Ultimatum

by K. M. Walton

  “Is it the same lady we met at the hospital?” Vance asks.

  “Most likely.”

  They turn and look at the bed. I snap my eyes closed.

  Vance exhales. “Where will my dad go from here?”

  “The funeral home. You give me the word, and I’ll start everything in motion.”

  “I’m going to get Oscar up. He can’t be passed out when they take our dad away.” I’m being shaken. “Hey, they’re coming for Dad soon.”

  Vance has just considered my feelings. Another first. Tears well in my eyes and spill onto my face. I’m not worried about these waterworks. Vance will assume they’re for Dad.

  I sit up and nod.

  Peggy bends down. “How you doing, Oscar?” When I go to stand, she holds up her hands. “Whoa, whoa. Not so fast, hon. We don’t want you passing out again. Just sit there for a few minutes. Let’s do this in stages. All right?”

  She hands me a box of tissues, and even though I feel fine, I comply with her request.

  “How much time do we have left with him?” I ask.

  Peggy repeats her earlier statement that it’s up to us when she sets things in motion. My brother and I look at Dad. Neither of us wants to be the catalyst for whatever “things” come next. She clears her throat. “How about I leave you guys alone? Just come get me when you’re ready.” She closes the door on her way out.

  I notice that someone has lowered Dad’s bed because his upper body is no longer slightly elevated. He’s lying flat now, which is good because his head and neck look comfortable.

  “What are we going to do without him, Oscar?” Vance’s voice cracks and he looks away.

  This is certainly the million-dollar question as of late. “I don’t know.”

  Vance stares out the window, and I can’t take my eyes off Dad. After a while, we switch places and more time passes. Eventually we’re both sitting and looking at our father, crying openly, passing the tissue box back and forth over his body.

  Vance blows his nose. “You know what I can’t stop thinking about? The three of us going to Jamaica. I really thought being there would turn him around. Like, maybe all of us being together like that, relaxing, having fun, would’ve made him have an aha moment. A moment where he could’ve seen things clearly. See that he wanted to get back on track. I was so ready for him to start being Dad again.”

  My heart aches hearing my brother open up like this. I’ve longed for it my entire life, yet it’s so foreign to me. I don’t want to respond incorrectly and shut him down, so I nod. Vance returns the gesture. A whirlwind explodes in my gut. We just had an emotional exchange, and it wasn’t based on anger.

  And I know exactly what he meant when he said he was ready for Dad to start being Dad again. Even though we never discussed it, Vance and I watched him unravel after we lost Mom—the drinking, the vomiting, the hangovers, the anger, the rage, the excuses. In many ways my brother and I became his parent. Teenagers aren’t supposed to clean up their father’s vomit or make sure the cabinet always had ibuprofen. They just aren’t.

  A new surge of sadness wells. Dad will never get the chance to heal. He died broken.

  After a while Vance says, “I don’t want to get Peggy yet, do you?”

  Truthfully, I don’t, but then I think that we’re avoiding the inevitable. “How long has it been since he passed?”

  “Why? Do you think we should get her?” Vance pulls out his phone. “It’s been, like, an hour and a half.”

  “No, I don’t, but I wish it wasn’t a decision we had to make.”

  We sit and cry and pass the tissues over and over until the box is empty, and it is the single most brotherly experience I’ve had to date with him.

  Vance puts the box on the nightstand. “Let’s go get Peggy.”

  Vance

  Four months ago

  “Whoooo! This’ll burn so good,” Dad exclaimed. He held up his official eggnog mug for a toast. I lifted mine. Dad and I looked at Oscar, who hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “It’s tradition, dude,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes and lifted his.

  “To your mom!” Dad exclaimed. We clinked mugs. He brought the mug to his lips and chugged his nog. “Ha! That’s how you start Christmas morning.”

  I took a big sip, swallowed, and exhaled loudly. “Ahhh. Wow. Strong.”

  Dad clasped my shoulder. “There’s no other way to make it. Anything less wouldn’t be worth it.”

