Reunion

REUNION

“How is he?”

“His pressure’s been steady. He has periods of dyspnea and pitting edema to the extremities, and he had a mild case of PE about a week ago. He’s been sat-ing in the…”

John let the jargon wash over him. He knew from his own experience as a criminal attorney how easy it was, when the news was bad, to hide behind big words and legalese. Especially when you found yourself giving a damn.

“But how is he?”

The nurse closed the chart and looked up at him with soft blue eyes set against a landscape of crow’s feet and age lines. Her lips parted to form a quiet, honest smile as she rested a sympathetic hand on his.

“He’s lonely.”

John thanked her and walked down the drab corridor toward room 207. He was stalled by a wall of wheelchairs whose occupants could be defined as living only in the strictest sense of the word.

“Excuse me.”

John glanced downward into a pair of vacant eyes that stared through him. The elderly man blocking his path was seated with his knees contracted into his chest so severely it didn’t seem natural. His elbows were bent so his forearms stuck straight up with his wrists closed into fists; he looked like someone climbing a ladder. Nearby, a woman muttered rapidly, repeating the same nonsense words while vaguely bashing the side of her head with her palm.

“Come on, sugar. Let’s you sit over here a bit, ‘kay?”

The plump and somehow jovial nurse’s aid rescued John by wheeling a couple of patients to the other side of the hall, creating a path which John took without hesitation.

Room 207's door was partially closed and John rapped it lightly. He was not eager to go inside. In fact, he looked over at the nearby emergency exit and wondered just how bad it would look if he tore through it, leaving Arbor Terrace Loving Care a distant, ugly memory.


*** *** *** *** ****


“You’re not doing it right.”

The tree was big; even bigger than last year. Johnny had gone with Mikey and Dad to pick it out. He was proud of it, though he and Mikey had no say in the selection process. It towered, half-naked, in the sparse living room, a yuletide monolith looming over the boys. Dad let no one else handle it, of course, save to decorate. And that was only under the tightest of supervision. Johnny had approached the tree, bearing ornament in trembling hand, trying hard to pick out the proper placement.

“Are you a moron? Balls and bells on the bottom, homemade shit goes middle, and your mom’s Hallmark crap up high. It don’t take a genius to figure this out. Give me that. Go sit over there.”

Johnny took his spot on the ratty beanbag chair in the corner and watched Dad lift up Mikey so Mikey could place a Dumbo ornament on a branch near the top. The thick peppery smell of the gingerbread cookies Mom had baked drifted through the room, escorted by sounds of the Neville Brothers belting out Christmas tunes. Johnny liked it when the whole family was together. Mom sat and watched from the counter which separated the living room and the kitchen. Even Jeepers was running around, scruffy white tail wagging as he sniffed around and clamored for attention. Johnny was relieved the dog hadn’t tried to get into the carefully laid out decorations this time. He was probably afraid to go anywhere near them after what happened last year.

“You’re worse than your brother.”

Mikey protested his banishment briefly, but joined Johnny in exile. Mikey plopped down next to Johnny and wriggled and scooted, pushing Johnny over, until Mikey’s butt had controlling interest in the beanbag chair. Johnny clung to his tiny piece of vinyl, knowing if he stood up, he would lose his spot completely.

“Mom!”

“Shut up, Johnny.”

“You shut up, Fartface.”

“Boys.”

“I didn’t say nothing, Ass Monkey.”

“Mom, Mikey called me an ass monkey!”

“Did not!”

“Boys! Please.”

The shoving began. The boys ignored their mother’s pleas, knowing deep down trouble was brewing but unable to stop. Johnny had the leverage and pushed Mikey off the chair, but Mikey was two years older and quickly had Johnny pinned. Mikey pressed his hand down on Johnny’s temple, forcing his head into a bald spot in the burgundy carpet while Mikey taunted and laughed. Johnny thrashed and kicked, but could not break free. He shrieked with rage while Jeepers bounced around his head, yapping nervously in his ear. The Neville Brothers sang about that good king, Wenceslas.

Johnny lurched forward, startled, as he was suddenly no longer bearing Mikey’s weight. He saw Mikey’s eyes widen as Dad lifted him under his shoulders and tossed him aside. He must have traveled a good five feet before hitting the floor in a heap. Mom sprang to her feet. Dad cracked Mikey across the face as he sat up, then turned toward Johnny.

“You shut your lip, or so help me...!”

He held up his open palm, as if Johnny needed clarification. Johnny choked back tears as he watched Mom crouch down by Mikey and comfort him. And suddenly she stood up and faced Dad.
“Roger, stop it! Just stop it!”

