Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

I changed the subject. "How long are you in here?"
"Maybe five days." He coughed, and it evidently hurt. Good.
"Are you sleeping okay?"
"Last night like a baby."
A mood swept over me, and as with any important question in life, the asking felt unreal, like it came
from another person's mouth: "How come you accused me of murder, Dad?"
Silence.
"Well?"
Still no reply.
I said, "I didn't come in here planning to ask you this. But now that I have, I'm not leaving until you give
me a reply."
He coughed.
"Now don't you play the little old man with me. Answer me."
My father turned his face away, so I walked to the head of the bed, squatted down and grabbed his
head, forcing him to lock eyes with me. "Hi, Dad. I asked you a question, and I think you owe me an
answer. Whaddya say, huh?"
His expression wasn't hate and it wasn't love. "I didn't accuse you of murder."
"Really now?"
"I merely pointed out that you had murder in your heart, and that you chose to act on that murderous
impulse. Take from that what you will."
"That's all?"
"Your mother, as you'll recall, stopped the dialogue at that point."
"Mom stood up for me."
"You really don't understand, do you?"
"What - there's something to understand here?"
My father said, "You were perfect."
"I was what?"
"Your soul was perfect. If you'd died in the cafeteria, you'd have gone directly to heaven. But instead
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