Our Cherished Father

Sensitive themes: mental health, emotional abuse, swearing

He couldn’t walk in the months leading up to his death. Probably just another inevitable side effect of aging. Temporary. He’d be able to walk again in a few days. That’s what he told them when they insisted he see his doctor. A few days passed and he still couldn’t walk and he still didn’t go see his doctor. Something inside him was plugged up—a blockage somewhere deep in his rusty, liver spotted pipes that threw up fumes and caused him to splutter with every step. Still, constant till the end, he treated this new ailment with the flippant disregard that had long marked his life—deep were the treadmarks of detachment in George Waterford’s brain.

When Sam Waterford got the call, he was comparing prices of food processors online. If he used it for protein shakes and quit buying lunch all the time, he’d make his money back in a month. Tops. But why did they have to be so expensive? He was doing a cost benefit analysis on a $600 stainless steel set when his phone vibrated. Angelica’s smiling face lit up the screen. His own smile, muted in comparison, beside her. The photo was taken three years earlier on a camping trip. It had been a last-minute going-away party to celebrate his move across the country for a new job. Even in pixels Angelica’s energy was palpable. Wide, fiercely expressive eyes and blonde, fraying hair—a side effect of dying it so often when they were in high school. She only did it when she knew dad would be gone on business, that started happening a lot more towards the end, so she got away with all sorts of interesting, or as she put it, ‘inspired’ color combinations. Mom saw it of course, but she had other things to worry about.

“Hello?”

“Sam.”

Sam straightened, visions of homemade hummus and nut butters, forgotten.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s dad.”

The funeral was to be held in a week. He’d offered to help, but Angelica insisted on planning it all. What good are you out there in Michigan? She’d asked and he could see the dismissive little hand wave in her voice—a gesture she picked up from George. One they’d often see when asking things of him. Usually it was followed by ‘go ask your mom.’ So with four days to go until the funeral, Sam continued to compare food processors, staring at the text onscreen until the words blurred and his vision softened and he was nine years old standing in the wood-paneled kitchen with the slug-shaped water stain on the ceiling that they kept ‘meaning to fix’’, watching his mother cry, hand on the faucet, timing the running water to her wet inhales.

There is one thing you could do, Angelica had said. Could you write the eulogy?

Sam steeple-d his fingers and sighed. He clicked the other open tab. A blank Google Doc, cursor flashing at the top. Rigid steel slicing the page, dropping away into nothing, over and over. He tried to focus, but his mind felt slippery, unable to grasp on to any words. What do people usually write about in these things? He searched online for examples.

Frank was the kind of person who could light up a room with his smile.

Margaret was a lesson to us all in living with compassion and grace, even in our final moments.

I’ll never forget the time Eddie let me borrow his lawn mower….

A collage of heartfelt cliches and anecdotes. Surely, he could do that. He just needed a single story to tell. It didn’t need to be good. He could fluff it up with words like ‘cherished’ and ‘devoted’ —something that sounded meaningful and, more importantly, met expectations. He closed his eyes and sent himself back to the slug-stained kitchen, back to the faded brick one-story with the sagging porch where he’d spent most of his time, racing Hot Wheels on the concrete, discovering little tricks to tune out the rest of the world. He learned to pull his shirt up over his head whenever their parents got too loud, disappearing into a soft inner shell. Warm breath, cotton, and golden filtered sunlight. Angelica had claimed the backyard swing set as her play area and, being the eldest, she always got what she wanted. He doubted whether she had to endure the fights as persistently as he had in those early days. The play set was built before they bought the house and sat slowly rotting in the shadow of a fir at the far end of the yard, an oasis their parents never touched, partially due to the fir cones that peppered the area like land mines. He doubted the noise reached it, especially when it first began and was kept at a low, inconspicuous level.

A shout from outside drew Sam’s attention. Quickly glancing out the window and revealing the culprit—some neighbor kids dribbling a basketball—he took a deep breath and re-centered. He needed to focus. He was getting off track. Think positive. Think happy. Think cherished and devoted. Suddenly, he had it.

Three days before the funeral.

Sam lingered in the kitchen aisle at Walmart. He was headed towards hygiene to pick up travel-size bottles for shampoo, but made a sudden detour to see if the stainless steel food processor he’d been eyeballing was in stock. There was another man in the aisle reading the back of blender box. In his other hand, he dangled something just out of reach of a toddler sitting in his cart. Sam leaned back and saw it was a stuffed seahorse. The child looked up at it with delight, reaching with soft, dimpled fingers and Sam was met with a strange, overwhelming desire to grab hold of them and receive their warmth. A loud noise broke the silence, reflected in the sudden twisting of the baby’s face. It began to cry. The father shot a quick annoyed glance as Sam pulled out his phone and jammed the mute button. He held up a sheepish, apologetic hand and turned away.

