One
I woke with a sense of dread. I was awash with anxiety, an impending sense of irrational doom. It was an entirely inexplicable feeling. A nightmare unremembered I told myself, that’s what it must be, a nightmare unremembered. A loud crash of thunder exploded as if just outside my bedroom window, and in my panicked state, I nearly jumped out of bed. I live alone, and at times like this I wish I had a partner. Someone to tell me ‘relax dear it’s just the storm.’ or ‘you were having a bad dream that’s all.’ Although I had calmed down some, I was in no condition to fall back to sleep. I pulled myself out of bed and headed towards the bedroom window. The view out my tenth floor window was spectacular. Nature’s fury lit the sky with blazing arches of electricity. Flashes illuminated the otherwise pitch-black sky. In the moments of bright light one could clearly see the sheets of rain coming down. I watched for some time drawn into the majesty of nature’s display before pulling myself away from the window. Glancing at my alarm clock the bright red numbers informed me it was just past three in the morning. I stifled a yawn somewhat unsuccessfully, and slowly and sleepily shuffled towards the washroom. Squinting in preparation I flicked the light switch on. My bathroom was small and immediately upon entering it I was directly in front of the mirror. I looked tired and worn out. I had dark circles under my eyes, I hadn’t shaved for a few days and I’d been gaining weight. I figure I was about twenty pounds or so above my comfort zone. I’d been eating too much fast food, drinking far too much and rarely exercising. I looked again at my face in the mirror. It was rounder than it used to be, pudgier. My black hair, though short, still managed to appear disheveled. There were still hints of the man I used to be though much of it had disappeared. At thirty seven I suppose I should be happy to have retained all my hair. I shouldn’t care about the gain in weight or the thin wrinkles around my eyes. Still, the subtle changes my lifestyle had brought wasn’t going to help my prospects any. I was terrible at approaching women. I became nervous too easily. I was inclined to go silent and just not say anything at all. Silence hadn’t proven to be an effective ice breaker. I reached for my bottle of chalky antacid tablets. Recently I had been suffering from increasingly bad bouts of indigestion. Far too busy to visit the doctor was my excuse but truthfully I was putting off the visit. I was certain I would be condemned for my lifestyle. How would I answer his questions ‘How much have you been drinking? Have you been exercising regularly? Are you eating well balanced meals?’ Flicking the light off, I shuffled back to bed and pulled the blankets back up around me. Tomorrow I’d start exercising and eating better, yes, tomorrow. How many times had I said that?
I woke groggily and sluggishly reaching for the ringing phone. It was still dark in the room the red lights of the alarm clock displaying quarter to five in the morning. It took three tired and discombobulated attempts before I successfully grasped the phone.
“Yes… Hello?” My voice sounded gravelly my vocal cords unprepared to work so soon after waking.
“John?” Her voice cracked with either age or perhaps emotion. The woman’s voice sounded familiar yet I couldn’t place it.
“Yes this is John…who is this?”
“It’s your Aunty Beth. John… your brother Frank…. he’s dead.” I felt like I’d been punched in the chest, winded, I had no idea what to say. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to speak. I wanted to disbelieve, this couldn’t be happening.
“What?” was all I could muster, my word barely a whisper.
“It’s a terrible tragedy… we’re all in shock.” I hadn’t seen Aunt Beth in a long time but it sounded like her. My hope that this was a terrible prank call was evaporating.
“How?” My voice cracked but I managed to push the word out with more strength this time.
“There was an accident. They were driving home. They had just had dinner with your father”
“Megan? Kimberly?” Megan was his wife and Kimberly their child, my niece.
“Megan is in critical condition and Kimberly… she... I’m so sorry John.” Poor Kimberly… only ten.
“How’s… Dad? How’s he holding up?” The mental images of my brother and his family flooded my mind. I raised my hand and pinched the bridge of my nose wiping away the tears that were welling there.
“It’s hard to say. He puts on a good front. He’s as hostile as he ever was.”
“He told you to call me didn’t he?”