Dad turned his attention toward Mom, and for just a moment, it was as if the whole world had stopped. Mikey butt-crawled toward the couch; Jeepers retreated to the kitchen. Even the Nevilles seemed to waver.

“What did you say?”

Mom took a few steps back, placing a trembling hand over her mouth.

“Why don’t you go outside and calm down a little. We’ll take a break from the tree and have cookies.”

“Don’t you tell me to calm down!”

Dad grabbed Mom by the throat and pinned her against the wall. He raised his free hand and brought it down hard. Johnny hated this part. He wanted to leave but was afraid to get up. He grabbed his G. I. Joe and tried to block out the sounds. Mikey just stared from behind the couch as he always did.


*** *** *** *** ***


“John. John Freeman.”

The woman in the Michigan State sweatshirt with rolled-up sleeves introduced herself as Leneesha Harris. She sat next to an antique hospital bed occupied by a withered, frail old man. There was a hole in the center of his neck from which sprang a long plastic tube connected to a wall-mounted machine that, to John, resembled the old Betamax video players. Along with a deep, steady hum, the machine produced a disturbingly rhythmic mechanical gasp every couple of seconds. The man’s eyes were open and directed toward John, but John wasn’t convinced there was really anything behind them.

Adorning the salmon painted cinder-block walls of this man’s corner of the room was a tapestry of photographs, greeting cards, children’s refrigerator artwork. Furniture that was clearly his own flanked the bed; knick-knacks and personal items lined the shelves. It was a nearly successful attempt to turn this sterile box into something of a home.

At the far end of this almost cozy nook was a partially drawn curtain separating the room in two. John saw another bed behind the curtain, and in that bed, a pair of swollen feet. They belonged to the man John had come to see.

“He’s asleep now, Roger is.”

She put on a pair of latex gloves and wiped around the breathing tube with a towel. As she bent over, she brushed hair off her face with her forearm. Most of her dark brown hair was tied up in a loose ponytail, but her face was framed with wispy, gray strands that betrayed her youthful appearance. John felt uncomfortable intruding on their private moment, but he could no longer retreat. Nor was he ready to go forward.

“He said he had two sons; I was beginning to think he made that up.”

Was that a dig? Probably. But there was something so good-natured in her voice that he had to let it go.

“It’s complicated.”

She tidied up the night stand on her side of the bed, gathering up a landscape of crumpled Kleenex and plastic wrappers.

“Sorry, none of my business. Can you hand me the trash can? It’s inside the door.”

“Of course.”

He stepped toward the room’s tiny bathroom.

“John.”

He turned and she tossed him a pair of latex gloves. He slid them on and held out the can for her while she tossed away the scraps. She pulled off her gloves, and John did the same. She spoke to the man with the vacant eyes.

“That better, Daddy? We’ve got see about getting this a better fit, or you’ll be leaking out everywhere.”

She adjusted blankets that didn’t seem to need adjusting, like a mother tucking in a child who’s already asleep.

“Do you come here a lot?”

“Every day. Since my youngest left for school, it’s been just me and Dad.”

She punctuated that with a kiss on her dad’s forehead. She didn’t look old enough to have a youngest in college.

“You have kids, John?”

“A girl. She just started...” What was it? “...second grade. She lives with her mother; I don’t get to see her all that much.”

She nodded sympathetically and began tossing linen into a laundry basket. The awkward silence had arrived; John had stalled long enough, anyway. He thanked her for letting him intrude on their time.

“Not at all. It was nice meeting you. Good luck. I’ll be back in a few minutes, Daddy.”

She grabbed the laundry basket and left the room. John could not resist watching her as she walked away. He turned, took a deep breath, and stepped around the curtain.


*** *** *** *** ***


“Where’s your brother?”

Mom sat at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette. She looked haggard, more so than usual. And she had been crying, which was nothing new.

“How should I know?”

Mike had just turned sixteen, and although he didn’t technically have his license yet, he had been taking the car out after school on an almost nightly basis. He never took John with him.

“I have something to tell you, but we should wait for Mikey.”

“Whatever.”

He turned toward his room.

“Wait. Sit down, Johnny. Please.”

John stood and remained standing.

“What do you want?”

Mom snuffed her smoke into the ashtray.

“I love you boys; you know that?”

John grunted a response and let his eyes wander around. In the living room, the TV was on Judge Wapner. The Judge was yelling at an angry-looking white girl with frizzy blonde hair.

“Johnny, look at me. Johnny!”

Alright.

“Your father’s not coming home.”

