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How long did you know? |
I go and Iâm here. Itâs the past again. Each shift is starting to feel like withdrawal, I find myself on the floor each time, shaking and shivering, each translucent nerve on fire, a dry taste in my mouth and a buzzing in my brain, the sensations growing each time. I wonder how long before they ruin me, before my transient body gives up and refuses to accept any more? I canât keep a hold of it, I canât keep myself solid for much longer. I keep saying that and I keep surprising myself. I donât know how long this will go on. I canât say, I canât tell. I hardly remember when it began, so long ago. My face is buried in carpet. Itâs yours, it belongs to your house. The soft fabric scrapes against my skin. My face isnât here. I keep saying these things as if somehow they might make some sort of sense, if I keep repeating them enough times. A foot kicks out, goes through my ribs with barely a rustle. Your foot, on a small sneakers. Your legs, clad in jeans, rising up to be what seems to be an unimaginable height. But thatâs just perspective. I shift and you become small again. Younger, too, your clothes compressed into a fashion ten years gone, your face looks fuller, you donât realize how sick you got until someone leaps the passage of time and moves past degrees, skipping over blocks of years. You probably never even noticed yourself, as more and more of yourself was taken away, leaving you with a little less every day, thinning you out, trying to convert you into something that was only a shadow of what you were. But weâre more than just our physical bodies, even if the bodies themselves control everything. But theyâre the weakest part of us, the thing we need the least. And yet when it betrays us, weâre gone, weâre done and not all your science can reverse what a vengeful body has wrought. Youâre sitting on the couch and youâre not moving. Once in a while you cough, but the sound is deep and angry, something hard refusing to shift from somewhere deep inside your chest. The couch shakes when that happens, the whole house trying to force it out of you, the thing you canât escape from, no matter how much of it you remove it always comes back, clogging everything, choking you from the inside. Is that what finally does you in, I wonder, or was it something else, a factor that everyone overlooked, an angle nobody can control. You cough again, a thicker, harsher sound and your body doubles over. At the end of it, I hear you swear and it sounds so odd coming from your voice, you sound too young to say such things but thatâs how it goes, you have to go faster than the rest of us, to get where we were, to get where we would be, when you werenât there. No. No. Iâm romanticizing it, try to make something oddly poetic out of what happened, when all that happened was life, brutal and lonely and short, the same thing that happens to everyone else, thatâll happen to the rest of us. It wasnât special, except when it intersected. It shouldnât hurt, but it does to me, because I see what we lost, every time I turn around. I think youâve been crying. Maybe not. I want to see you happy. All these moments are jumbled together, I remember the sound of your laughter, the way it cut through a winter day. Not this, the way your eyes are redrimmed, like theyâve been struck by something caustic, or the way your body shivers under a baggy shirt, like itâs trying to keep from tearing itself in half. I canât be drawn to all these times, these bitter affairs, because that made up so little of what you were, of how it was. It gives a poor representation and thatâs not the memory I want to take with me, when I go into the dark, when all else fails and I have to jettison a piece to make room for the rest, I want the curve of your smile to have a place, unburdened by this, by what goes on here. You werenât perfect, I know that, I could tell you a million ways in which you werenât, if I had the time, if I had the inclination but you never claimed to be and I never pretended that you were. But you deserve better than this, than this parade through sorrow, I want to celebrate you and mourn you, not with a drink raised to the uncaring sky, but to immerse myself in everything that you were, not to find the half shadows in the corners of you and illuminate them, but to discover the thing that made you cringe, that made you laugh and try to construct a story, now that we have the beginning, now that we have the end, we can make the plot and trace the arc and maybe it wonât make sense but itâll be something to have, Iâll take it with me as I spiral down and if I never climb out, at least Iâll have something to hold onto, when thereâs nothing left to see. The door opens and light spills in. I never realized the curtains were drawn. You canât see out and they canât see in. A shadow drops down, a pillar piercing the room, rising right on top of the carpet, revealing every bumpy contour. âIâm home,â someone says in a deep croon and with some surprise I realize that itâs your father. I turn and see him step into my line of sight. Heâs wearing a suit, he must be coming from work. Is this spring, summer, I canât tell. You must be home from school but youâre just sitting there and I donât know how long thatâs been. It may not matter. The engine may have been stalled, until we walked in and things started to move again. âHey, honey,â he says as he comes in, like he just saw you there. You barely glance up at him, staring down at your lap. âYou look like you had an exciting day.