  Oscar put his untouched mug in the sink and ran the water. What a baby.

  “That’s lame. The toast was to Mom.”

  He squinted. “I don’t need to drink alcohol to honor my mother.”

  “You’re so uptight. It’s not about the alcohol. It’s about Mom.”

  Dad poured himself another mugful. “Let it go. There’s more for us.” He raised his arm and then took a huge sip.

  I turned my back on Oscar and high-fived Dad.

  Oscar moped around all day, disappearing for long stretches of time. Dad had to call him down for Christmas dinner, and by that time, Dad was feeling no pain. The eggnog was long gone, and he was well into a bottle of wine.

  Oscar asked if he could turn down the reggae as soon as he entered the kitchen. Dad didn’t hear him. He was in his own world, dancing all around. I was already at the table grubbing on turkey, so I just watched.

  The kitchen went quiet, and Dad froze over by the sink. “What’d you do that for?” he shouted.

  “I asked if I could turn it down, Dad,” Oscar said. He swallowed and blinked.

  “Tha music mmmakes mmmeee happeee,” Dad slurred. “Turn it onnnn.”

  “Maybe we should get you to bed,” Oscar said. He locked eyes with me and lifted his brows, pleading.

  “Relax. Let Dad eat. He needs to get some food into him,” I said. I went back to my plate and shoved a huge forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth.

  Without a word, Oscar took his seat and helped himself to dinner.

  Dad stumbled to the table and plopped into his chair. “This boy knows what I need.” He squeezed my shoulder.

  Oscar’s cheeks flushed, and he dropped his eyes. I thought that would make my brother storm out, but he stayed.

  He didn’t make sense to me.

  Why couldn’t he ever let loose, laugh, have fun? I stared at him across the table. He never let me in. He was like a vault locked inside another vault, buried underneath tons of concrete.

  It was kind of a bummer.

  Oscar

  Peggy asks us to gather up anything that belongs to us or Dad. Vance and I put everything in our backpacks. I squash the urge to look at my last drawing of Dad and shove my sketchbook in.

  “Come sit over here, boys.” Peggy motions us to the sitting room. I take one end of the sofa, Vance the other. Peggy sits in the chair. “I found out that it will be the same social worker you met at the hospital. Ms. Becker. She’s on her way. Don’t quote me on this, but I think she’s the best at what she does. I’ve seen a lot of social workers in this place, and she stands out. You will be in excellent hands.”

  All I can muster is a nod. Grief has rendered me a blob.

  “When will someone come for our dad?” Vance whispers.

  “The funeral home is on their way as well. We always suggest that family leave the room before their loved one is moved. Ms. Becker will meet you in the Common Room.” Peggy stands. “You have your belongings?”

  We mumble our yeses.

  “I’ll walk you both down,” Peggy says.

  Vance stands and I do the same. Peggy is already in the hall, waiting. My brother and I lock eyes. We know this is the end of seeing our father in a place where he was alive. Where he was breathing. Where he sighed, had a heartbeat.

  I find my voice and tell Peggy we’ll be out in a minute, and I close the doo
r.

  We mope and take up our usual positions around his bed. I rest my hand on Dad’s forearm. The chill to his skin makes fresh tears erupt.

  “Is he cold?” Vance asks.

  I wipe tears with my free hand and nod.

  Vance copies me and lays his hand on Dad’s other arm. “Say hi to Mom. I’m going to miss you every day.”

  I choke into my elbow a few times and then sniffle. “I h-hope you’re at peace, Dad.” How will we walk out of this room? Leave our father behind? I don’t know if I’m capable of releasing his arm. His skin. Him.

  It’s all too much.

  There’s a small comfort in knowing that Vance and I have lost all apprehension related to weeping in front of each other. Death strips pride from the living, which is a gift. But it wasn’t like that with Mom. Back then, I never felt comfortable showing my true sorrow to Vance. I had my darkest moments alone.