John didn’t quite register the comment. It was now Mom’s eyes that took the grand kitchen tour. She popped open the clasp on her brown leather cigarette case and rested a smoke on her bottom lip as she struggled with the lighter. The afternoon twilight of late November snuck in through a tear in the window shade. The light danced off her eyes, eyes so deeply brown you could barely tell where the pupils began. The white around the irises were tarnished with jagged lines that looked like red lightning flashes frozen in time. Those eyes locked with John’s, and for a moment, he nearly fell into them. He felt a shiver.

“Yes he is.”

He had nothing to back this up, but why wouldn’t Dad come home? A frightening thought occurred to him.

“Is he dead?”

Mom stood and reached out to John, but he pulled away.

“No, Johnny, he just left, and he’s not coming back.”

“Why wouldn’t he come back?”

Dad drove a truck and would sometimes be gone days at a time. But he always came back.

“I don’t know, Sweetie. I know I told you boys he went on a long job, but that’s not true. He left to get cigarettes and just never came back.”

“You’re lying! He’s coming back.”

“Johnny…”

“He’s coming back!”

John’s head was hurting; he couldn’t think straight. His hands shook as he placed them against his temples. A storm was brewing deep within him.

“It’s been a week, John!”

“SHUT UP!”

His arms sprang forward, driving open palms into his mother’s chest. She fell backward, hitting the hard tile floor with a thud. He stood above her, arm raised and chest heaving. Seeing him approach, she curled up, arms over her face, so quickly it had to be instinct.

John stood motionless. His head was throbbing, but his thoughts were clear. She was afraid of him, and that gave him control over her in a way he never could have at school, or with girls, or with Mike. He realized he had power over this woman; it was intoxicating. So why did he feel so miserable?

Mom had lowered her arms and was looking up at him. Her tight, bottle-blonde curls shot out like broken mattress springs, and drying tears left dark lines on her face like canals on a brown alien landscape. His arm fell limply to his side as he fought a losing battle against tears. He didn’t want power over her, didn’t want to make her cry. He didn’t want Mom to be afraid of him. But he never told her this, never reassured her. Instead:

“I hate you.”

He left the house, leaving the woman he loved more than anyone else a broken mess on the hard kitchen floor.


*** *** *** *** ***


John said nothing as he stared from the foot of the bed at the bloated figure lying amidst a tangle of dirty linen. His father was motionless save for the uneasy rise and fall of his chest. The upper half of the bed was raised to a roughly forty-five degree angle, and pillows were propped lazily behind his back so he was almost sitting up. The rails on the bed’s sides were raised and covered with foam padding to prevent injury. John wondered if the old man fell down a lot. The room was filled with the fractured rattle of an oxygen machine; thin, clear tubing ran from the machine, wrapped around his ears, and rested under his nose.

His father’s face was as pink as his naturally dark complexion would allow, and it twisted with each breath in a look which suggested extreme effort. The sparse remains of his thick, midnight black hair were more no than harmless grey patches resting above his ears. He was fat, but somehow frail at the same time. His hands were swollen and his feet looked like tree trunks. His eyes opened and threw John a glassy stare. With effort he pointed a chubby finger at the bed table.

“Water...”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The years after his mother’s death he spent hunting this man, the exhaustive internet searches, the countless private detectives, the frustrating dead ends had all led here. He had found his father, a near-corpse sleeping in his own piss in a soulless, state-run hell-hole. John had imagined scenarios for this moment, of course: an angry confrontation, maybe even a fist-fight, and his father finally realizing the lives he screwed up. He’d beg for forgiveness, but John would have none to offer. He’d simply walk away, having taken down the man who destroyed his mother and Mikey, and nearly John himself.

“I almost became you.”

The words were so soft they barely reached the stale air. He didn’t know what else to say, and there was nothing more he could do. There was no catharsis; there would be no closure. John knew now that the ending he was searching for did not exist. Mom was dead, Mike was in prison, and his father was dying of old age. Life wasn’t a hero’s journey or a morality play. There was no grand climax. There was no epic battle where the good guys win and the bad guys get theirs. Life was just living, getting through each day how you could. He could blame his father for all that had happened, but he couldn’t change a thing.

John stood in the barren, claustrophobic space feeling empty inside. His quest, such as it was, was over, and nothing had changed. In the quiet, behind the hum of machines and whispers of breathing, John thought he could almost hear his mother’s voice. It was for her he was here, and if he could not make things right, he would at least honor her memory.

John sat down in a chair next to the bed. He took the plastic pitcher and poured water into the empty cup. He leaned over the rail and held the cup while his father sipped.