“Yes.” It had been five years since we had spoken more than our annual Christmas phone conversation. It was a call that I made every year and each time part of me regretted making it. I told myself that one day he’ll be dead and you won’t be able to make any calls to him at all, that I’d regret not being able to talk to him even if he loathed me. Dad had a good relationship with Frank. He didn’t despise Frank like he did me. Part of me was jealous of their relationship, a big part.
“Does Jen know yet?” Jen was my older sister, the middle sibling. Her relationship with Dad was even worse than mine.
“No. I was hoping you might…”
“Of course.”
“Thank-you. They’ve got Megan at Credit Valley hospital...”
“Right…I should go to the hospital. If you want a ride or anything I could give you a lift…”
“I have more phone calls to make. I’ll offer my prayers from here and visit in the morning. You just lost a brother John. You shouldn’t be driving, call a cab.” She was right of course.
“Ok I will. Bye Aunt Beth.”
“Bye dear. Be strong.” I felt the emotion choke up in my throat as I rested the phone on its receiver.
I was pacing at the foot of my bed my mind flitting from images and moments in time that me and my brother had shared. I could still remember the way the plastic gun handle felt, the acrid burning smell the caps would emit when they made the fake gun sound. I was ten and Frank was thirteen nearly fourteen. The game was cops and robbers. Frank wanted to be a cop at that age. We all wanted things that we either lost interest in or could never achieve. Jen was always on my team since she was only a year older than me. Jen and I were always the robbers. Frank let us win at first. He told us the good guys always win in the end. The world was so simple back then, so black and white.
I thought about calling my sister but I wasn’t ready yet. I left my bedroom and entered the kitchen. I opened the cupboard I kept my alcohol in and made myself a decent sized scotch. My hand was shaking terribly as I poured it. I took a sip of the drink but the warm familiar burn failed to provide comfort. I suppose I was beyond seeking solace in drink.
I slipped to a more recent memory. It was four years ago. We were having a family dinner at Jen’s house. The night had been going so well and was almost over. Jen was on the couch beside Rachel, her partner. The two had exchanged a passionate kiss. The drink had been flowing that night and perhaps the kiss was a little much for a family gathering but it wasn’t lewd either.
“Don’t do that around Kimberly.” My brother’s voice was full of anger.
“What, kiss my partner?” You could tell she was trying not to yell at him the restrained anger clearly bubbling just below the surface.
“Just not around Kimberly, ok?” He was trying to keep his tone hushed. I remember glancing at Kimberly. I could tell she didn’t really understand what was happening. She was only six at the time.
“Maybe we should go now.” Megan’s voice, less a question more a statement, she was tugging at Frank trying to pull him back towards the door.
“Are you like Dad now?! It’s natural you know! It’s normal!” Jen was no longer holding back each word spat with unfettered rage and hostility. Frank and his family left just moments later. As a group, my sister, my brother and I didn’t get together again.
I deftly move my glass of scotch from side to side the liquid inside swirling within. I’d see how close I could get the booze to the lip without any spilling over the side of the glass. It was my own little game and I’d gotten quite good at it. I glanced over at the phone again. I steadied my glass and took another sip before picking it up to dial. I had to look my sister’s number up, a testament to both my state of mind and the rarity to which I called her. Taking one last deep breath I dialed the numbers.
“John, why are you calling so late? Did something happen to Dad?” I had been fairly certain what I was going to say having mulled it over in my head.
“I…” My words just seemed to get lost in my throat, I couldn’t get them out.
“It is Dad isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you calling me at…” I could hear a rustling sound as if a brief flurry of distant movement from her end of the line. Rachel’s sleepy voice could be heard in the background saying it’s just after five in the morning. My sister Jen repeated Rachel’s words but added her own color to them. “It’s just after five in the morning why the hell are you calling me!” There was anger in her voice, a hostility unmasked by the niceties we put up when we haven’t just woken up a moment earlier. I think it was my sister’s anger mounting atop my grief, I was no longer holding it together.
“It’s Frank!” I sobbed the words out, my head resting against the counter, my eyes shut tight from the pain.
