by Wade, Tobias
“You wouldn’t have locked me up in here if you didn’t think I was crazy. When is Elise going to pick me up?”
It’s the same conversation every-time I visited Dad in the Forest Glen retirement home. At first he just started forgetting what things were named. Pepsi became “bubble juice” and he’d call his dog a “woofer”. We all thought it was hilarious until he started forgetting who we were too.
He thought I looked familiar, but the helpless frustration on his face as he tried to remember how he knew me was excruciating. My childhood – all our time together – my whole life was just being erased.
After his wife (my Mom) Elise died, Dad completely fell apart. It was like she was his only reason to keep trying at all. He used to passionately assemble model planes and ships, but he smashed them all and wouldn’t touch them again. He wouldn’t even read or watch TV, preferring to just sit alone and stare at the wall. He stopped taking care of himself and became belligerent when someone tried to help him.
“Just bury me already, if I’m such a burden,” he’d say.
My wife and I would laugh it off, but we all knew he wasn’t joking. He was a burden. He needed help going to the bathroom, and showering, and getting dressed, and as much as I told myself that sending him to the home was for his own good, I was relieved when he was gone.
That’s why I was so worried when I got a call from the retirement home two weeks ago. They said Dad was missing. It wasn’t the first time he tried to get out, but the nurses always stopped him before he made it past the door. He could barely lift his foot high enough to put a slipper on, but this time he somehow managed to climb straight out the window.
If he was lost out there, he wouldn’t know how to get back. He probably wouldn’t even remember who he was. That would have been bad enough, but the note he left behind made me even more anxious.
“I’m going to be with Elise, and I’m not coming back. Goodbye everyone.”
Dad was going to kill himself tonight. I knew it. I frantically drove up and down the streets around the home, shouting his name – wondering if he’d recognize it or even respond if he did. I checked every puddle he could have drowned in, every bridge he could have jumped from – everything I could think of. My wife was visiting her relatives out of town for the week, but she stayed on the phone with me the whole time to keep me calm. It didn’t work.
“But didn’t he forget Elise even died?” she asked. “He’s probably not trying to kill himself. He just wants to find her.”
I checked back at the house – nothing. I might as well stop by the graveyard where Elise was buried too. It didn’t make much sense if he still thought she was alive, but I was desperate. It was about 3 in the morning when I saw his shriveled form hunched over her headstone.
“Dad? Are you okay?” I approached cautiously, terrified that I was too late. He didn’t stir as I drew up behind him. Did he just realize that she was dead? Had he spent the last of his strength coming here to say goodbye?
He didn’t turn from the grave when he finally spoke. I remember his words as clearly as the cold night air.
I met her in the Spring, she wakes me from my deathly slumber,
wedding bells in joyous ring, Summer toil could not encumber
one shared soul as ours so blessed, and through Autumn’s firey air,
am I to love her any less, now Winter rips her branches bare?
Or softly shall I sit and mourn, all the dark hours of the night
until once more is spring reborn, and her eyes refill with light.
Did he really believe she was coming back? Or was this his way of understanding? I sat down next to him and wrapped my coat around his frail shoulders. His eyes sparkled in the pale moonlight, but not from grief. I don’t remember ever seeing him look so happy.
“But it’s already Spring,” a voice said. My mother’s voice. I was watching my Dad and didn’t notice until she was standing directly before us. Or maybe she had just appeared there – I don’t know – but she wasn’t old anymore. She looked how I remember her when I was a child. She embraced my father, and before my eyes, he shed his years as lightly as his tears.
Dad was growing taller. My coat which draped around his shoulders swelled like a balloon as his muscles became firm. The bulging veins in his hands receded as he held my mother, and his skin pulled taut as the deep network of wrinkles which mapped out his life vanished. They both looked younger than I did now.
Mother winked at me from over Dad’s shoulder. She held a finger to her lips and said:
“It’ll be our little secret, okay? Let’s all go home.”
My wife called a dozen times over the next week. I just told her everything was fine and we’d talk about it when she got back. It was better than fine though – I felt like I was living inside a dream.
I woke every morning to my Mom’s scrambled eggs and French toast. I wanted to call in sick from work and spend every minute with them, but she insisted I still go and threatened to drive me there herself. Every night I’d return to watch Dad rebuilding his models, swearing good-naturedly when he couldn’t find a piece. Then we’d all eat dinner as a family and watch a movie together – Dad making sarcastic comments throughout, and Mom giggling like a school girl with a crush.
I’ve never seen them so happy. I’ve never remembered being so happy. They had aged so slowly over the years and I had pulled away from them so gradually that I never really dwelt on how close we once were. It was just like being a kid again. After a disagreement at work, someone even shot back that I smelled funny. Who since the 3rd grade has ever used an argument like that?
I couldn’t wait for my wife to get home. I’d kept my parents a secret from everyone, and I was so pleased with myself for resisting the urge to tell her. Sure they couldn’t live with me forever, but just seeing the look on my wife’s face when she walked in would be priceless.
When I picked her up from the airport, she seemed a little withdrawn. I tried to kiss her, but she pulled away.
