad.

"It's still funny yet so cute, you were so emotional," he chuckled and kissed her head; "Aw man...Mickey was so proud of you that day; more than he already was."

"His baby girl had just had a baby, of course he was proud," she chuckled a bit at the memory and closed her eyes, and for a moment, she saw her father's face; "Damn...I miss him..." She opened her eyes and looked at her husband again; "I mean, it's gotten easier to cope with because it's been twelve years almost, but still."

"Hey...I know baby, I know," he rubbed her arm and kissed her head; "I miss him too. Don't get me wrong, I love my father, but Mickey was a top guy; treated me like his son from the day I met him."

"He loved you," Mariska gave a small smile, "It's been twelve years, but I still remember that last day so vividly."

Peter nodded, hugging her into him;

"I do too, baby; I do too."

*****

September 2006.

Quiet.

It was so fucking quiet.

The only sounds to be heard was the faint beeping of the monitor. Other than that, the hospital room was quiet. In the middle of the room was a hospital bed and laying there was her frail father. He was comfortable; he wasn't in any pain, he was just - resting. She was sitting on a chair beside her father's bed, her stepmother was laying on the bed beside her father, holding his hand lightly. Family had been visiting this week, as if they knew that Mickey's time was coming to an end. They were currently staying in hotels and at the family home; everyone was here for a man that had such an impact on the family.

Mariska simply watched him. Her eyes were glued to his chest; she was watching it rise and fall. 'Hold on a little longer, Daddy; please.' She thought to herself as she rubbed her thumb over his thin hand. She was being selfish. She wasn't ready to let him go. She had rushed to the hospital just an hour ago to check on her father; he was awake when she arrived, but his breathing was labored, and he was obviously tired. His voice was so quiet as he asked how she was doing and how Peter was doing. He even asked about his latest grandchild, little August, whom was at her Los Angeles home with Peter.

She smiled briefly at the thought of her son; he was two and a half months old now, and in the two and a half months so far - with every cuddle and gaze into the eyes - her father had given her son everything he needed to grow. All the wisdom, the lessons, the love - everything was there.

Her gazed flicked back to Mickey's tired face; though he was sleeping, she could see how tired he really was. He had told her two weeks earlier how tired he was. 'I'm tired of fighting, Mariska; I'm just tired sweetheart.' That was the night she'd won the Emmy; he had been admitted to the hospital on that morning, but she hadn't been able to go see him as she had been getting ready for the night - much to her father's persistence as he told her to go to the awards first. That night, after the ceremony when she had come to see him, he had told her how tired he was. She had gone home and cried in Peter's arms the entire night.