“What happened to Frank?” Her voice drained of anger and force now carried desperation. “What happened to Frank!?”
“It was a car accident.” I pushed out the words as if I wasn’t the one saying them. It was the only way I could manage to speak. “Frank and Kimberly didn’t survive.”
“Good God.”
“Megan is in the hospital.”
“Which one?” I could hear Rachel asking in the background what was wrong.
“Credit Valley.”
“Oh, ok, we’re going to go. Are you going?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok, ok, ok….” She was stuttering. It was hitting her; I could hear her voice cracking. The shock of what it meant was washing over her. “I’ll see you there.”
I placed the phone on its receiver and poured the last of my drink into the sink. I headed towards my bathroom, I’d take a shower. I didn’t want to get to the hospital before my sister. I didn’t want to face Dad alone. At least Jen would have Rachel to offer her support.
I got into the shower. The soothing water allowed me to forget a little of my misery. Any escaping tears were immediately washed away. It was as if they’d never been there at all. My mind soothed, began to drift.
It was thirty two years ago. Frank was eight I was five. Frank was readying himself. “Watch me! Dad, watch this!” I could hear my Dad and Mom laughing in the background. Those times were happier, they were innocent. My brother started his run across the slippery wet grass on our yard and then leaped into the air. He bounded over the sprinkler landing perfectly on its far side. His body bathed in tiny water droplets, he stood triumphant and proud, his arms puffed out at his hips. I had watched and was eager to do it just as my brother had. I started my run and just before entering my jump I tripped and went tumbling to the ground. Skidding along the wet grass I slammed head first into the metal sprinkler. My brother standing closest to the accident was the first to reach me. He cradled my head and looked down at me with tears already welling up in his eyes.
“John you’re not as strong as me you have to be careful.” Frank’s words stuck with me, cemented in place by the worry worn on his face that day. When my parents were close enough to examine the injury they looked somewhat relieved. I had a head wound, a minor cut. It was bleeding rather profusely as head wounds often do. It was the blood that had worried Frank. I had to get five stitches. The following month my brother yelled at me every time I did something foolish, eventually I stopped taking risks.
I watched the used water trickle down the shower’s drain, it was to me a metaphor for memories. There are now only a handful of people that can remember that day, my father, me and perhaps Jen. When no one is left to remember, the moment ceases to exist, it just slips away. I turn off the shower and watch the last of the water drain away before exiting to towel off.
I call a cab as my aunt had suggested and hastily throw some clothes on. It isn’t long before I’m waiting just inside the front doors of my condo building. Through the glass doors I can see the round about where the cab should drive up. Water is flowing through the round about and down the buildings short driveway to the waiting storm sewers on the street. The rain was no longer as heavy as it was when I marveled at the power of the storm earlier. It’s lighter, less volatile. In reflection it seems wrong to have marveled at the majesty of the storm. It must have been at least partially responsible for the death of my brother. I watch the cab drive up to the front of the building, its back tires lifting and spraying water from the street, it all seems so surreal. He can’t be dead. An irrational part of me still clings firmly to doubt, even though I know he’s gone. A last desperate hope that a mistake has been made that my brother and his family are home safe, that nothing is wrong. I open the back door of the cab and slide into the seat. Before I could tell the driver to take me to the hospital he was apologizing for being late.
“Sorry about the wait sir. There are many accidents slowing the traffic down.” I winced.
“Credit Valley hospital please.”