“Have you been okay alone? You’ve been taking care of yourself, right?”
I just laughed. She seemed worried about me. Maybe she was tired from traveling, maybe her relatives stressed her out, but as soon as I showed her what had happened she would forget all about it.
“Welcome home dear!” My Mother said when I opened the door. “And isn’t she darling!”
“How was the trip?” My Father asked.
I just watched my wife’s face, unable to contain my gigantic grin. She was shocked alright. Her mouth was just hanging open. Then she coughed and covered her nose.
“Well? What do you think?” I asked her.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said – and she was. Right there on the entry mat. The smell of her vomit was like some kind of trigger. Suddenly the whole house smelled absolutely rancid.
“Do you smell that, Mom? What is it?”
Mom – what was left of her decaying body – was propped up on the sofa. Dad, bloated from gas and covered with a yellow-green mold, was sitting in his armchair. I couldn’t understand what happened.
My wife ran out and called the police. They took away the bodies and took me in for a psych evaluation. The next few days were a blur, but eventually I was released with the diagnosis of “hallucinations stemming from PTSD”. They said my Father had died the night he escaped after catching pneumonia in the night air. They said my mother had been dug up, and that the trunk of my car contained a dirty shovel.
I don’t believe them though. I didn’t even own a shovel. I think they were just trying to cover up for something they couldn’t explain. I don’t get what the big deal was anyway. Even if they were gone, so what if I did want to keep them?
Should I love them any less in the winter?
History Written in Scars
No not a cut. Not a bruise from sleepwalking or a bang where I drunkenly hurt myself without remembering. I’m talking jagged, gnarly, vicious scars which looked like they’ve h
ealed years ago.
The first one to appear was an inch long incision on my stomach, almost like a surgical wound. I live in college with a roommate (Robert), but he didn’t remember anything happening. Then I called my parents and asked them if I’d ever had a surgery before, but the only procedure I’d undergone was having my wisdom teeth removed; a dead end, unless they thought the stomach was a shortcut to the mouth.
I figured that I just hadn’t noticed it before. Or perhaps something traumatic happened, and I completely blocked out the memory, but I didn’t worry about it. I played basketball in high-school and have had my fair share of being knocked around, so it must have been from something then. Those were the glory days man. I play on my collegiate intramural team now, but it’s just not the same. I was a school hero back then… but life goes on, you know? All the victories and mistakes I made on and off the court, they’re all ancient history.
The next morning I woke with a long scar along my forearm. It must have been deep too, and the skin holding it together was stretched like I’ve grown since it closed. I ran my finger over it, but it didn’t even hurt. The skin was slightly raised and hard, but otherwise I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t looking right at it. I thought about going to the doctor, but it looked so old that he’d probably just say I forgot what caused it.
I tried not to think about the scars for the rest of the day, although my buddy Chase noticed it during our practice that evening. I didn’t want to sound like an idiot, so I made up a story about this time I fought off a mugger to protect my girlfriend and got a swipe from his switchblade.
“Yeah, I think I remember you mentioning something about that bro,” he said.
Bitch please. I doubt that, since I just made the story up on the spot. It wasn’t interfering with my game though, and I was so tired afterward that I just hit the showers and went straight to bed. I completely forgot about it until I was falling asleep, and then it was all I could think about. What if something was attacking me in the night? But no, that was ridiculous. But what if something was attacking a younger version of myself in the night? Even stupider. I eventually convinced myself that I was making a big deal out of nothing and fell asleep but…
It was still the first thing I thought about when I woke up. I immediately stripped naked and checked myself in the bathroom mirror.
“Man are you trying to shit a log or a whole forest? I gotta take a piss.” My roommate Robert was pounding on the door. I ran my fingers over my chest for the hundredth time. A giant cross-shaped scar on my right peck. The undulating lines wandered haphazardly – grotesquely – like it hadn’t been a clean heal. But it was healed alright. I opened the door and stared at him.
“Have you seen this before?” I asked.
“Dude are you drunk? I’m not looking at your –” He started back-peddling. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my waist.
“Not that, you idiot. This scar. What happened to me?”
“Yeah, you got in a fight with a mugger when you were in high-school. You said he cut you up pretty bad, but you chased him off.”
“I never told you that,” I said. “That never happened!”
“You’re being crazy, man. Just let me use the bathroom, okay?”
Robert pushed past me and closed the door. I went straight to my computer and logged onto Facebook. I’ve had that thing setup since my freshman year of high-school. There had to be some pictures which proved – man I looked like a little shit back then – okay here we go. Senior Ditch day we all went down to a river and hung out. I was in my swimsuit and –
And the grotesque scar was on my chest. The ones on my stomach and forearm were there too. I flipped back a few more years, and saw it disappear during my sophomore year. From the photos, it looked like whatever happened was in the first semester of my junior year.
When I thought about that time in my life, there was only one memory which burned so brightly as to cast shadows on the rest. I narrowed down the range of dates, and there was no mistaking it. I found a photo of myself running shirtless with the team the week before – no scars. The week after I wasn’t present at the game, then after that I was covered in bandages. But that hadn’t happened! I remember we started off the season 4-0, and I played in every game.
