My Father's Son

         “Dad’s dying.”

               The words echo in my mind, bouncing around before they finally sink in.

               “What’d wrong with him now?” I ask.

               “Lung cancer. The smoking finally caught up with him. I just left the hospice home he’s at. It’s not looking great,” my sister tells me.

               I haven’t spoken to, much less seen, my father in years. Our parents divorced when we were young, Sarah only 11 and myself 14, and our father had done little else besides sending in his child support check.

               “Are you going to try to visit him? I think you should,” she started. “This may be the time to mend some bridges...”

               “No, I don’t think I will,” I interject.

               “Charlie, you know he still has to write his will.”                

               The words freeze me. I’d been scraping by the past few years. My mother’s estate had been split between Sarah and I, but had not covered much more than her funeral arrangements. I’m 39 and a deadbeat myself, getting his estate would help immensely. I could pay off my student loan debts, maybe even go back and get myself a useful degree.

               “And you think he’ll write you in?” I ask her.

               “I’m not sure. I’ve been visiting with him, trying to make peace before he goes. You know he’s been in a home for a while. If he writes me in, that’s great. But that’s not my goal here.”

               Noble Sarah, as usual.

               “I just really think it would be beneficial to the both of you if you’d go see him,” she starts again, but I’m not listening.

               “Alright Sarah, I’ll think about it. Thanks for calling, I’ll talk to you later.”

               “Charlie…” she starts before I hang up. Visiting my father, the man who abandoned my mother, sister, and I, it wasn’t on the top of my to-do list.

               “You know he still has to write his will…”

               Sarah’s words play over and over all night as I sit alone in my apartment. The thought of some financial support from my father gets my imagination going. If I had received that money a few years ago, maybe I wouldn’t be where I was today, alone with nothing to look towards but my dead-end job.

               I begin to think of Charlotte, my ex-fiancée.  We had been together for years, but I could never pull together enough funds to have the wedding of her dreams.

               “I’m done, Charlie. I’m tired of being the one who supports us! I’m tired of living like this,” she had shouted while leaving me last year.

               “Leave then! I don’t need this, I don’t deserve it!” I had shouted back. She had walked out without so much of a final glance over her shoulder. The last I had heard, she was living with Jeff, the coworker she had told me not to worry about.

               Suddenly, visiting my father didn’t sound too bad.

               I step out of the rain and onto the bus, choosing a seat towards the front to avoid the crowd of kids seated near the back. Taking a deep breath, I watch the raindrops racing down the window as the bus pulls back onto the busy street. The weather today is perfect for the occasion, I can’t complain.

               “I’m so glad you’re going to visit him,” Sarah had told me when we spoke later in the week.

               “Just don’t expect much,” I growled back.

               “You’re the one that shouldn’t expect much. Just make your peace, Charlie. He is our dad, after all.”

               I’m replaying the conversation the entire ride to the hospice home. His second wife had passed, Sarah had let me know. Jennifer wasn’t much of a step-mom to us. She was, after all, only a few years older than myself. The only times we ever saw her was when we would visit the lake house for the summers.

               “She killed herself a few years ago. I didn’t know until Dad told me. He went to a home a few months after. She was only 33,” Sarah had briefed me.

               “I’d kill myself, too, if I had to live with him,” I had replied.

               “Don’t be so morbid,” her words lingered in the back of my mind as the bus pulled into my stop. With a deep breath, I stepped back out under the drizzling sky and took a deep breath before walking into the hospice.

               “Hi there, how can I help you this afternoon?” The young attendant smiled at me, a little too enthusiastic for this line of work.

               “I’m here to visit Brian Williamson,” I tell her. She quickly types the name into her computer while humming to herself.

               “Williamson, I don’t see here that we have any visitors scheduled besides a “Sarah”, would you mind filling out some paperwork for me?”

               “Really? I’m just here to see him quickly. I’m… family. Can’t you just let it slide this once?” I ask her.

               “I’m really sorry, sir, but I have to have you fill out the paperwork. It’s all just a formality, really. It’ll take you 10 minutes at the most,” she says, sliding a clipboard my way.

               “Thanks,” I sigh, taking the papers from the counter. Looking for an open seat in the waiting room, I take in everyone else sitting around, waiting to hear the news on their loved ones. Some sobbing, some stone-faced. I sit next to an older woman who is gripping a handkerchief.

               “This your first time here, honey?” She asks me, shooting me a reassuring smile.

               “Yes, hopefully last,” I reply, focusing on the questions in front of me.

               Relationship to patient, how the hell am I supposed to answer this? I’m hardly his son. I sigh and begin to fill out the papers as best as I can.

               “I had hoped my first visit would be my last, too,” the old woman started again. I did my best to ignore her. “Unfortunately, once someone is in, they rarely leave. But the best thing to remember is that your loved one is here to be kept in comfort in their final days, I know my husband…”

               “I’m sorry,” I stop her in her tracks. “I’m really not in the mood.”

               The woman looks at me, eyes full of sympathy, and nods her head.

               “I understand.”

               I push the feeling of guilt for crushing this poor woman deep down into myself and finish filling out the endless questionnaire. Avoiding eye contact as best I can, I make my way back to the check-in counter and hand the young girl the clipboard.

               “Thank you, sir. I’ll have a nurse bring you down to Mr. Williamson’s room right away.”

               “He’s not doing great, but he’s still in good spirits. We’re keeping him as comfortable as possible. I have to say, I didn’t realize he had any family left aside from a daughter, she’s been visiting pretty frequently. I hope you’ll start to visit as well, it would be good for him,” the nurse drones on and on.

               “Maybe,” I tell her. We stop outside the door to my father’s room.

