by Paul Hina
planted the car on the street and saw that house for the first time in six years, he immediately began reckoning with the turmoil of its thereness.
It's probably in his nature to dwell on the bad over the good in his memories. His family always struggled with depression, and it's always been difficult for him to see the past in the brighter, lighter hues that he hears from others when they reminisce. But it's remarkable how many of those pictures and feelings fill him with boredom and a deep, dull quiet. Most of what he sees when he reflects on his childhood is not much more than a series of small sadnesses. And the only hope he can remember for his younger self was for getting out and getting away from the place.
The neighborhood around the house is a happier place to remember. That's where he was free from his mom's darkness, free from her bitter resentments and disappointments, clear of her random emotional outbursts.
Though their old house has barely changed, the neighborhood around it has shifted in landscape and color over time. Maggie and her husband Scott must've put a new coat of paint on the old place, but the new color is much the same as the old color.
After their mom died, Simon was sure Maggie and Scott wouldn't choose to remain in the house. They had moved in to help their mom through the divorce, which seemed necessary at the time. But to remain after her death, to live in the house with not only their childhood baggage, but with the additional baggage of their mother's death, seemed incomprehensible. Sure, it was cheap, but some costs are worth the price of escape.
Simon can see Maggie staring out at him from the living room window. The look on her face—an accusing look—is so much the face of their mother that Simon has to close his eyes and mentally shake off the shiver that runs over him. When he opens his eyes again and looks over at her, she shrugs her shoulders at him as if to say, 'What the hell are you doing out there?'
He ignores her, turns away from the house and mentally prepares himself for entering the place. He's been trying to prepare himself for this the whole flight over, but he realized as he got closer to their neighborhood that preparations were only a curtain of comfort that dropped once reality set its sights on him. He knows he'll just have to hold his breath and get through it. It won't be a stretch. He's certainly used to holding his breath in that house.
He gets out of the car, goes to the trunk, opens it, looks at his bag, but decides it's best to leave it there for now. He doesn't want to do anything to inhibit a quick escape. He shuts the trunk and walks across the street, walks over the same lumpy, poorly maintained sidewalks of his youth, and climbs the steps of the porch.
An old dread rises in his throat as he stands in front of the door, wondering if he should knock. It feels strange to knock on the door of a house that is indelibly marked in his mind as his house. But it isn't his anymore. So, he raises his hand to knock, but the door opens before he gets the chance.
"Christ, Simon, were you about to knock?" Maggie asks.
"That's the protocol."
"At a stranger's house, sure, but not here," she says.
"I'll remember that."
"Are you waiting for me to invite you in now?"
"I guess so," he says, but he knows that his hesitation is more about what will face him once he crosses the threshold.
"Just get in here," she says, and it's hard to tell from the tone of her voice, but she already sounds frustrated with him. "You couldn't call to tell me you were coming?"
"I texted you from the airport."
"Right, At the airport. See you soon. What's that mean? Which airport? Your airport? My airport? And how soon? An hour? Later this evening?" she asks, and she's looking at him with a look that he can't help but remember as the same look his mother would give him when she was peppering him with questions.
"I'm not thinking so clearly, I guess," he says, looking at the staircase in front of him. He's surprised at the size of it. It seems a mile long in his memory, but it's only a dozen or so steps—much smaller and less imposing than he remembers.
"I'm glad to see you," Maggie says with a smile. And there's a change in her face with that smile. Now, she looks like the Maggie he remembers from when they were kids—the Maggie that's very little like their mom. But it's a Maggie he hasn't known as an adult. The adult Maggie he remembers didn't do a whole lot of smiling.
She embraces him—an honest embrace. It's not contrived or self-conscious in any way, but it takes him completely by surprise, disarms him.
"It's been too long. I've missed you," she says.
"I've missed you, too," he says, and he means it. He can hardly believe the words came out of his mouth. He didn't think he'd missed her. But seeing that smile, feeling her body against his and her voice's vibration bounce around his chest, he realizes how much he's missed her familiarity.