â I always liked your father, he was friendly without being obnoxious, a listener without being intrusive and he successfully resisted the urge to punch me in the face no matter what the circumstances were when we ran into me, which was probably more often than he would have liked. Heâs standing some distance from you, but directly in your line of vision. You canât ignore him, even if you wanted to. I expect him to have a briefcase, for some reason, but he doesnât. Thereâs just him. Cracking a smile, he ventures, âBut I bet it wasnât as exciting as my day.â He takes a half step to the side, his shoes are planted deep within my back, spanning the width of my shoulders. âWhy, just today, I got to sit through a quarterly report. You know what that is?â His mock eagerness could make me laugh, if I knew where I had left the emotion. In another time, perhaps. âThatâs when we all sit together in a room where theyâve outlawed comfortable chairs, around a very long table, to listen to each other tell everyone things we already know. Except somehow my company, who I thought only worked on boring things like mutual funds and stock portfolios, somehow theyâve managed to invent a stasis bubble . . . so that time, instead of passing normally, just drags and drags and drags, so that even though youâre almost certain that youâve spent like ten hours in the same room, listening to people drone on and on and you expect at any moment to look out the window and see flying cars go by, you find out that itâs only been an hour and you still have another whole hour to go.â He takes another step toward you, like heâs trying to get your attention. Above me, heâs like a monolith, rising high in creased pants and sharp jacket. âAnd it gets better, it really does, because the people who are running the meeting want your input on the stuff, so you canât just stop paying attention or, like I do, actually think about the work you could be doing, if you werenât trapped . . . you have to make comments or youâll look like you donât care about the company.â In a neat motion, he turns around and flops down on the couch, so that heâs opposite you. You shift as the cushions bounce, the only sign that you even notice the intrusion. He gives you a funny look but makes no comment, continuing with his speech. âAnd because I know youâre wondering, yes, Daddy had to present as well.â He sighs and rests one elbow on the arm of the couch, crossing his leg so that the ankle of one leg is resting on the knee of the other. âBut heâs not actually sure if he said anything substantial and itâs quite possible that he made it all up as he went along.â He glances over at you, a smile covering half of his face. âSo if Daddyâs company suddenly takes a nosedive and goes out of business, it might be his fault. But you didnât hear that from me.â He reaches up and smoothes a bit of his thinning hair, looking toward the ceiling and sighing as he does so. âStay out of the real world, kid. Youâre better off. Even better, just donât grow up.â You make a sound suddenly, a muffled and choked thing. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you look away sharply. Something in you is trembling, about to vibrate free of whateverâs holding it in. A quizzical and slightly worried expression crosses your fatherâs face. His forehead furrows, his eyes narrow. In a slow, deliberate voice, he asks, âListen, is everything all right? Are you feeling okay?â You donât answer immediately but I can see youâre biting your lip. I canât tell whatâs wrong, I donât know anything about this. Iâm just as confused as your father must be, trying to tell a funny story and not getting the reaction he expected. The problem with funny stories is that you have to know when to stop, or it ceases being funny anymore. âWhatâs going on?â your father asks again, concerned. He doesnât lean closer to you, but his voice has the ability to make him seem much nearer than he actually is. Heâs above me, but Iâm not here. âTalk to me, come on, whatâs wrong?â When your voice finally comes, I barely recognize it. Itâs a wisp of a sound, a strangled whisper that seems to wither as soon as it leaves you. âHow . . . how long did you know?