  I steal glances at my brother, trying to figure out what has changed. Is it me? Is it him? Are we just too broken to care?

  There’s a gentle knock on the door and Peggy says, “The funeral home people are here, boys.”

  Vance and I remove our hands at the same time and try to catch our breath. Both of us sound like sputtering engines. We grab our backpacks and walk toward the door.

  Neither of us looks back.

  Vance

  Three months ago

  “Happy belated birthday, Vance,” Mr. Richards said from across his desk.

  My probation meetings were down to every other week, which I was psyched about. Otherwise, I would’ve been there on my actual birthday last Friday. Since I’d turned eighteen, Dad threw me a big party at the bar. He closed the restaurant section that night and had everything set up in there. I’m pretty sure the party was packed with lots of kids because they thought they could get wasted. Dad really only served jerk chicken sandwiches, fries, and cake—no alcohol. I was proud of him. He didn’t even let anyone sneak a shot in the back.

  Well, there was no alcohol for me and my friends, but Dad was three sheets by the end of the night. I had to drive home. But partygoers got high in the bathroom so they got over the lack of drinking real quick. A toked-up Growler stood on one of the tables and led the place—even the bar side—in a rowdy rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

  I smiled at Mr. Richards. “Thanks.”

  He stopped writing and looked over his glasses. “According to your clean urine, you stayed away from parties. Smart man, ’cause if you get yourself arrested now that you’re eighteen, well, whole new ball game.”

  “My dad did throw me a huge party, alcohol-free of course.” I put my hands behind my head. “How many times do I have to tell you… I’m not messing up anymore.” My urge to party was sleeping. I just wanted to be done with this whole process so I could go back to planning for college. When I went to Drexel, the urge would awaken. I had no doubt about that. But even then I intended to reel it in a little so that I never ended up across from a probation officer again. I’d had enough.

  Mr. Richards huffed. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be on a beach in Jamaica.”

  Even though I’d grown to like Mr. Richards, he was the type of guy who never lightened up. He wasn’t a dick or anything. He was just all about probation. All the time. Even when I’d try to get him talking about the Eagles—nope, he’d tell me we weren’t there to talk sports and then change the subject back to me. I think I grew to respect his laser-focused dedication to his job. The guy should’ve won probation officer awards.

  “We’re closing in on the end, Vance.” He shuffled a few papers. “I’ll see you four more times, which takes us to the end of March.”

  “And then what happens?”

  “Pretty simple. You stay out of trouble and live your life.”

  “I like the sound of that.” We shook hands, and I headed to my car. I’d been driving myself for a while. Thank God. As I drove away, I pictured Oscar fist pumping when I’d told him he was fired from chauffeur duty. I’d been happy about that too. We never had too much to say to each other during the drives. We never had too much to say to each other during life.

  Oscar was at my party, but he wasn’t present. He spent most of the night bar-backing for Joey and Bill. I don’t remember seeing his face when everyone sang to me, and I looked. He was probably out back sulking or drawing or staring into space.

  I don’t know how Oscar got home that night because he was already gone by the time Dad wanted to leave, so it was just me and Dad on the car ride home. I don’t think Dad even noticed that Oscar wasn’t in the car with us. But he had made it home. He was passed out on the sofa with his earbuds in. His sketchbook sat on the coffee table, taunting me.

  Oscar kept his drawings private. He didn’t even show Dad. I always wondered if he was any good. I’d seen some of his stuff over the years—the things he’d done in middle school art class—and I thought he was okay. Nothing jaw dropping. The way he kept it so secret made me think he was embarrassed by the dumb crap he drew and because he wasn’t that good.

  Criticism usually cut Oscar off at the knees. His backbone was made of Jell-O. I honestly had no idea how he would be able to function as an adult. Life could be shitty. People could be shitty. And there were lots of shitty people who said shitty things. What was he going to do, run away and hide in his room every time his feelings got hurt?

  That wouldn’t work.

