Frederik's Room

It has been two weeks since the funeral. Now all that was left was a skeleton of a home. The ghastly white sky perfectly mirrors the experience of the inside. Moving boxes for one and dishes that need to be washed for the other. Both preparing for a life without him. 

Patrick shifted his boxes from his room to the downstairs foyer. These were the last remaining semblances of the life he had with them. 

His soon-to-be ex-wife Loretta washed her mug in the kitchen. Doing her best to avoid contact with the man who was once the love of her life. They moved and operated in two separate spheres. Patrick shuffled up the stairs and returned with another medium-sized box of his belongings, placing it next to a book bag. 

It was Frederik’s, the son he lost just two and a half or maybe three weeks ago. The grief made him lose count. As he stared helplessly at the bag he couldn’t help but notice it had a lock on it. Patrick saw his son’s bag next to the table every day for years as he entered his home. Why couldn’t he remember seeing the lock? His thoughts were disturbed by Loretta. 

“Some mail came for you, I left it on the counter.” 

“Ok, thanks” 

The two awkwardly moved away from each other, as if they were navigating a room filled with elephants. The weight and pressure were too much for either to bear. Loretta immediately darted from the kitchen as Patrick entered. 

She retired to her portion of the house, a small room that had become her home. Filled with paperwork from her accounting job, books she anticipated reading, and a calendar. 

Patrick looked through his mail, fingers tearing the top to reveal its contents. It was a bill, a final notice detailing the amount he owed his lawyer. Financially the way things were going, a separation in name only would suffice for him and Loretta. An odd sensation came over him to see his son’s room perhaps for the last time. 

Patrick walked up the stairs, and there was a creek and a wince of the house in every step. What felt like a million-mile walk was paid off when he made it to the closed door. The heaviness of the moment caused his hands to tremble. Placing a hand on the handle, Patrick twisted it, giving way to an abandoned wasteland. 

The room was exactly as it was left. The bed was covered in the manner his son often did. Just enough to look neat but not truly pristine. Frederik’s drawers jerked out papers and envelopes. Random assortments of letters, and documents from his university. Patrick found himself staring at the framed map of the world on his wall. Beyond just the color-coded countries, he saw himself. He didn’t realize how old he’d gotten. How many wrinkles and grooves eroded onto his face. Patrick parsed across the room at the curtains noticing something odd. 

There were no nails. The pole used to hang the curtains was glued on. Tape laced the perimeter of the window as a form of insulation. Patrick laughed to himself shaking his head in both embarrassment and disgust. He thought to himself: “What the hell would make him think this was a good idea?” 

Patrick heard the fridge open downstairs and decided to join his wife against her will. He closed the door to his son’s room behind him. And made his way to the kitchen. Deciding to wash his hands only to displace some built-up tension and energy. 

“I saw the funniest thing just now.” Patrick chuckled as he began to speak. 

“What did you see?” 

“You know Frederik glued the curtain rod to the wall?” 

“Why is that funny?” Loretta retorted back not in the mood for any criticism of her deceased son 

“Because it was a stupid idea, nobody does that. And why would he put tape around the window, it looks ghetto.” 

“Well, maybe he wouldn’t have done all that if you fixed the window the first time. It literally is a part of your job.” 

Patrick no longer found humor in this exercise he began to feel attacked. The tone Loretta took only made him want to increase the volume. 

“Loretta, see that was you and the boy’s problem.” Patrick’s demeanor became more accusatory. “Nobody tells me anything.” 

“Patrick, don't give me that foolishness. We always told you his room was cold. For years, we always came to you complaining about the heat not working in there. About air pockets coming through the window and the walls. Every time you had some excuse as to why it was going on. And that “boy” is our son.” 

Patrick remained silent. A heavy sigh emitted from him. A hallmark of their marriage. Whenever he was wrong he either walked away or remained silent in place. 

“And for the record, I don’t appreciate you just walking into his room like that.” Loretta continued. 

“Don’t appreciate? Until that day comes this is still my house. And like you said he is OUR son.” 

Out of defiance, Patrick marched up the stairs with Loretta not far behind, yelling and screaming for him to stop. To no avail, as she grabbed his arm, he pushed her hand away determined to maintain his respect. Patrick ran up the stairs finally making it to the same door he was at just minutes ago. Loretta caught up to him as he struggled to open. The years of neglect caused it to at times lock randomly. She grabbed her husband's arms, wrapped around him, trying to pry him away from the handle. His eyes were reddened with determination. 

“PATRICK STOP!” Loretta’s shriek  startled and annoyed Patrick simultaneously 

“Woman, let go of me!” Patrick twisted and tried to abandon the grasp of Loretta, but her will to protect the lasting refuge of her son would not let her abandon her efforts. 

“No!” 

Patrick’s twisting causes the back of his triceps to slam Loretta on the forehead, barely missing her with the sharpness of his elbow. The woman flailed backward crashing onto the wood floor. Her face was hidden in her hand as she sobbed and crawled to her feet. 

Patrick’s eyebrows arched and his face was painted with the guilt of his actions. No longer were his eyes filled with rage and determination but were replaced with shame. He tried to stretch out his hand to help her up. But she swatted it away rejecting his attempt. Tears in her eyes she shuffled downstairs desperately seeking to leave his presence. The silence in the house was deafening, as Patrick went to his room, closing the door behind him. 

The hours passed and the clouds began to accumulate to form what would be the hair bringers of the snow. Loretta began to go up the stairs seeing the light in Frederik’s room on. For a split moment, she thought he was there, only to have her dream interrupted by the sound of Patrick’s voice.

“Loretta, come take a look at this.” 

She walked slowly and begrudgingly and found Patrick standing in the very spot she stood when the police identified Frederik’s body. He placed his findings on the nightstand. The temperature of the room chills both of their faces, but they felt a groundswell of warm admiration at the sight before their eyes. The dust ate away at the color but the image still resonated in beauty. The image of a peacock gracefully evading the pounce of a tiger. 

“You never know a good thing until it’s gone,” Loretta spoke as her eyes began to glint with the shimmer of a tear. Tears of both joy and pain, that she helped create the son she knew and loved. But pain that she would never see him again. 

“I’d like to hope that because of all you and I went through we can still be friends,” Patrick stated as his hand positioned itself to be placed on her shoulder for support.

Just as his fingertips were millimeters from touching the fabric of her shirt, Loretta moved closer to the painting. 

She brushed her hand on the canvas, as tears began to roll down in quick succession. 

“I love you Frederik, I’m sorry I failed you,” Loretta stated to the painting. 

The snow began to fall as the curtains showed an opening to the world outside. They danced while inside the house nothing but misery resides.