â Your father seems taken aback by the question. For the first time I notice that thereâs a book on your lap, a slim volume. Itâs closed now but your fingers curl around the cover, as if trying to choke it, to crush it into something you can dominate and eventually contain. âKnow what?â he asks, honestly confused. âWhat are you talking about?â âYou never told me,â you say, almost accusingly, completely ignoring his question, or perhaps answering it in your own way. Your voice is shaking and from what I can see of your eyes, they seem sunken, haunted. Itâs not like you at all. It might be a trick of the light. âAll this time and you never said.â âSaid what?â he asks, showing a rare flash of irritation. âWhat is this, what are you talking about?â He shifts on the couch, sitting up straighter, more like a parent. âEnough of this, now. Enough. Tell me whatâs wrong, just say it.â âIâm going to die,â you say, maybe. Or maybe I just hear your thoughts, crumpling on themselves. That doesnât seem right, although itâs true. Itâs too blunt for you, to state it so plainly. Your fingers crack open the book, trace a page in it. âWhat was that?â your father says. âWhy didnât you ever tell me?â you demand suddenly, moving your small body in a brief blur, flinging the book at him. It falls short, bouncing on the cushions, landing next to him, upside down, the pages opening like a dead flower, laying out everything for him. You collapse then, against the couch, crying quietly now, with something broken inside of you. I canât stand the sound, I never liked it, especially from you. It comes out as a low pained whimper, like something being twisted until the point where it starts to fray and all the threads are trying to clutch at something but thereâs nothing to hold on, nothing at all left to grasp. âAll this time I never knew, I just never . ..â your words come out thick and tangled, merging together into one long syllable, a dark word thatâs taking you down, dragging you away. Your father is staring at you like youâve gone mad and after what seems like an eternity he stares down at the book. His fingers run across the words, touching them lightly, like heâs trying to absorb them, take them away from you. He must read them as well, whatever the book is about, whatever it says. I see his eyes flicker closed briefly and he sighs with an odd kind of pain. Youâre crying harder now, propping yourself up on the furniture, sniffing and sniffling. You start to cough, a wet and deep sound, and it doesnât relent after the first few, getting harder and harder, until your face is red and your body shuddering. âCome on, honey, calm down, please . . .â your father says, reaching out to touch you. But his face is ashen, he seems honestly shaken up by this. âCome on, youâre going to make yourself sick . . .â You manage to stop it, then, somehow, seemingly by holding it in by force of will. Your water rimmed eyes stare up at him, sliced with a harsh snarl of frustration. âGet sick? I already am sick . . .â you tell him, hoarsely. Your hair was longer back then and itâs catching drops of your tears, as if in a net, sticking to your face, helping you reabsorb what you canât afford to lose. âIâve been sick since the day I was born.â Heâs trying to regain composure, your father is. Part of me canât believe he never expected this to happen someday. Or maybe he did, but he knew that the day it happened he would be surprised. So maybe itâs all going according to plan. âBut you knew that, weâve told you that before, itâs, what you have, itâs something that you canât rid of but that doesnât mean-â âThatâs what you told me,â you snap back, in a tone that I donât imagine you use with your parents very often. He tolerates it this time, perhaps, because of the circumstances, perhaps because he doesnât know what else to say, When something has been set in motion, thereâs no stopping it, you let throw yourself in its path and let it run you down, or you get the hell out of the way. Your father appears to be trying to decide which tactic is best, but heâs running out of time. âAnd I never questioned it, I never . . .â your voice gives out again and for a second I think youâre going to cough. But you recover, and continue. âI was curious today, I donât know why. Iâve never been curious about it before, I didnât want to think about it, maybe. What you told me, that was good enough.â Heâs letting you talk and Iâm not sure why. He wants to see where this is going, heâs judging the path of the boulder and waiting for the last possible second to move out of the way. Because he wants to meet it head on. Because he thinks it might shift direction, if he holds out long enough. Iâm between the two of you, on my knees and Iâve got no air at all. âSo I got a book out.â Your voice has been too calm throughout this small speech, in contrast to the frenzied rhythms of before. Itâs just describing the day. How it came apart. How it all came down. âI just wanted to read, see if I could learn anything new. I like learning new things. I thought I did.