"You made it," Scott calls from the living room's entry to the kitchen. He's drying a plate and looks as happy as can be.
"I would've made different plans for dinner if I'd known you would be here so soon," she says, and moves into the living room toward Scott. "There might be some leftovers if you're hungry."
Simon follows her to the living room but stops in his tracks when it hits him—the smell. It's the same. And with that smell comes the dread again. He can feel all that emotional fear fall over him once more, and he fears he might break down.
But then Scott starts whistling, "The Great Pretender," an old song by The Platters, and the dread is gone as quickly as it arrived.
"Come in here," Maggie calls from the kitchen.
In the kitchen, the table and chairs are the same. Even the decor is mostly the same, only slightly changed from what he remembers.
"Did you bring Rachael?"
"No, I left in a rush, and she was held up at work," he says, preferring a white lie over the complexity of the truth.
"That's too bad. I was looking forward to meeting her," Maggie says, leaning over the sink, scrubbing a pan.
"Another time, I guess," he says, wanting to change the subject. "So, tell me what's happening with Dad?"
Maggie places the pan she was washing back into the dishwater, turns around and grabs a hand towel from the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She wipes her hands and pulls out a chair from the table. She sits down and motions for Simon to do the same. He grabs the chair on the opposite side of the table.
"He has pancreatic cancer. And, as you've probably guessed, it's pretty advanced at this point."
"How long has he known?"
"He was diagnosed last July. So, what? Almost a year ago, I guess."
"And I'm just finding out about this now?
"I know. What can I say?"
"Why so long?"
"Susannah says he didn't want us to know."
"That's crazy."
"I don't know. We haven't exactly been a part of his life since Mom died."
"Right, but this is different."
"I think he was afraid we wouldn't care. His thinking was that if we found out and still wouldn't see him, he would be crushed. But if we didn't know, then he wouldn't have to expose himself to the possibility of our rejection."
"So, he was just burying his head in the sand?"
"You say that as if it surprises you."
"Right. I don't know why things would be any different," he says, looking down at his hands on the table. "How'd you find out?"
"Susannah called me. She said she had to let us know, and if we chose not to see him, he would never have to know."
"And he didn't know she called?"
"No."
"Well, if she knew she was going to do that eventually, why not do it earlier?"
"She was respecting his wishes, I guess. Besides, it's easy to blame her, but if it wasn't for her, we probably still wouldn't know."
"I suppose so," he says. "And you said he has days. What's that mean?"
"It's bad. It's touch and go now as it is. He's barely there. He has brief moments of lucidity in the ever-decreasing plateaus between pain
meds, and even then, it's not long or particularly productive. He's in a good deal of pain."
"I wish I'd known."
"I've been trying to call. You should pick up your phone every now and again."
"She was one day away from flying out to get you," Scott says from the kitchen doorway.
"Really?"
"I knew you'd want to know."
"I'm sorry. I don't know what's going on with me," he says, and there's an awkward silence, as if she were waiting for him to elaborate. "When can I see him?"
"We can go now if you want."
"They're expecting us?"
"I called Susannah as soon as I got your text. She said to come anytime."
"God, Susannah. How is it being around her?"
"Strange but cordial. She's fine. I've spent way too much time blaming her for a situation where she was mostly an innocent bystander," Maggie says, standing up. "You want to drive?"
"No, you can drive, if you don't mind. You know the way."
"What am I walking into here?" Simon asks as Maggie drives down a country road.
"What do you mean?"
"Is there anything I should be preparing myself for?"
"The most important thing to remember is that he's not going to be the man you remember. He's very sick, and even though I know that should go without saying, it's impossible to prepare yourself for how sick he looks."
"That doesn't sound good."
"What'd you expect? He's dying."
"I guess I'm still wrapping my head around that."
"Also, except for the hospital bed, his room is completely empty. It's a little strange at first, but that's what he wants. He has the bed pushed right up against the window, giving him a prime spot
