(From Chapter 34-I Came To Say "Goodbye")
“It's Bernard, Papa. Sonny. He has something he wants to tell you.” Why did she have to say that? I really didn't want to be here --not now, anyway. It's all I could do to keep from bursting out like a cry_baby. I really didn't have anything to say; and how could I have talked with my throat all choked up? What's a fellow like me supposed to say to Grandpa? “How're feelin'?” That's stupid. It's obvious that he wasn't feeling very well. He was pale__almost white, and his eyes were sunk way back in his head. His nose seemed larger than ever and his face was so thin and drawn, it seemed to be brittle; a transparent skin drawn taunt across the shrunken bone and cartilage. This was one of those life_crises for which all the preparation in the world is never enough. Only in this case, for some strange reason, the adults in that house at 88 Bonnie Avenue apparently had a confidence in the younger generation which was unknown to us kids. All we had been told was that Grandpa was dying and that he wanted to say goodbye to each of us. But we had never seen him like this before. But there I was, all by myself --except for Grandma and Grandpa. Mother and Daddy had gone in together. Eileen and DeeDee got to go in together. They were planning that Mother would go in again with Marilyn and Earl. But I had to go in by myself. It just wasn't fair. And now Grandma tells him that I have something to tell him. Mother didn't tell us that we would have to talk with Grandpa. She merely said that we were to go to Pasadena in order to see Grandpa for the last time. I was squirming in the chair, first looking into that expectant, but tired old face and then turning back to face Grandma with what I am certain was desperation written across my face. “Just tell him you're here to see him one last time and that you want to say good_bye.” Grandma would have been great in the theater with her famous off-stage whisper. You couldn't mistake her words even though they probably didn't carry beyond my ears and certainly not into Grandpa's plastic tent with its soft hissing sound. She had come to my rescue with her whispered assist. But as it happened I truly was not surprised. How many times has she saved the day whenever stress dominated the situation? Her tender, loving empathy was able to steel me for the ordeal. “Grandpa, it's me” --I choked a little, then said --”it's Sonny. I'm glad you wanted to see me.” I stood up in order to lean over the bed. Grandma had raised the side flap of the oxygen tent and I could hear the soft hiss of the life_sustaining gas flowing. I noticed a different odor, but whether it was the smell of oxygen or of death --or of both, I didn't know. Grandpa's eyes were partially closed and seemed to reflect the scene rather than perceiving it. But he nodded twice and his mouth opened and his lips began to form soundless words. I looked back to Grandma. Somehow she knew my thoughts at that moment.
“Lean over. He'll say it again and you'll be able to hear him.”
I reached for his hand and clasped it as I leaned over the bed, tilting my head slightly to align my ear with his mouth. And just as Grandma had said, his lips began to move in a slow and deliberate fashion, but this time I could hear the words without any difficulty. “You're a good boy, Sonny. I love you; Jesus loves you! He's waiting for me. It's `Good_bye,' but only for now.”
I felt his hand lightly grip mine for a brief instant. His mouth, then freed of the burden of framing speech, relaxed into a soft smile. At least, that is how I remember his face. “Good_bye, Grandpa. I love you, too. Ah....auf, auf Wiedersehen!”