â You take a deep shuddering breath that seems to take root somewhere in your chest. âI learned some new words today, at least,â you say, and youâre staring at some point beyond him, some place that isnât here. âLike prognosis and . . . ah,â you cough lightly, trying to wave the motion away, âand . . .â itâs hard to finish, your lips wonât wrap themselves around the words, the mind recoils, âlife expectancy . . .â you force the last words out, trying to eject a rotten fruit, to spit it away as far as you can. Your father swears under his breath, closes the book with a slow, detached motion. âThis is, itâs just a book,â he says quietly. âItâs not the gospel truth, you canât believe everything you-â âOf course I didnât believe it,â you respond, curled up on the couch, facing away from him, toward the blank television, perhaps watching your grey reflection, distant and distorted, the way you see the world on a rainy day, when the clouds donât reflect the light properly. Iâve stood in solid places where the microfine raindrops pass right through you, sliding in between molecules. Iâve never felt so clean, in that day. I canât go back there, but Iâm here, watching your dissolution. âYou taught me better than that. So I looked in more than one book.â Itâs just the type of thing you would say, so lightly. But thereâs no lightness in you now and the eyes that stare at your father now are accusatory, flashing with muted anger. âThey all said the same thing, Dad. Are they all wrong? Is that what youâre trying to say?â âIâm just saying, what you read doesnât always reflect-â his words are halting, like he doesnât expect to actually get a chance to finish the sentence. âHow old are you, Dad?â you ask suddenly, the question a barb with hidden thorns. Heâs hardly taken off guard by it at all. âForty-one,â he says, instantly, then seems to brace himself. Instead, it seems to catch you off balance, a gear clicking in your head that was sticking before, putting together one final piece. âThen,â you say, pulling out the words breath by breath, trying to squeeze yourself into a smaller and smaller corner of the couch, âthen by the time I reach your age Iâll have . . .â your throat seems to go dry and itâs a much tinier voice that finally finishes, âah, been, dead for ten years.â âStop this,â he says, moving so that heâs sitting up straight. âStop this now.â Itâs an order, heâs using his parent voice but heâs hesitating, insisting to someone who isnât there. In his lap, his hands are shaking. âI always thought, Iâd, that I wouldnât get worse, that this is the way that Iâd always be and Iâd . . .â you lace your hands together, your skin flushed, your face too young for these thoughts, âthat maybe some day Iâd be this little old lady, like grandma and that the, the only thing . . . Iâd never be able to run really far or climb a mountain, or, stuff like that.â You look at your father and thereâs no energy in you for anger anymore. âBut Iâm going to make it that far, am I, Iâm not-â âStop doing this to yourself!â he nearly shouts, his voice cracking. The couch shifts and I think he stands up but he doesnât move. Iâm not seeing enough, thereâs different times branded into my vision, the years are blending together and overlapping and itâs like being shown five movies on the same screen. I canât get the plot but somehow itâs morphing into an odd kind of sense, a world where things happen at their own whim but somehow the threads pull together. My name is whispered sideways. âYou know,â he says, doing his best to keep his voice level, though I can hear the echoes of his shouts, telling me how much of a jerk I must be to do this to his daughter, when in the end you were doing it to me, âyou canât, you canât go down that road, when you start thinking like that you . . . when I was in high school . . .â his voice is breathless, heâs trying to pull you back from somewhere but heâs only being guided in the dark and itâs a race to see which of you will fall off the cliff first. âWe had this guy, this joker, who thought he was cute and he went and, ah, he drank a whole bottle of cough syrup. You know, just for fun. Maybe someone dared him.â Your fatherâs eyes are flickering all over the room, nervous, heâs waiting for something to happen, for someone to come from elsewhere and change it all and end this. Maybe he senses other eyes. âAnd not long after, he . . . he stopped breathing.â He swallows, visibly, his throat bulging. âHe was eighteen, I think. If I were him, Iâd have been dead for . . . for how long now? Too long. And Iâm just saying, what Iâm trying to say . . . you start thinking about stuff like that and it . . . it drives you crazy, it eats you up because . . .â He canât finish, he knows what heâs saying is useless. Once the realization has arrived, thereâs no turning back, you canât close the door and forget what youâve seen. âThatâs different,â you say, âhe, that guy, he did it to himself . . . I, this, this is whatâs, itâs happening to me, I didnât have any choice, this is what I have to live with and . . .