I stare through the window, watching the cars pass by. Through the water droplets their shapes appear blurred and distorted. A memory as vivid as if it was yesterday creeps up on me. We were driving to the Carolina’s for a family vacation. I was young only six years old, Frank had just turned ten. We’d hit a storm, a terrible one. The rain was heavy and more than once my mother had asked Father if we shouldn’t be pulling over. Dad wasn’t going to stop, said he’d already booked our motel, that we had to push on to make our reservations. I was scared. I remember the lightning blazing across the night sky. We were on a freeway and there was nothing to impede the view, we were surrounded by fields on both sides. I’d started to cry and Dad yelled at me. Told me he needed to concentrate on driving, told me not to be a baby. I was quietly whimpering then, too afraid to make a noise. The youngest and smallest of my siblings meant I sat in the middle of the backseat, between Jen and Frank. I looked at Jen in hopes of finding someone to commiserate with but she didn’t fear the storm like I did. Instead of terror I found sheer delight displayed upon her face, a childish grin of wonder and awe. I remember her expressing excitement as one of the particularly large bolts of electricity lit up the sky with a brilliant flash. I turned to Frank and found emotion that more closely resembled mine. Perhaps he wasn’t terrified as I was but he was concerned. I think being older he was better able to recognize the real fear in Mother’s voice, the real concern she had displayed at driving in this weather. I clutched at Frank and held onto the side of his shirt, I was still sniffling with tears strolling down my cheeks. He turned to me as if assessing me briefly before he unbuckled my seatbelt and lifted me on to his lap. He held me there, his arms wrapped tightly around me. I immediately stopped crying, I felt safe at the time. In reality I was far worse off having removed my seatbelt but as a kid I didn’t understand those sorts of things. I didn’t realize how close I’d come to dying that night when my father narrowly dodged a vehicle that had drifted over the centre line and into the oncoming traffic lane. Perhaps it should have been me that died in a car accident.
The cab was moving slowly. We’d worked our way onto the freeway only to find it moving at a snails pace. More time to think, I shudder, the last thing I need. Even the good memories are tainted with the horrible truth of what has happened today. Time, I think while pinching the bridge of my nose to once again remove the welling tears, time is what I need, said to heal all wounds.
It was spring. I was walking home from High School. We lived close so it wasn’t a long walk. The school was ramping up preparations for Senior Prom. I wasn’t a social creature so my roll was minimal but one couldn’t help to be partially drawn into the excitement surrounding the event, after all it was my graduating year. I had a steady girlfriend for the first time in my life. We’d been dating for four months. I spent the bulk of my weekends with her and my best friend at the time Charles Skowski. Early in the day she’d broken up with me. Told me she’d fallen for Charles, that she was sorry. I was devastated at the time. It’s easy to look back now and see just how inconsequential my feelings were but at that moment I was heartbroken. I stumbled into the house, my brother was already home when I arrived. He had been taking courses at college and was supposed to finish up his business diploma at the end of the year. Dad loaned him the car to commute to college a generosity he never showed me when my turn came.
“You look hang-dogged. What’s wrong champ?”
“Kelly broke up with me.”
“You’re kidding, right? I mean it’s just what, a week or two before Prom?”
“Yeah.”
“What a bitch!”
I grimaced at his comment and looked away. “Sure, I guess. I don’t know.” After a pause I added that she’d started something up with Chuck.
“Your best friend? You’ve gotta be kidding me?”
I shrugged and shook my head. “I wish I was.” We sat beside each other in the family room in front of the powered down television. After awhile the silence became excruciating, I just needed to talk, to get things off my chest. “You know I don’t know what hurts more.” I didn’t make eye contact with my brother I could feel the tears at the back of my eyes beginning to well. “I don’t know if it hurts more losing Kelly or the fact that I feel betrayed by my best friend.” Frank handed me a tissue. I blew my nose.
“Yeah that really sucks bro. He should have known not to go for your girl, it’s just not right, friends don’t do that. You know what though?”
“What?”
“Time heals all wounds.”
I wasn’t so sure of his words then and I’m even less sure now. When Mother died I felt a deep numbing loss. I don’t believe it will ever completely leave me. I envy people that can truly put the bad parts of their past behind them, not dwell upon things. I fear I lack this ability, perhaps it’s just another way I’m weak.
Slowly creeping along the freeway we finally caught up to the source of the slowdown, a fender bender. People are standing outside their cars trying to assess the damage done to their vehicles, looks of concern and worry upon their faces. No one hurt, no one dead, they don’t know how lucky they are. Just a broken head lamp and a good scare, they should be smiling, ecstatic that their family doesn’t have to make the trip I am making now. I suppose considerations like that are all relative, yesterday if I was in their position I would have probably felt the same as they do. Things change fast.
