The Jumping Chair

The Jumping Chair

A.J. Hughes

The tears kept coming as I tried to fall asleep. As much as I strained to stop, blowing my nose and wiping my eyes, there was no beating down the quakes of sorrow.

           I was thinking about how Dad used to get up during the night. He used that time for his true passion—writing. He was so quiet in the wee hours of the morning, but sometimes, he would get hungry. When he cooked a piece of cod in the toaster oven, its odor would wake me. For those few moments before I drifted off again, I found comfort in knowing he was there, alert and protective while Mom and I slept.

           After a young woman ran a red light, killing Dad instantly, my safe life was gone. I had just turned 21. It seemed as though my skin had been forcefully ripped away; I was exposed from the inside out. The days played out like scenes from a movie, detached from reality, where an invisible, evil entity was a breath away at all times. It wasn’t possible that Dad took our dog to the park three blocks from home on a Saturday morning and disappeared from our lives forever.

           The funeral took place in downtown Phoenix at a large, old church. My family sat at one side in a separate area, hidden, as if sequestered during some spectacular murder trial. Dad knew a lot of folks. There were notable friends like the governor, who delivered the eulogy, as well as homeless acquaintances hovering near the back, as Dad liked to hand them dollar bills as he passed them on the street. Everyone swarmed us after the service and kept remarking how he was too young to die. I was thrown into the role of a stalwart adult…oh, yes he was, thank you, I would say to strangers, while forcing myself to stand upright instead of collapsing into a mound of dust.

           We had another funeral in Oklahoma, where my parents were from. I was surrounded by relatives I barely knew, old friends, and women scurrying about with ambrosia salad, tea, and serving utensils. I had to confront my dad’s brother, who bore a striking resemblance to him. I stayed clear of him, putting a wall between us whenever possible, like a child hiding from the creepy ogre who lived down the street. A pilot had been hired to release some of Dad’s ashes over a place he had talked about called Chimney Hill, which I always assumed must have been one heck of a hill. As it turned out, it was just a hill, but my father loved it for a reason I’ll never really know.

           We returned home, and after my older siblings left one by one to return to their lives, it was just Mom, me, and silence.

           Soon, a challenge presented itself in the middle of the night. As absurd as it was, I had to take it on. I left my bedroom quietly to avoid disturbing Mom. After heading for the family room like a skulking burglar, I leaned against the wall in the hallway, trying to get up the nerve for my big move as I thought about Dad in his big green padded chair.

           As small kids, we called that chair “the jumping chair.” We were allowed to jump all over it, including leaping from its highest point to the carpeted floor, that usually came with a dare from a neighborhood pal. Years later, it became Dad’s chair, where he dozed off before dinner, his head dropping over like a great weight his neck couldn’t possibly hold up. Not even the rattle of the pressure cooker would stir him. After his quick nap, he jerked upright and ate dinner on his flowered TV tray while we watched the Nightly News. “Best meal I ever had!” Dad exclaimed every night without fail.

           Standing in the hallway, I wondered what I would find when I looked at his chair. Would it be Dad laughing at the TV, saying one of his favorite lines, “That ought to be against the law!”? Could it be my dad in a willowy transparent form, making ghost-like sounds, scaring me out of the house? Would he be an accident victim, all bandaged up like a mummy? Or perhaps there would be a letter in an envelope on the chair with clues to his mysterious whereabouts.

           What I longed for was that he would just be sitting there, normal Dad, and he’d look up and grin. I’d run to him, and he’d tell me what I’d heard about him wasn’t true, it was all a ridiculous rumor. He’d hold me while I wept with relief, and wipe my tears with his old hankie.

           When I was ready, I bolted around the corner and flipped on the light, trying to catch Dad. But the chair glared back at me, vacant. The next night, I repeated it. This went on night after night as I tried to catch him.

           It turned out to be the most terrifying thing of all. Nothing.

           In time, the challenge waned, although I kept looking over my shoulder for a while, afraid - imagining - hoping - I would see him, not only in his chair, but everywhere.

           With my older siblings married with families of their own, I couldn’t leave Mom alone in the house. Instead of venturing off like a 21-year-old would, I stayed. I sat in Dad’s chair to eat dinner with her while she ate in her usual spot on the couch. The pressure cooker and pot and pan sounds were replaced by the solitary “ding” of the microwave as we ate Lean Cuisines. We each had a glass of white wine before dinner while we talked and cried. Then, we turned on the TV and ate out of our little cardboard containers, with no TV trays.

           Months later, I can’t say how many months later, the tears slowed down, and we did a little cooking. We moved our wine to the front porch and visited with occasional neighbors. Now and then, Mom would stand up from her spot on the couch and exclaim, “Let’s get outta here!” It felt good to get out; we were so afraid of driving for a while. We would go to movies, lunch, shopping, girl stuff. The conversation never ceased with Mom. It was during this time that I began to realize something about her. Being rather overshadowed by our bigger-than-life father for so long, she was not only strikingly beautiful, but smart.

          Mom eventually started redecorating the house, calling it her “dollhouse.” She replaced the carpet with a rose color and got a few new things. There was a lot of pink, which was amusing to us kids, but we were glad to see her taking those steps. I helped her go through heavy books of swatches to have some furniture reupholstered, which included Dad’s chair. We decided on a velvety, solid apricot for that.

           I lived with Mom for several years as we held each other up through our healing. When she settled into a retirement home, we drew straws and divided things amongst us. My sister got Dad’s chair. It sits in her den in Tucson; a corner filled with pictures of family, art, and fresh memories. To go with her love of the Southwest, she had the chair reupholstered again, in a pattern of happy cowboys and horses. Music fills the room while we play the piano and sing silly songs Dad taught us. My nieces and nephews now have small kids of their own, full of giggles, wonder, and their own brand of childhood dares.

           I think about Dad’s chair in all its layers–green, apricot, and frolicking cowboys. With everything that it had been through, its shape remained strong. It became almost human to me; an old friend who knew me well. It seemed so big when I was a child, taking that daunting leap off of it. How tiny I must have been! I think back too on my covert undertaking, trying to catch Dad in the palpable light of the family room. That was me, then. Scared. But I’m not scared any more. It took a long time, but now I know he has been with me all along.

           Five years ago, my fiancé, son and I ran a race in Dad’s honor. I had created bright yellow t-shirts with writing on the back for the three of us. Mine said, “For my dad, killed 40 years ago today by a red-light runner,” and my son’s said, “For the grandpa I never met.” While standing with thousands of people in the street waiting to run, I texted with my sister and brother about the enormity of what happened 40 years ago that day. I started to cry.

           The sun was about to come up. My fiancé tapped me on the arm, pointing upwards. “Look!” There was a rainbow ball in the dim sky, a glowing orb of colors like a cheery planet. I’d never seen such a brilliant, rare thing. It lifted me. I felt like a kid again, someone handing me a surprise lollypop.

           “Wow, what is that?” I asked him, wiping my tears, although I already knew what he would say.

           Our eyes held in a moment of understanding, and he smiled. He picked up my hand and kissed it. “You ready?” he asked.

           “Yep! Let’s go!” I replied, and took off into the fresh dawn air.

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