â you stop and press your hands to your face, a classic contortion. âYou didnât tell me,â you say again, as if it changes anything, as if itâs the most important thing in the world. âIt wouldnât have been right . . .â he tries to say. âYou never said, you could have-â âWhat?â he shouts and this time he does stand up, for real, in this reality, with a sudden ferocity that sends you scrambling back against the arm of the couch, almost stumbling over it, your small body nothing but arms and legs and motion. âWhat did you want us to say, huh? That most kids who have what you have are gone before they graduate high school, that they donât even get to go to college? Is that what you want to hear?â Youâre definitely backing away now, trying to get out of his line of sight, but he hasnât moved, heâs bearing down on you without budging. He was never a tall man but you never were a large person, itâs all just perspective, the way things appear when viewed from the end of a distant tunnel, the way raindrops echo long after theyâve splattered and the moisture evaporated. âYour mother and I, we . . . weâve tried your whole life to keep you happy and to, to make sure that you didnât have to worry about anything and . . .â his face is red and he might be sweating, this argument is too confining for him, what he really wants to say is submerged, thereâs a subtle fear lingering just under the skin, âand now you say, you tell me that none of that was any good, that you wanted to be reminded, to be told-â âIâm not a little kid anymore,â you tell him, with a ragged voice, one foot on the floor, ready to flee, to run away from whatever is rushing down on you. Somehow the boulder has changed trajectory and instead of a diminishing shadow in the distance, itâs growing larger. âYou donât have to sugarcoat it, you-â âI donât?â he asks, sarcastically. I canât look in his eyes. I donât like what I see there. âThatâs great, honey, thatâs wonderful . . . youâre an adult now, you want honesty, is that what you want . . .â heâs pressing down on you with his voice, and you nearly fall off the couch, your eyes wide now, not used to seeing your father like this, tiny explosions going off in his brain, âyou want us to tell you how it is, you want me to tell you what itâs really like . . .â he reaches down to scoop up the book, misses it entirely, keeps talking like nothing had happened, âhow I sit there, I read the newsletters from the foundations, I see the names of the kids who didnât make it, I see that theyâre younger than you and I thank God that youâre still here, that youâre as healthy as you are, I lay in my bed at night and it makes me afraid, to think of them gone and how quickly you might go too . . .â one of your arms is covering your face and youâre clearly backing away now. You might be trying to say something, to stop him, but itâs too late, youâve brought this upon yourself and once begun, it has to run its course, it had to finish the only way it can. âYou want honesty? Thatâs what you want? Like adults do? I donât have that, I only have what I feel. Is that a lie, to tell you that everything is going to be okay? I donât want it to be, but if thatâs what you want, I . . . I canât do that, all right?â Heâs pleading and not asking. âI donât know what you want me to tell you, thatâs honest. You want it straight? You want me to give it to you straight?â Maybe you nod, cowering near the couch, your eyes blinking quickly, already turning watery. I can hear your heartbeat from here, racing like a wild thing. âThe truth is, I donât know what the hell is going to happen to you and it scares the living crap out of me that I canât tell you anything else. So Iâd rather smile and pretend that everything is going to be fine rather than sit around crying all the time because I donât know what else to do.â He half sighs, half snarls. âBut if thatâs what you want me to do, from now on. Is that it? Is it?â Your face is breaking down, your hand is covering your mouth but youâre losing it, itâs all falling apart. Maybe you thought youâd gain the upper hand but you never realized what kind of minefield you were walking into. âI canât give you the truth, okay, I hope you know that . . . if you want the truth, you, you can . . .â he snatches the book up now, finally, holds it like heâs going to break it apart, snap it right in two, âread this, if thatâs good enough for you, itâs all laid out in garbage like this, you want the damn facts, theyâre all in here . . .â heâs waving it now, trying to cut the air with it, or hoping that the air will slice it in half, âif this is whatâs important to you, more than what anyone tells you, what you read in here, then . . . then go read it and believe it and maybe, dammit, maybe it will come true, if you keep believing it but, ah, but . . .