I hadn’t seen my brother as much in the past four years. Ever since his argument with Jen things had been somehow different. I regret that lost time.
“I’ve been busy.” He told me while sipping his coffee in late summer.
I nodded. I never could understand why he drank coffee on hot summer days. I took another sip of my cold beer.
“I’ve just had a lot on my mind.” He gave me a half smile. He was miles away that day a half pained expression on his face as if he was shouldering the weight of the world. He didn’t give me a chance to pry. Too quickly he changed the subject of our conversation to that of my writing, my upcoming book release. That was back when I was excited about my work. I was too easily persuaded to change topics. I wonder now what was bothering him. I suppose it will remain an unknown, just one more conversation we will never have.
The cab pulled up to the hospital a sense of dread and trepidation washing over me. An ambulance its lights flashing red and white sat at the emergency entrance. There was no buzz of activity surrounding the vehicle, a signifier of pain, death and hope. I wanted to believe that the most recent occupant was alright, survived whatever ordeal they had just endured.
I handed the driver his fair before stepping out into the remnants of the rain. The storm drained of its power had been reduced to a light drizzle, it was barely noticeable. I moved around to the front of the building doing my best to dodge the enormous puddles that filled the uneven pavement of the parking lot. I noticed the glowing ember from the cigarette before I saw the silhouette of the person standing in front of the hospitals main entrance.
“Jen?” She’d stopped smoking years ago. The circumstances must have caused her to start again, just grasping on to anything that might bring her comfort.
“John?” She turned to me and quickly held me tightly in a hug. I could smell the smoke from her cigarette as it swirled close to my head. “Oh thank God your here.” She pulled away from me and inhaled a long deep drag of her smoke. She looked torn between two emotions, a broad smile displayed upon her face and yet her eyes were red and stained with tears.
“I came as quick as I could.” I lied.
She nodded. “You look chubbier, have you been taking care of yourself?”
I winced.
“Never mind that, it’s so good to see you. It’s been what… seven months?”
“Nine.” I corrected her. We’d seen less and less of each other since her and Frank’s argument. Somehow it affected us as well, as if the invisible ties that siblings share no longer applied.
“Nine months.” She looked sad and for a brief moment we stood in silence as she inhaled another long drag from her cigarette. “I guess that will change.” Her eyes met mine briefly before flickering away again. “We’ll see a lot of each other now…. with the arrangements and all.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I wanted to say I’d missed her but somehow I couldn’t get the words out. Strange how hard it can be to say you miss and love a sibling. People you’ve known all your life, grown up with, the creation of intimacy without any emotional assurance. Perhaps that’s why things have been getting worse between us. No legitimate relationship, just memories, a shared past. This past year I didn’t see Jen on her birthday, I’d called but she was too busy at the time, told me she’d call me back but never did. I wonder if she hadn’t gotten together with Frank either, if she regretted that now.
“Where’s Rachel?” I asked.
“She’s getting everyone coffee.”
“That’s nice of her.”
Jen laughed. “I think it was an excuse for her to get away. It’s pretty awkward in there.” She paused and appeared as if she was choosing her words carefully. “Dad and I had a fight.”
“In the hospital?” I sounded surprised but I shouldn’t have been.
“Yes.” I thought of Father and what he must be going through right now, how he didn’t need the added stress of an argument. I was however certain that he had brought it upon himself.
“What happened?”
“Well… I think just showing up played a pretty big role. I haven’t seen Dad in years you know.” I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. “He told me I don’t belong here… that I’m not his daughter… that his only child died tonight.” She sobbed out the last words and I felt my heart sink. ‘His only child died tonight’ I’m glad I hadn’t heard my father say it. It always hurts more to hear it directly. I held Jen tight and did my best not to let my emotions get the better of me. “God John he wants nothing to do with us, his own kids and he wants nothing to do with us.” Jen had always been the strongest of the three of us, it seemed strange to see her so vulnerable now.
