Dust that Feeds on Emptiness

Guests are not people who come around these days, but my mother insisted on dusting the room once a week.

"Just in case," she said. But I knew better than that. She's inherited it, from Grandma.

Grandma hated dust. She would come for weekends, and would sleep in the guest room. Being the oldest person in the household, she would peek and pry in every room, with the exception of the servant quarters. She would peek in - her face wrinkled and smug - her overly straight nose sniffing out the last traces of dust.

Every Friday, Mother would be at her wits end trying to get us to clean the gardening sheds and the garage. I even used to get sore knees scrubbing the floors.

"Shouldn't we hire someone?" I would often ask Mother, and she would firmly shake her head.

This too, was Grandma's credit. We had Aunt Jenna with us - a kind, middle-aged woman in charge of chores - but a little after Grandma's visits began, she was sent away. There had been a long argument overnight with my parents, as my brother reported the following morning. The next thing we were fully aware of was Aunt Jenna saying goodbye to us.

Sitting down on the bare mattress, I fingered the elegant carvings on the four poster bed. I'd missed her then. Aunt Jenna wasn't strict, and wasn't that serious about work. Both Mother and Grandma were her extreme opposites. As for Father I couldn't say - for he was never there. I knew nothing about him - except that he was a very good person; which too, was told by Aunt Jenna.

I never missed him - though I'd sometimes wished that he'd rather stay at home with us than doing business. But Mother did. Desperately. In the mornings she would act as if nothing happened - despite the painfully red stained eyes - but only I had ever heard the sobbing behind her door while I was on a late night trip to the bathroom.

She tried her best to hide it. But I didn't.

"Do you miss him that much?" I'd asked once when we were alone.

She'd take her time to gather herself. But when she realizes that she can't, she would let the tears fill her eyes and slowly nod like a child.

"But he'll come back soon, won't he?" At this the creases of her face would fold completely, her beautiful figure crumpled and tear-stained.

I didn't dare mention anything about Father to my brother or Grandma. I didn't tell him because I'd thought he wouldn't understand, and her because I thought she'd be insensitive. How wrong I was, on both things.

When Ed stumbled into the room, his sight blocked by freshly laundered bed linen, he found me zoned out, caressing a broom, eyes dreamy and mouth open.

"You look scary that way," he said, but I didn't hear.

"He wasn't father after all."

Whether or not I had spoken those words out loud, I never knew. But at that moment the room was filled with silence. A little later, the bed creaked as my brother sat down beside me, and I heard him sigh.

"No."

Then I sighed. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

I knew I myself was about to cry, but this time I'd triggered Ed. He was looking at me with crinkled brows - that expression he'd give out whenever he's trying to hide pain.

"Would you have believed it?" he asked. "Mother and I - we wanted to tell you in the beginning. But you were different - the way you handled the situation."

"I'd fallen into the lie." Silence followed my words. You were afraid that I won't be able to bear it up.

Silence filled these empty thoughts, and Ed sighed again. He'd gotten up already.

"Mother wanted to tell you to clean behind the mirror," he said, trying to spread the linen on the bed.

Blushing, I walked to the mirror like a clockwork robot. It had slipped out of my mind completely. It even surprised me that Mother remembered this particular place better than the back of her hand.

She had a fair point. When I pulled down the mirror a fine fluff of dust greeted me. I took up my rag and began the business, knowing it's going to be some rough work.

The dust peeled off easily - it hadn't rested for a very long time. So mother had come and cleaned it sometime back. No wonder she was so quick to remind me through Ed.

Ed. I was so engrossed in the work that I didn't realize my brother was standing next to me.

"So this is where she put it."

What? I wanted to ask, but instead followed his gaze. Hanging on the wall was a large rectangular wooden frame covered in some hard paper. Although it was covered in the grey dirt - which had a deepening effect as it contrasted with the marble complexion of the wall - I could clearly see that it was a white cardboard; the kind that you buy from stationery shops.

We hadn't used those since the sixth grade. This frame had been hidden here long before.

While we processed this situation in our minds the cardboard peeled by itself and plonked on the floor, spraying dust up a foot or so.

Ed was automatically down on his knees, cleaning the mess, but I was too captivated by the sight that was before me.

A framed photograph. An old fashioned, black and white one.

"Their wedding."

Without looking, Ed grunted his agreement. He had probably seen the picture before.

With my forefinger, I wiped out the dust from their faces. My mother was younger then; looking much prettier and happier. Next to him was the man I'd never seen before. I tried to trace his angular features, but my finger was too big for it. He and Ed looked so similar.

Besides them, there were others. Grandma - looking relaxed and genuinely smiling - those whom I believed were Mother's parents, and of course, him.

I sighed. He'd never come back since several years before, when he slipped on the truth. He'd taken me to see Father's grave before that. In a way, I missed him too.

"Your father," he'd said. "My brother."

"What did he die of?" I asked as I felt the cold slab of stone, trying to feel the warmth of parenthood.

"Pneumonia. A very bad case of it."

I stared right into his eyes in the photograph. He looked freer then. After all, he has his own family now.

Father, I thought. If I ever dream of my father, it would always be you.