               “Whenever you’re ready, he’s awake,” she tells me with a small grin.

               “Thank you,” I nod back.

               I’m reaching for the door when my phone buzzes from my pocket. It’s Sarah, another optimistic message.

               “Dad’s really excited to see you. Please be nice, Charlie. Mend the bridge, make your peace.”

               I sigh and stuff the phone back into my pocket. I’m not here on friendly terms. Grabbing the handle, I push the door open slowly and take a moment to absorb the sight in front of me.

               My dad, once a large, strong man, is now nothing but skin and bone. He’s been propped up on pillows so that he can see his television set. A navy-colored blanket is spread over his knees, oxygen tubing clings to his frail frame. He slowly turns his head to look at me.

               “Charlie-Boy!” He exclaims the best he can, I can hear him wheezing between breaths. “How are you, son? It’s been too long.”

               I don’t reply, pulling a chair from the corner closer to the bed.

               “Tell me, do you have a wife? Kids?”

               “No, Dad. I have nothing,” I finally answer.

               He looks at me, a certain sadness in his eyes.

               “I’ve missed you, Charlie. Your sister, too. Although she’s been visiting more. I’m very glad…” he pauses to cough, his cheat rattling with every struggling breath. “Glad that she’s been coming around.”

               I stare straight ahead, preparing my speech when he speaks up again.

               “I’m sorry I wasn’t there more, son. I’m sorry. It’s the biggest regret of my life…”

               “Biggest regret? You left your wife and two children to run off with your secretary! You did nothing for us Dad! It makes me sick to even call you that!”

               He’s staring at me, mouth wide open, either unable to find the words or unable to get enough air to speak them.

               “I didn’t come here to mend a bridge. You are nothing to me, nothing. I came here to make my peace, to tell you that you single-handedly ruined our lives. Mom had to work three jobs, did Sarah tell you that? Did she tell you how she had a stroke? She was so young, dad! So young! And you continued to live your life like you didn’t have kids! And don’t even tell me that you made your child support payment, you know that wasn’t enough!” I’m shaking as the words flow out of me like a river.

               “I came here to tell you that if you ever, ever want to make it up to Sarah and I, you’ll write us into your will, and you’ll just go. There’s nothing left for you here. I won’t be back, I don’t know how Sarah manages to come by. Do us one fucking favor and just write your will. I’ll see you in Hell.”

               I turn, walking quickly towards the door.

               “Charlie…” I hear quietly from behind me as I slam it shut. I can’t bear to turn back. I walk quickly down the corridor, tears stinging my eyes, but I’ll be damned if I cry over this man.

               “Leaving so soon, sir?” The front desk girl asks. I ignore her. Turning the corner towards the exit, I nearly bump into the old woman from the waiting room. We both pause, looking each other in the face.

               “It’ll get easier, honey,” she says, almost a whisper. I step to the side and quickly make my way back into the cold, wet air.

               My phone rings, waking me from a not-so-restful sleep.

               “Yeah?” I ask groggily.

               “Hey,” Sarah speaks from the other line. She sniffles quietly. “Dad passed last night, Charlie. I didn’t want to call you too early. I’m just leaving the home. I met with the lawyer…”

               “Yes, and?” I practically shout, shooting up in bed.

               “And what, Charlie? What do you want to hear? Our father just died!”

               “Well, what about the will?” I ask, trying to contain my excitement. Maybe my message had gotten through to him.

               “Yes, he did write the will. I actually helped,” Sarah starts.

               “So what did he leave us?”

               She scoffs from the other end of the phone.

               “Unbelievable. You know, Dad told me about your little outburst. I was hoping he was too high to remember correctly, it sounds like that wasn’t the case. If you want to know, he and I made the decision together to leave his estate to the children’s hospital.”

               Hearing the words feels like a blow to my stomach.

               “You’re lying, that asshole! Our entire lives, he’s done nothing for us! Look at how we’ve turned out, nobodies!” I’m shouting into the receiver.

               “Speak for yourself!” Sarah shouts back at me. “It’s nobody’s fault but your own how you turned out, Charlie! I came from the same family, the same parents, and I have done very well for myself! You need to learn to stop playing the martyr and take some responsibility for your choices! I told you to make your peace, I made mine!”

               I hang up the phone before she has a chance to continue. Memories of my childhood come flooding to me, Dad teaching me to ride a bike when I was eight, Dad at all of my t-ball games, later at my baseball games, Dad sitting alone at my high school graduation because I didn’t give him one of my family tickets, Dad absent from my college graduation because I hadn’t told him I was graduating, Jennifer laughing and chasing Sarah and me with water balloons on the lake house beach while Dad grilled dinner, a letter for every birthday, every Christmas that I would throw into the trash without opening.

               The weight of the guilt I was feeling fell onto me like a wet blanket, crippling me in my bed. Suddenly, the tears began. I laid sobbing, gasping for what felt like hours. The sun slowly set through my blinds, yet I still couldn’t manage to pull myself from the bed.

               The image of my father, old, alone, frail in the hospice bed haunted my dreams. I couldn’t sleep for longer than an hour at a time. Sore and dehydrated from crying all night, I finally got out of bed. The alarm clock across the room blinked. 4:28 AM.

               I stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water, catching a glimpse of myself in my hall mirror. It had been a while since I had really looked at myself. Yet, when I did, I saw him. The strong jaw, prominent brows, dark and sunken eyes. I was my father’s son, I could see it after all these years. The man looking back at me was the same defeated man that I had seen lying in a hospice bed a few weeks ago.

               Staggering back to the bedroom, I grab my phone from the nightstand and call my sister. She answers on the second ring.

               “When’s the funeral?”