Jen was only thirteen when she refused to go to church. I remember being dressed up for my duties as an altar boy of only twelve. I was waiting by the front door. I could hear the screams of my sister echoing through the house. Father yelled ‘You’re going to go even if I have to drag you!’ Mother was frantic. She was begging Jen to go to church between her sobs. Frank was also dressed up in preparation for church, an altar boy as well. Dad made sure we were participating members, he was proud of it. We had little choice but to go along. In truth, I enjoyed it at that age. The mysticism, the awe it inspired, the hope it conjured contrasted the day to day monotony of life. It all spoke of something greater. Jen used to love going to church but something just changed. I think that was the only time Father had ever truly hit any of us. Jen had a terrible, large welt across her face where father had slapped her. You could make out the imprint left from his palm and fingers. She never had to go to church again. She used to be Daddy’s little girl, his favorite, but not after that day.
Jen was always the fiery one of the three of us. The red hair Mother had given her matched her personality so well. It offered credence to the stereotypes. Her hair was curly just like Moms. She seemed to inherit the majority of her physical traits from her unlike Frank and I, we more closely resembled Father, his black hair, thin lips and piercing eyes. I wonder sometimes if Mom was fiery just like Jen when she was younger, if so, she had been drained of it by the time we came along. I had Mother’s temperament. I was unable to stand up to Father like Jen did. Jen had a stubborn fight in her just like Dad.
I remember when everything started falling apart. I was fifteen and came home from school late. Mother was crying sitting on the couch in the family room, Frank was trying to comfort her, telling her Dad would cool down eventually. I remember wanting to ask what was wrong but Frank gave me a look that told me not to, that told me he would fill me in later. I just went up to my room. I didn’t have to wait long before I heard the rap on my bedroom door.
“Come in.”
“Hey.” It was Frank, his eyes full of worry. He shot a quick glance at my open texts strewn out on my desk where I was studying. “How’s the homework going?”
“It’s kind of hard to focus right now.”
He nodded.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Jen’s run away.”
It wasn’t till later that I found out she hadn’t run away, she’d been thrown out. Dad found out she was a lesbian and said he wouldn’t have that in his house. Mother didn’t stop crying that night.
Within the year Mom was diagnosed with cancer. My Dad said it was a judgment from God for my sister’s choices, that we were being punished. I remember entering confessional and asking the priest if this was true. He told me God works in mysterious ways but he doesn’t punish good people for the choices made by others. I told my Dad what the priest had told me, that it wasn’t Jen’s fault Mom was sick.
“You did what!” He was instantly angry. He charged towards me but stopped just short of me his eyes leveled with mine. I couldn’t help but flinch in response to his approach. “You keep what you discuss in confessional to yourself, you don’t share that with people, do you hear me boy!?”
“Yes sir.” I always felt five again whenever I was with Father, powerless and scared, unable to stand up for myself. Every now and then Dad would bring it up again remind us how God punished Mom because of Jen. Our family never recovered from losing Jen, Mother least of all. I’m certain it was losing Jen that caused Mom’s sickness. She never recovered, she fell deep into despair.
I’m bathed in another whirl of smoke from Jen’s offending cigarette, my hand actively trying to bat away the fumes.
“I’m sorry, I’ll quit again, once I have a handle on things.”
“It’s ok.” The smoke tickling my throat caused me to choke on my words. We both laughed. I looked towards the hospital doors, feelings of dread and anxiety washing over me again. “I don’t want to head in there but I suppose I have to sooner or later.” I’d been waiting for her to finish her cigarette but she’d immediately started another one, she was chain smoking a sure sign of the pressure.
“God, after the argument I had with Dad I don’t even know if I will go back in.”
I nodded. She was shaking somewhat, stressed perhaps, even her complexion was pale. Jen suddenly started rummaging through her purse. “I almost forgot.” She handed me a folded piece of paper and shot me a smile before turning away to release her cloud of smoke. Unfolding the paper I immediately recognized the image as that of a sonogram. I was stunned, shocked.
“That’s the head right there.” Jen was leaning in pointing at the picture.