Somehow, there was something about that night which was changing my past. I hadn’t meant to hurt her. There was a party to celebrate our homecoming victory game, and everyone was having a little too much to drink. I thought Jessica wanted it – she certainly seemed like she did. There’s no way I could have known how she would react the next morning – or what she would do herself the next month when she found out she was pregnant. It’s not my fault Jessica is dead.
Life goes on, you know? Ancient history. And if somehow these scars appearing on my body were related to that nigh, and I had to carry them as penance the rest of my life, then I could accept that. If that had been all there was, I wouldn’t have been so scared or angry.
But the scars this morning were more deliberate. Etched into the back of my hand are the words:
How many cuts will it take before I see you again?
Maybe some wounds cut too deep to ever be left in the past. I wonder how many more it will take before she’s satisfied, or whether I’ll even survive her search for peace.
My Journey in a Parallel Universe
“Just because you’re sleeping with Mom doesn’t make you my Dad.”
“Just because you’re living in my house doesn’t mean you can talk back to me.”
You could have cooked your dinner with the air hanging between my step-son and I. Emily kept telling me that Jason was going to get used to having me around, but two years in, and this teenage shit still resisted me like I was an occupying army. I get that his real Dad was an abusive asshole, but in what world is it fair to take that anger out on me? We’d already been arguing in the parked car for ten minutes.
“Just go talk to the guy, okay?” I said. “What’s the worst that could happen? That maybe he thinks there’s a place in this school for you? That maybe you have potential and can do something with your life besides playing video games and serving hamburgers, God-forbid?”
“I don’t want to go here. None of my friends are here,” Jason whined.
I wanted to smack him upside the head, but somehow that would suddenly make me the bad guy. Deep breath.
“So what? You’ll make new friends. Smarter friends – better friends. In a couple years you’ll be leaving for college anyway, so why not just suck it up and go somewhere good?”
“I don’t want better friends. I want a better Dad.” Jason got out of the car and slammed the door. Would it still count as murder if he’s this rude? At least he was walking toward the Academy building now, so I guess I’ll take that as a victory. I got out of the car and followed Jason up the shining marble steps and into the grand foyer.
Was this a school, or an opera house? The place was drowning in luxury. Thick Persian rugs, walls lined with tapestries, rolling velvet curtains – unmistakable old world money. Some industrial era tycoon set up the Ramfield Academy as his legacy, and his trust paid for all the expenses. I’ll admit it was a tad intimidating to enter, but Jason had been actually invited to the interview because of his test scores.
“Hey Jason, wait up!” He was already storming up the staircase. He didn’t turn around. “It’s room 604 – that means 6th floor. Come take the elevator with me.”
A middle finger appeared between two steps for a moment, and then the footsteps continued. I glanced around, but there didn’t seem to be anyone to notice. I sighed and pushed the elevator button.
I would have expected some security to keep out the riff-raff, or at least a secretary in a place like this. It was eerie not seeing anyone in the converted mega-mansion. Six floors, almost 20,000 square feet, but they still only accepted 30 kids a year. It was one of Ramfield’s original stipulations when he setup the foundation. Weird guy, by all accounts: an eclectic genius,
by some, a mad hoarder by most. I’ve heard that he lived in this massive place alone without any staff, and by the time he died, they practically had to bring in an excavator to haul out all his random collections.
I got in the elevator and hit #6. The old lift lurched and rattled like it resented me for pushing the button. Music played which would have been more appropriate in a 1920 speakeasy, and it was pretty uncomfortable staring at Ramfield’s grimacing portrait beside the door. Jason better not act out like this during the interview, or I swear to God… If I don’t kill him, Emily will kill me, and then I’ll go back and haunt the little shit.
“Is this why you never had kids?” I asked the portrait of Ramfield. “There had to have been women who tried, considering all your money. I can’t say I blame you though. I guess I just wish mine was different.”
The screech of metal cables whirring through their sockets suddenly rended the air. The elevator buckled and heaved beneath me and I was thrown to my knees. The lights flared like a dying sun and the music crackled and vanished in a spluttering gasp. A trickle of light from the roof still illuminated the portrait, but that was all I could see.
How old was this thing? Did they even do safety checks, or was this more of a ‘bribe the inspector’ kind of place? Shit, now the damn thing is stuck.
“Hello? Can anyone hear me?”
I pounded on the door. The needle showed me somewhere between the fifth and sixth floor. Now Jason was going to go into the interview alone and screw it up. I was about to start jumping up and down to try and get the damn thing moving, but luckily I remembered where I was. Five and a half stories up… what if it fell? What if a cable broke and I was just barely balanced on the frayed ends? I moved back against the elevator wall on tiptoe and felt the tremendous weight groan beneath my feet.
There weren’t any emergency buttons or anything, but somehow I was still getting cell reception. I called Jason’s phone, but it cut off after the second ring. Little bastard hung up on me. I called again.
