The Smallest Parallel

Chapter 3

"I remember when you were born. I remember that you were underweight and that you put up a fight despite everything happening around you. I promised myself that I would protect you from the cruel nature of the world, but it was my worry that I would fail at being your father. I now feel that I haven't made an impact on your life at all. I've been so out of it for so long, Geoff.  Your mother is so much stronger than I am. She is unafraid to speak truthfully and unafraid to love relentlessly. I hide behind her; I hide behind whatever I can find.  I'm a coward, Geoffrey, and I want you to promise never to be like your old man. I want you to promise to be better, and I want you to promise that you will always protect your family, no matter the cards they are dealt."

Geoffrey nodded, though he did not understand his father's words as he was only six and had developed a vocabulary consisting of few words. He would later understand exactly what his father meant, but it would take years of trial and error. I'll speak more of that later.

I must lay out the next part of this story carefully; I don't want any confusion to mar this plot that I am so carefully weaving.

It is fact that Geoffrey's father was a detective. It is fact that Geoffrey's father was undercover in an attempt to rid their town of illegal gambling operations. It is also fact that he had been out the night of Geoffrey's seventh birthday, trying to deliver justice to those who did not believe in the law. He was so determined that he did not realize what happened as he consumed his fifth drink of the night. It was his vice, and he hadn't realized that vice is a nicer way of saying addiction... or problem.

He went to the bar that night, hoping to finally close the lid on a yearlong operation. He played well that night; he had become quite adept at gambling. He looked across the table and took a sip of his bourbon, flashing a smile to the woman in red. He didn't know her name, but he knew that she had a reputation. She was the one to beat. Christopher made sure not to show his cards, but the alcohol was beginning to affect him. He began to show more of himself with each drink, still clinging desperately to his cover.

As Christopher was distracted by his fifth drink, he was caught off guard. He looked back at the table of gamblers: four men and one woman. Someone was missing. He turned around as he felt the absence of his sidearm and moved quickly, though the alcohol had impaired his judgement. The fifth man glared at him, his trigger finger twitching as sweat ran down his cheeks. Christopher wondered if the man could taste salt, and stared at him blankly, daring him to take a shot.

"I should've realized you were a dirty pig the first time you stepped in here," the gambler said, "I should've sensed you from a mile away, and I should've saved you from this very moment. Well now you know too much you son of a bitch. I don't enjoy this, but I have to protect this operation."

Christopher saw the fear within the gamblers deep blue eyes, his pupils dilated and swimming amongst the ocean of his irises. He blinked the sweat from his eyes. Christopher opened his mouth to speak.

Three shots went off within the bar. The gambler stood stiff, his finger on the trigger. He closed his eyes and doubled over, realizing what he had done. He was only eighteen, and he had taken a life.

Christopher fell to the floor, three bullets lodged in his gut. He felt each one of them individually, wondering why one bullet wasn't enough. He gasped in pain as he drew in his last breath, thinking of the picture in his pocket. Who was going to go home to the people in that picture? Who was going to inform them that their loved one had been murdered?

Would his wife prepare his body for the funeral?

He shut his eyes, tears falling onto the floor, absorbed by the hardwood.

When Geoffrey awoke the morning after his birthday, he ran down the stairs, hoping to catch his hero standing in the living room. He wore a smile on his face and a pair of oval shaped glasses as he yawned and stretched his tired limbs. His mother sat on the couch, facing away from him. He wondered if she had been waiting as well.

"Morning Momma," he said with a yawn. He wondered if she had made pancakes.

She turned to face him, and he noticed faint lines of tears on her face. He then saw the swollen red mass of her nose and the tissues littering the coffee table. She looked at him, and he saw her begin to tremble. She attempted to speak to her son.

"G-G-Geoff ... dad.... last night ... gone ... not come back."

He frowned as he tried to understand her as she began whaling. He had never seen his mother show such feeling. He backed away as the fear crept into his thoughts once again. Geoffrey stood still, keeping a stiff back and blank space. He walked over to his mother and cupped her face in his soft hands. Emotional outbursts can confuse children as they are mostly focused on their basic wants and needs. As a seven-year-old, he didn't know what grief looked like. He didn't even understand the human capacity for grief. However, he'd soon understand it better than most adults.

Miriam considered the facts, and for the first time in her life the facts where too overwhelming to comprehend. Her hands shook as she looked up at her son and then down at the floor. Within a twelve-hour period, she had said goodbye to her husband, gone to bed, and woken up a widow. She felt pressure on her shoulders, pain in her head. She sobbed violently as she looked up at that little boy; he wore his father's eyes and the quizzical expression of a seven-year-old child.

Miriam drew her son into her arms, and he rested his chin on her shoulder as tears fell onto the back of his shirt. He didn't dare move. He wanted to know why she was producing such sounds and fluids, but he feared the answer that would come from her mouth. He finally spoke, asking the one question she wasn't ready to answer. 

     "Where is daddy?"

            For the remainder of that year, Geoffrey dwelled on the temporary state of life and the inevitability of death. He realized that there was a fine line between existing and disappearing. These were very complex thoughts for a boy of his age, and they often overwhelmed his developing brain. He packed away his obsession with exploring and focused more on reading and remaining within the four walls of his bedroom. He would not be a detective, but he would pursue a career that promised safety. He would protect his mother from the cruel grip or grief for the rest of their lives.

He remained in his room for most of the summer, only dismissing himself to pick flowers for his mother. He often walked along the railroad tracks, spying daffodils and carnations and scooping them up as he went along. He knew that they would wither and die, but he admired their beauty nonetheless.

One particular morning, he saw the most intriguing patch of flowers on the other side of the tracks. He stepped onto the tracks and walked forward, only to realize that he was caught. His shoe had become wedged beneath one of the rails, and he was struggling to release it. He was suddenly overcome with panic as he heard the distant whisk of the train whistle.  He had known that it would be a bad idea to leave home. He was going to die, and only the conductor would bear witness to his final moments. He took a deep breath and screamed as loud as he could.

He sat down, still producing his violent cries. He began to wonder what death would feel like. Would he see his father as the train struck him? Would he be escorted to a glorious afterlife in which there was always peace, and nobody ever became bored? He hadn't thought of these things before. He wondered if death wasn't as bad as it had been made out to be by those who had hoped to inspire fear in earlier generations. Geoffrey decided that he would not die afraid. He attempted to muster all of the courage that resided within his small body, but he remained fearful. Fear filled every part of him, from his head to his toes. He wasn't ready to die; he wasn't ready to leave this world behind.

Just as he decided to embrace his cruel fate, a figure approached in the distance. He saw the shape of a young girl with wild and dark hair. She wore a white dress with dirt on the hem. She had wide eyes and pale skin that made her look ghastly.

Geoffrey realized that he was seeing an angel, and he grew more excited to die. That was when she introduced herself.

Marguerite Piper Fersanis, his personal angel. She saved his life, and she allowed him to be her companion. He decided that he needed her; she would be his family worth protecting. He remembered the words of his father and decided that he would try to the best of his ability to keep her by his side and to make sure that no harm would come to them.

Nothing would put out the light she cast.