“How many months?” I couldn’t help it but I looked at the cigarette she was holding and felt my face flush with anger.
Jen picked up on the change in my mood instantly. Perhaps something remains of the sibling bond we shared. “Oh I’m not the one pregnant… It’s Rachel.” I felt the hot liquid anger dissipate. It was always the old man or Jen and on rare occasions Frank, but I was never the one to be drawn in by rage. Perhaps I was overwhelmed by everything, the world still spinning too fast. “This image is at four months. She’s seven months in now.” She took another drag of her cigarette. “I meant to call you and tell you I really did. I just…”
“You’ve been busy.” I made up an excuse for her. How distanced had we become? “Congrats.” I said at last, it seemed the thing to say. I was about to ask how but she seemed to anticipate my question.
“Artificial insemination, we’d actually talked about it quite a bit before settling on that route. Rachel is younger only thirty four. It just made sense with all the health risks for older mothers that she should be the one to carry.”
I nodded. I offered Jen the piece of paper back.
“No, keep it.” Her face scrunched up awkwardly as if trying to display too many emotions at once. “I was going to give it to Dad…” She shrugged. “I didn’t even get that far. He doesn’t even know and you know what?” She breathed out a large white cloud of smoke. “Fuck him, I don’t want him knowing.”
An uncomfortable silence followed and suddenly I didn’t want to be outside the hospital anymore than I wanted to be inside it. I felt a chill run through me. The rain had been reduced to a fine mist which seemed to seep through my clothes even faster. I pulled my jacket’s collar tight up around my neck.
“You should head in. Get it over with, besides you’ll only freeze to death if you stay out here.” We hugged once more before I headed towards the brightly lit entranceway.
A wave of nostalgia struck me as I pushed my way through the large glass doors. Mother wasn’t at this hospital but all hospitals share the same smells, they all have a stark sanitized feel to them. They appear as if broken down to their base components a minimalist’s world made real, only the patron’s, the sick and worried appear out of place here. With their complicated imperfections the patients clash upon the sea of sanitized white. I remember coming to visit Mom. Dad sat down outside the room, he didn’t come in. Had Mom on her death bed finally turned him away?
“Go in kids, I’ll be out here. Be strong for your Mother.” His voice gruff, he didn’t make eye contact.
Entering the room I couldn’t help but notice the smell. The very air seemed wrong, filled with sickness. Mother’s face looked swollen as did her arms and fingers, puffed up to a strange unnatural size.
“Hey, how are my two young men doing?” She smiled, her head rocked unevenly as she tried to look at both of us. She was struggling to keep her eyes open. “They’ve got me on a lot of painkillers so sorry if I seem a little off.” I felt the hot sting of a tear roll down my cheek.
The waiting room was filled with that familiar bright white light I instantly associate with hospitals. A quiet nervous stillness permeates the room. Megan’s family teary eyed and distraught are sitting together in the lobby. They seem lost in contemplation seeking their own meaning and understanding of the events that occurred. Perhaps like me they’ll give up on finding meaning in this tragedy. Like me they will conclude it’s a terrible random event that we were powerless to alter. Just another needless tragedy leaving so much pain and anguish in its wake. Their family is cohesive offering each other support. They have shoulders to cry on, they don’t have to bear their pain alone. I turn to my father. He sits by himself, an aura of inapproachability seemingly emanating from him. He doesn’t look up. His head is resting in his hands. Megan’s father recognized me and raised his hand weakly to say hi, I walked towards him. He was an older man and with some effort he stands up to greet me.
“Oh, hi John.” He seemed surprised I was approaching him and not my own father first. We barely met that side of the family. I couldn’t remember half of their names.
“Any word on Megan?”
He shook his head. “Not for awhile now. We were told she is in critical condition and that they were doing everything they could for her.” It sounded typical of what you’d expect them to say. Not offering too much information, no need to instill panic.
“Well my prayers go with her.” In truth I couldn’t remember the last time I’d prayed. I think it might have been just before Mother died.
