TheLetter

I have waited for this day to come for what seems like my entire life, I was finally getting the hell out of this place. A couple of buddies and I were moving into our own apartment; not the Taj Mahal, by any means, but anything was better than this God forsaken shit-hole.

As I packed the last duffel bag, my father walked in. Ha! Father, that's a good one. I have called this man by his first name for as long as I could remember. That is, if I wasn't referring to him as "Son-of-a-Bitch."

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Dave said, pulling aside his yellow-stained undershirt to scratch his fat stomach.

"Anywhere, but here." I replied, grabbing a pack of smokes I had hidden underneath my mattress.  "Have you seen my car keys?" I asked.

"You're just like your mother," he replied. "She couldn't organize a God damned thing!"

Yes, of course. I was just like my mother, irresponsible and selfish. As if I needed another reminder. I was told my entire life what a lousy Mother I had and of course, I was going to end up just like her. As if that were remotely possible, I do not know my mother. I guess I should say I don't remember her, as she was never around. Dave told me she killed herself when I was a young boy.

Around the age of ten, I became quite proficient at shutting out the verbal abuse. Whenever Dave was in-between jobs, I would spend most of my time at a friend's house. I was always amazed when Joe's mother would call us down to dinner. She would ask us to wash our hands and we would always say a silent prayer before eating. Instead of reciting a silent prayer, I would take the opportunity to look around the room. Barely raising my eyes so I wouldn't get caught, I noted the pictures surrounding us, family vacations, school photos.  I always skipped school the day photos were taken, as I knew we did not have the money to afford them. Besides, I could never stretch out the wrinkles from the shirts I pulled out from underneath my bed.

Taking one last look around my room, I realize that I have forgotten my most prized possession, my tattered and torn tribute to Pamela Anderson. 'Hello, Beautiful!' I neatly roll up the poster, staring at the hole in the wall that was now visible. I remember that confrontation, I just don't recall which one of us left the mark.

Throwing the bags over my shoulder, I bid the old room a not so fond farewell.  The sound of the door slamming gives me a feeling of defiance that I can't explain. I quickly walk down the hallway, making one last scuff mark as I go. I make sure not to grab hold of the banister on the stairway, for it's not worth its weight in the lumber it took to build it. It's more of a hazard than anything, barely hanging on by a thread. I descend the stairs my usual two at a time, for now I can see the front door.

Dave set down the beer can, adding to the collection on the crate next to the sofa.

"You're starting a little late this morning aren't you?" I said, fully intending to get slapped with the usual smart-ass reply. Nothing, silence. I stood with my hand on the doorknob for what seemed an eternity. Still, silence. Except for the sound of my own beating heart.

"Good-bye, Dave." I swung open the door and began to step outside.

"Don't forget this," Dave said, throwing a wooden box at my feet. The box shattered, spilling its contents to the ground. The strewn pictures piqued my curiosity, so I set down my bags to collect everything. Arms full, I attempt to get comfortable on the front steps.

The pictures seem old and look as if they have been sitting around for decades. Some were torn in half, so I dug through the pile in hopes of finding their match. 'Who are these people?' There were never any photos in our house of relatives, so I had nothing to compare them to. The family in the pictures appeared so happy. Always smiling, always hugging. 'Poor kid,' I thought, tossing aside the picture of a little boy sporting a stupid sailor suit.  I began to notice that the only pictures that had been torn, were the pictures of a woman, obviously the little boy's mother. The woman was beautiful; her long blonde hair always combed to perfection.

I found a picture of the little boy sitting on top of a pony. Turning it over, I read my own name: "Michael's first pony ride." The hair on the back of my neck stood up. My hands shaking now, I picked up one of the pictures of the woman. I took a deep breath and turned it over. I found the name "Theresa" had been written. That was my mother's name.  In addition to pictures, I found several sheets of paper. The pages appeared to have been crumpled up and re-folded several times. I placed the pages in numeric order and began to read:


                                                                                (1)

November 3, 1973

My Dearest Michael,
Oh how I love you my sweet boy, you are the pride and joy of my life. If your father has followed my instructions, you will be an eighteen-year-old man when you finally read this. I want to take this opportunity to tell you how very much you mean to me.

Daddy and I never wanted children, you know and, at that time, I thought I was too old to have a baby. All of a sudden, one day, I was pregnant. The joy that I felt took me by surprise! Your father didn't have too much to say about it, that is, until you were born. The delivery was hard, but when Daddy walked into the room and saw the little blue cap, he had tears in his eyes. I suspected all along that he wanted a boy. After that, the two of you were inseparable. 

Daddy even started taking time-off from the carpentry business just to be with you. Daddy had never taken time-off before, he was always so adamant that we save our money; and save our money we did!  I'll never forget when Daddy announced we were going on a vacation. Vacation? We didn't even take a honeymoon! Nonetheless, off we went! We sang in the car the entire two-day drive. People must have thought that we were crazy! They would slow down and shake their heads at us. We would all smile back and wave.

You absolutely loved Disney World. The only downside of the trip, was your fear of Mickey Mouse! My how you would scream . . . I felt sorry for Mickey, that is, until I noticed all the other two-year-old children had the very same reaction!