â he makes a strangled sound and with a quick motion flings the book right into the couch, it bounces off the backend, flops down on the cushion and tumbles to the floor. Hands clenched at his side, he stares at you, now at the bottom of the steps, both of your hands on the bannister, your face contorted, drenched in an angular sorrow. âYou wonât hear me say it,â he finishes, breathing heavily. âThat itâs true. You wonât hear it from me. And if you donât like it, Iâm sorry but thatâs just the way it is.â The book is at his feet and he kicks at it, sending it forward a few inches. âAnd thatâs honest, thatâs what you get.â He eyes you with a piercing glare, âAre you happy now, then? Are you?â He makes the words sound like a threat, a whiplash snarl where only the tip of it reaches you. But thatâs the fastest part, the piece that does the most damage. I think youâre trying to form some kind of response, youâre trying to process everything that has just slammed into you, but even if you could talk it wouldnât be anything coherent. Instead you stand there at the bottom of the stairs, your face inches from your hands, your eyes pressed shut, lips compressed tightly together. The only sound is a tiny whimpering, as you try to increase the gravity, try to keep anything from escaping. Without letting him know, youâre breaking apart inside. Spent, your father slumps back, perhaps battered by the echoes of his own voice. Bonelessly, he flops down on the couch, staring at you with sad eyes. âStop it now,â he says, a tired order given to oblivious ears. You seem to twist, appearing at more angles than possible. But my vision may not be right, I may not be seeing things as they are. Your face is shimmering, wet, your try to wipe it off on the backs of your hands but itâs no use. Thereâs too much. He watches you, narrows his eyes, seems to deflate slightly. âDammit,â he curses, just low enough that I can hear. When he speaks again his voice has softened. âListen, donât . . . donât be like this, Iâm . . .â Just the sound causes you to cringe, a verbal slap without the sting. You start creeping toward the stairs, eyes still closed, everything still confined to that tight system. âHoney, please,â he says, trying to draw you in, but heâs making it up as he goes along, of all the things he ever expected to get into a fight over, this was never something he imagined. Years later, youâll fight over boys. One will be me. The words bad influence will be thrown around liberally. But thatâs to come. This is still in the way, you have to pass this moment first, to get to where you need to be. âDonât go upstairs, donât leave like this, when youâre, not like this . . .â you havenât moved toward him, but you havenât moved. âPlease,â he insists, without really asking for anything. He reaches out with one arm, the muscles quivering under his suit jacket, almost too tired to sustain itself. âWe have to talk about this, all right? We canât let it rest like this and never . . .â To me, you look small and lost and deprived of all direction. Again, Iâm reminded why I hate seeing you like this, in this state, in any state at all. Iâd rather be torn away, than to see you torn. You always had about yourself a certainty, a sense that you had already picked a direction and were heading in it regardless of where it led and if anybody wanted to come with you they were more than welcome to. Any of the problems you ever had, were when you deviated from that, when you let others set the pace without regard for you and what you needed. âSo come on,â your father pleads, his own face perilously near collapse. Have you moved an inch closer? I canât tell. Iâve got no depth to compare. Iâm intruding on this moment and thereâs nothing I can do about it. I want to look away but my eyelids are transparent and I canât stop seeing whatâs here. âI donât want to see you like this, honey. Donât, letâs . . . come on, we can talk about it. We donât have to, just donât walk away, itâs . . .â he sounds tired, his own arguments wearing him down. âThatâs all Iâm asking.â Youâve moved. You havenât twitched. And then youâre with him. I must have blinked, somehow become detached. Reconstructing, it makes no difference, in time, in this time. One second youâre broken, hovering at the stairwell, debating whether to flee for a higher place. Then youâre back on the couch and your father has enfolded you, his arms around you and youâre crying into his shirt, staining the whiteness, an impression of your face that might never fade. Maybe heâll never wear the shirt again, after this day. Maybe itâll still smell of your sorrow, for long after youâre gone, so that if your father went into his closet, a month after you leave us and hold the shirt up to his face, he might be able to drink you in and convince himself that you havenât gone very far, when in reality youâre terribly out of our reach. But thatâs later. I canât be here later. Thereâs other times, and I canât