“Thanks John.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about your brother. He was a good man, always thought of Megan and Kimberly first.” His voice choked up when he said Kimberly but he managed to struggle through the words. Poor Kimberly, what kind of cruel world lets children die. “I think I need to sit down.” I held my arm out and let him use it to guide himself to his seat, one of his sons was instantly up and also helping him. I looked back over at my Dad again, sitting alone head still cupped in his hands.
I said goodbye to Megan’s family. I took a deep breath in preparation and then crossed the waiting room to Dad.
“How are you holdin…” I hadn’t even got my question out.
“First the lesbian and now the smut peddler, leave me alone, go, get gone. There is nothing you can do here for me that’s for sure.” He didn’t even look up at me his head remained buried in his hands.
“I just wanted to make sure you were....” His head snapped up, his eyes full of anger had a hint of redness to them. Was he crying earlier? I’d never seen him cry, not once, not even when Mom died.
“I said get out of here!” His voice was raised now. He had gotten up as if prepared to chase me out of the hospital his arm outstretched a single finger pointing towards the doors. The staff was getting antsy and at his sudden rise I’d nearly fallen backwards into a row of chairs. I glanced at Megan’s family, suddenly feeling the hot flush of embarrassment. I turned to the exit and didn’t look back.
Leaving I saw Rachel who was now with Jen, the two of them were signaling for me to join them. Rachel was balancing two tray’s full of coffees, the ones she had disappeared to get before my arrival. I waved them off and kept walking to the closest waiting cab. I was in no mood to talk to them. My father had once again treated me the way I had come to expect, with utter disdain. Still no matter how much I anticipated his words and behavior they still managed to cause me pain and misery. I’m supposed to love my father. My father is supposed to love me. It doesn’t work when only one half of the equation is in place. It can’t work. I give the cab driver my address and turn my head towards the window. I don’t want the cabbie to see the tears welling up in my eyes.
The return drive seems shorter, an illusion I’m sure. The dreadful anxiety of seeing my father for the first time in years has passed. The actual meeting every bit as terrible as I could have imagined it would be. How could he be that hateful? The taxi closes on my building its massive structure towering over the surrounding suburban homes.
“Quite the building I’m sure the neighbors were ecstatic to hear this monstrosity was going in.” Frank offered me a wry smile I’d seen so often accompanying his sarcastic comments. He was helping me move in to the new place. We were both lugging boxes towards the waiting elevator. “Well thank god it’s better than your last place, I was worried you’d be shot or something.” Again he flashed the smile. I was moving from a rent controlled apartment in one of the worst areas of the city. It was the size of a shoebox. One of the many prices I had paid in order to write.
“It’s a lot nicer.” I added as the floor indicator in the elevator quickly ascended.
“You must be pretty happy with your book.” The elevator chirped before the door opened to the tenth floor. We shuffled out burdened by our boxes.
“I don’t know. Dad still isn’t talking to me.” We started making our way down the hall.
“I think he’s having a tough time with it. I don’t think he quite understood you wanting to write and then when you wrote what you did, that made it even harder for him.”
“What do you think of my book?” I could see in his eyes he didn’t want to answer my question.
“It doesn’t matter what I think does it?” It was a response he’d given countless times before when dismissing a topic. “So, where are we putting these boxes?” I never did get a straight answer, nor did I push him for the response I was sure he’d give me. He didn’t think much of my book; it wasn’t hard to read between the lines. The mood was subdued the rest of that day, we didn’t talk much. He was wrong though, his opinion did matter, perhaps more now that he was gone than when he was alive. Now his opinions are unchangeable, mere memories, still no less poignant. Perhaps the affirmation I chased was always unobtainable.
I turned the key and entered my condo. I never used to feel lonely entering my home. It was something I’d started feeling more recently. Tonight the loss of my brother only compounded the loneliness. I glanced at the clock on my microwave it was almost seven, the sun would be up soon. I was exhausted, drained, a complete wreck. I reached for my bottle of scotch and poured myself a sizeable glass something to take the edge off, help me sleep, maybe even chase away some of the misery.