  Dad had already stumbled up to bed. I swear Oscar’s sketchbook got all glowy, calling out: Open me! As slowly as I could, I slid it off the table. He didn’t move a muscle. Mozart was probably blaring in his ears, which was perfect for me. I hustled into the dining room and used the flashlight on my phone.

  The first few drawings were old. And just okay. There were no rainbows or sunrises. But as I turned the pages, his skills improved, a lot. The book was filled with sketches of people.

  About midway through, I flipped the page and an uncanny sketch of my mother stared back at me. She was on the phone. She was clearly upset about something. I could see it on her face. In her eyes.

  There was a drawing of me and Dad dancing in the kitchen. He had his favorite Red Stripe T-shirt on, and I wore my lacrosse uniform. My hair was matted and my cheeks flushed. I was sweaty from practice. And we looked so happy. Oscar captured the emotion and…wow…

  I looked at every drawing. Many were of me and Dad. Some just Dad. But they were all good.

  Oscar was good.

  Holy crap. He was excellent.

  Oscar

  We shuffle to the Common Room with our heads hung low. I toss my backpack onto the sofa and sit. My first move is to drop my head into my hands so that I can continue releasing the tears in private. I can only see Vance’s feet as he walks toward the huge brown chair across from me. He leans his backpack against the side and sits as well.

  For a while, the only sounds coming from us are sniffling, sobbing, coughing. I am oddly soothed by it. We’re in our own grief bubble. Untouchable. Vance’s pain is my pain—it glides through me with each moan. Light yet dense.

  That stranger’s moan suddenly comes to mind, and I’m dumbfounded at how similar we all sound. Maybe Death spends seconds in all of us, making a single harmony of sadness.

  “H-how come you never showed D-dad your drawings?” Vance chokes out.

  I lift my head. Vance is staring at me. My drawings? Why does he care about my drawings all of a sudden? “Why?”

  He grabs a handful of tissues and cleans off his face before answering me. “Because he probably would’ve liked them.”

  My cheeks burn and my palms are warm. Hadn’t he just been freaking out on me for sketching Dad? “How do you know if he would’ve liked them? He never seemed too interested in me or my life.” I close my eyes and drop my chin. My father just died, and I’m already finding the negative. I am disgusting.
<
br />   “Because I know.”

  My gaze lifts. “Because you know how?”

  Vance’s breathing quickens. He’s clearly nervous, which can mean only one thing: he defied me and looked in my sketchbook.

  “The night of my birthday party, when Dad and I got home and you were asleep on the sofa with your earbuds in, you left your sketchbook out on the coffee table.”

  I remember waking up in a panic the next morning, seeing it just sitting there, out in the open. Leaving it out was something I’d never done before. My drawings were part of my soul. And my soul was private. Instead of confronting my brother or Dad at breakfast that day, I chose to bundle up against the cold January morning and walk. I had my sketchbook tucked underneath my arm and pencils in my back pocket. I walked to the park a few blocks away, sat on one of the swings, and drew Mom’s furry snow boots from memory. If my lips hadn’t frozen, I probably would’ve stayed there till dark and continued drawing her things.

  “You had no right to open it, Vance,” I say with zero verve. Even though I feel violated, the fight is gone in me. I am like a half-dead September bee.

  He nods. “I know. But I’m not sorry I did it. That sketch you did of Mom on the phone is…” He pauses. “It’s so real.”

  My eyes fill and I look away. That is the first time my brother has complimented me.

  “Will you show me the one you just did of Dad? Please?” he asks.

  I remain still for a while. I’m trying to make sense of where I am, what I’m doing, what I want to do. My father is gone. My brother is all I have left in this world. I look to him, and he’s staring at me.

  It’s my turn to wipe away the tears. I clear my throat. “Do you know that you’re the only human being on earth who I can say, ‘Do you remember when Dad…?’ The only one.”

  “Same for me with you.”

  We let that depressing revelation sit and fill the room for a while. In short, we are all the other has left.