stabilize. Voices cry, a keening wail, yours and his, softer murmurs. Heâs saying, âSh,â and stroking your back, in that gentle parental way, saying the whole time, âItâs okay, sh,â like he might calm everything about you and bring some peace to this place. But he canât, itâs not possible. Youâre vibrating, shivering. âIâm sorry,â you keep saying, through a thickened voice. âItâs okay,â he tells you but the two of you are in different conversations, talking to each other without discovering what the other is really saying. âI was scared,â you say finally, cracking through. âI read it and it was all I could think about and . . . ah,â something clenches in you and I think youâre about to cough again, move the solid mass in your chest and bring it somewhere else. âI just, I felt like, I have this clock in me just ticking down and . . .â you clutch at your head feebly. âIâm going to die,â you say, hardly audible. A low moan escapes you, an involuntary gesture. âWe all are,â your father says, uselessly and sagely. âSomeday.â âItâs not the same,â you protest. âNobody else knows when and for me, it was like . . . someone was spelling it out, just . . .â you swallow, forehead pressed up against his chest. âI donât this,â you whisper. âI donât want it to be like this. I want to grow old.â âYou will, honey,â your father says, as much desperate hope as a promise. Something in his voice enrages you and your body spasms. âDonât lie to me, Daddy,â you demand, you threaten. âI donât want to hear it, I . . .â but whatever it is that rose in you suddenly falls and you collapse without moving again. âOh God,â you say, eventually, when speech releases you. âOh my God.â He holds you close, rubs the back of your head, as tender as he can. But your whole body is an open wound, whatâs inside is bleeding out, staining the whole room like a crime scene and every touch must be sending a thousand alarms through you. âOh God,â you say again, like it might make some kind of difference. âItâs okay,â he says quietly, kisses you lightly on the top of the head. âYou donât, you donât realize how far youâve come and . . . how far you have left to go.â You donât respond and he sighs, his chest depressing. âWhen you were a baby, you were so sick, you canât even imagine how it was, you were always in the hospital, I think they were talking about reserving a bed for you at one point,â you smile at the memory, despite yourself, âand all the doctors they told us, they always said you were, ah, you were touch and go, they could never say what your chances were. You could have died, they told us, at any time. Any of those times.â His face has become pensive and youâre listening without moving. This house is empty. It will always be empty. âAnd each time youâd come home with us. You might be back two weeks later,â he says, with a quiet laugh, âbut they always let you out. And sometimes, late at night when we were all supposed to be sleeping, Iâd hear you cough, just a little or wheeze and Iâd get up and Iâd, Iâd watch you sleep, peaceful and struggling, sometimes for every breath and just . . . you werenât giving up.â He squeezes you tighter, youâre almost lost in him. âThatâs why, what all the books in the world say, itâs just words. None of itâs true, for you. Donât ever believe it.â âIt scares me, when I think about it,â you say, softly, your voice muffled by him. âThen donât think about it,â he replies simply. âOkay? Itâs that simple. Listen to your father, for once.â You giggle a little bit at that, sadly. âAll right? Okay? Can you do that?â âBut what happens,â you ask, tenacious to the end, âWhat happens if I . . . I go, before I want to?â You can barely get it out. Your father laughs easily and honestly at that. âBefore you want to? Thatâs everybody in the world, kiddo.â His face turns serious. âBut thatâs why you make sure you have no regrets, so when you leave, you leave free. Just be happy, all right?â he says, putting his face close to your ear. âJust do that, and it wonât matter. It really wonât.â You donât answer, and he squeezes your shoulder. âCan you do that for me? Please? Can you?â âI donât know,â you say into his skin. âI really donât know.â âSure you can,â he murmurs, pressing his cheek against yours, but staring outwards, through me, past the wall, into some other place. âOf course you can.â And looking at his face, I realize that the gap between what he says and what he feels may be larger than he even knows. But that could just be me, seeing what I think I should see. And even that I canât say for sure, because before me his face ripples and fades, and Iâm pulled along again, sucked aside, with the afterimage of the two of you sitting huddled together in the empty house, saying nothing at all, carried with me, until part of me can believe that youâre still there, like that and frozen, until you can accept that whatever small comfort youâve derived is the only small comfort youâll ever need. |