Disney World?  I thumbed through the pictures. Sure enough, there we were. The three of us standing in front of a giant castle, my father's arm around my mother and me on top of his shoulders. I would not have recognized my father, he had a full head of hair and was at least forty pounds thinner . . .

I continued to read:
I'm getting a little tired now, Pumpkin. I will write more later.
                                                                                 
                                                                           
                                                                                    (2)


November 5, 1973
What a big boy you are becoming! Your fourth birthday is less than a week away and all your little friends are coming over to the house. Daddy is dressing up in a clown suit that he dug out of the attic, I hope someone takes pictures.
I feel it is now time for me to get to the point of this letter.

I 'm so sorry that I let you both down, Michael. The cancer has left me feeling as if I were an eighty-year-old woman and I feel that the end is drawing near.

'Cancer?'  My hand and the page fell to my lap. I stared blankly into the air for a few minutes, then I continued:

Your father had you brainwashed at an early age: "Mommy, stop smoking!" you would shout. I would shake my head, and with a half- smile, give Daddy the "evil eye". He would throw his hands up in the air and walk away.

I began smoking at the age of fourteen. Back then, it was considered "cool". When I first met your father, I tried to hide my habit. He had always made it perfectly clear that he despised smoking. Your father always felt compelled to comment on the "bum" with the cigarette hanging out of their mouth.  I would take long walks, or go to the store for no apparent reason. One day, I forgot the gum and there I was, caught!

I did however, quit as soon as I found out I was pregnant. Your father was thrilled!
I gained sixty pounds while carrying you and couldn't wait to deliver so I could start smoking again; I would quit just as soon as the weight came off.

What a lie I told myself!, picking up the habit again was a terrible mistake. A mistake that has now cost me my life.
The ironic thing is, your father has never said, "I told you so." Although, I know he must be thinking it.  He is such a wonderful man, Michael. I am so afraid for him, as he refuses to leave my side. I know that the business must be suffering and when I mention it, he shrugs it off. He scoops you up and carries you away.  He doesn't know it, but I watch the two of you. He tirelessly swings you up into the air, he too, behaving like a four-year-old. Both of you, laughing and giggling. So much love . . . This is the best part of my day.

I feel tired now, Sweety. I will write again tomorrow.


                                                                                (3)


November 9, 1973

I am so sorry Michael, for I have not had the strength the last couple of days. I hate myself for missing out on this time, for I have so little time left . . . So little opportunity to make you understand how very much I love you.

I feel completely responsible; I know I have done this to myself and to our family. My hope, is that someday, you and your father will find it in your hearts to forgive me . . .

I need to rest now; I will write again later.


* * *

You are playing now, next to my bed. You are playing with the cars and trucks Mommy and Daddy gave to you on your third birthday. Softly humming, making "car" noises; the sounds only a little boy could do so well.I feel so grateful that you do not understand this ugly thing they call death. You keep playing now, my sweet angel, Mommy is going to try to sleep. It is getting harder you see, I can barely find the strength to continue right now; for tomorrow is your birthday, and I want to make certain I have the strength to join the party. I can't wait to watch you blow out all of your candles . . .

Nothing else was written.

I sat there for a moment, feeling as if I couldn't move. I desperately tried to wipe my tears from the pages. The letter. My letter.

Once again, I collected the pictures, turning them right side up and making them straight. I folded the letter and placed it neatly in my back pocket. I turned the doorknob and slowly walked back into the house. My father was sitting over the wooden box, holding his head in his hands. He looked up at me, wiping the tears from his red cheeks.
"She died that day you know, the day before your birthday."

I swallowed hard and sat down beside him.

"She died in her sleep," he said. "There was no more pain."

Clearing my throat, I asked, "Why wasn't she in the hospital? Wasn't there anything a doctor could have done to help her?"

"No, there wasn't anything anyone could do. She did not go to the hospital because she had accepted that. She used to call it her sentence, the sentence for her "crime". Besides, she couldn't bear the thought of being away from you."

Silence followed. Finally Dave turned over the bottom piece of the shattered box.

"Other than you, Michael, this was her most prized possession. I made this jewelry box for her when she was pregnant."

I read the inscription:

For my beloved wife..
Love, Dave

Dave placed the box down on the table, attempting to piece it together again, fumbling in the process.

"I didn't know you were a carpenter."  I said.

"There are a lot of things about me you don't know." Dave spoke.  Silence followed; a long uncomfortable silence.

Sitting there on the couch together, I realized that this was the closest I had physically been to Dave in years. I quickly rose to my feet, even startling myself. As I walked toward the door, I wondered what, if anything I should say. What could I say?

I once again picked up my bags and stared around the room, stalling, perhaps. Finally, I broke the silence:

"Maybe, I could help you fix that health hazard you call stairs."  Still, nothing.

"Well, I'll come around next week to see how you're doing."

"That would be fine," Dave said. "Just fine."

As I close the door behind me, I do not feel the confidence I felt earlier; I feel a little guilty now. I feel sorry for Dave and I feel sorry for myself. I feel bad that so much time has been wasted; so much time . . .  I have to face the fact that the time has long since disappeared now and there is no way for us to get it back.

Although I may never fully understand the affect my mother's death had on Dave, I have come to the realization that we must move forward. We owe each other at least that much.

Mostly, we owe it to Mom.