“What is it?” he asked, answering the call once he’d cleared the aisle.

“You can’t tell that story.” Angelica again.

“What are you talking about?”

“The eulogy you sent. It’s no good.”

“What do you mean it’s no good?”

“I mean, it’s no good.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Sam asked, dropping his voice as he walked past sporting goods.

“You really don’t know?”

Sam squeezed the bridge of his nose, “No I don’t. Would I be asking if I knew?” She always did this. Played games. Made him guess. There was a pause on the other end. That was uncharacteristic.

“That was the day he met her Sam.”

Sam dropped his hand from his face. He knew, of course, that it would come back to her. It had to. Eventually. Inevitably. When it came to their father, all roads led to Tracy. The arguing, the bargaining, the surprise trips to fancy restaurants where he was made to wear Sunday clothes and his parents held hands, their voices raw from the night before, new jewelry clinging to his mother’s neck.

Angelica was still talking. “I don’t mean like met, met. Because y’know they’d been working together for a while at that point. But it was the first time they hooked up, romantically.”

Driving down the freeway. Rolling Stones on the radio. The sun felt like it was shining just for them. He’d never heard his dad sing before, it was a pleasant, full, rumbling sound. Thick and comforting, like a meat stew.

You can't always get what you want,

But if you try sometimes, well, you might find,

You get what you need.

George looked back at him and Angelica occasionally and winked, reaching back to playfully grab their knees.

“I’m surprised mom didn’t tell you,” Angelica was saying on the phone.

They spent that day at the aquarium. Just the three of them. George seemed just as excited as they were, pointing out different varieties of shark and patiently waiting for them to take turns reading the informational placards. That first hour Sam kept waiting for the mood to break. All tides fall eventually. When he accidentally dropped his fries at the concession stand his heart sank to his feet, certain he’d dispelled whatever magic hung over them, but George just said 'it happens' and bought him another box. Angelica was much quicker to throw caution to the wind, testing the limits of their newfound freedom, rushing back and forth between exhibits, begging for candy and soda and key chains. Some of her requests were granted. All of them were met with a general calm and poise they’d never seen in their father before. It was a golden day.

They ended it in the gift shop. Angelica was hanging off their dad’s arm, persuading him to buy her a painted seashell. Sam browsed the aisles halfheartedly, he’d learned indifference was easier than rejection. He was by a shelving unit of underwater picture books when a blue-green flash of color caught his eye. It was a plastic seahorse, about the size of his hand. His dad had pointed it out in one of the first exhibits they’d seen. He’d grabbed Sam’s arm excitedly, jabbing a finger at the glass.

“Sam look! You see that blue little guy right there. That’s a Hippocampus Kuda.”

“Woah! It’s so cool. It’s really colorful.”

“You think that’s cool? Listen to this - in this species the boys get pregnant.”

“What!”

“Yeah! They carry the baby around in a pouch on the front, like a kangaroo.”

“Neato!”

“Imagine if we were like those guys? I’d carry you just like this!” He’d shouted and swooped Sam up in his arms, tickling his stomach.

Sam picked up the toy, gingerly. After four hours in the aquarium he’d built up some courage, but his stomach was in knots when he approached his father.

“Sam, are you listening?” Angelica sounded concerned on the phone.

“Yes, I am. Sorry.”

Someone adjusted the aperture. The soft-lit memory came sharply into focus. Had the sun really been that bright? Was his dad laughing because he was happy to be there—or because he’d remembered something Tracy had said?

“Can you think of another story?”

Sam rubbed his temples, he felt a headache starting. “I was really trying with that one. I don’t have a lot of good memories with the guy.”

“I have faith in you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. I mean, should we even be writing him….” Sam looked around and dropped his voice, “....a eulogy? He was kind of a piece of shit.”

“I know, but it has to be done.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s just how it is. When people die they get a funeral and a eulogy. So let's do it and get it over with.”

“I never knew you to be such a conformist.”

A heavy sigh. “Can we not do this right now? I’m tired. The last week has been a blur of phone calls. Calls to the funeral home. Calls to flower shops. Calls for catering. Calls to relatives I’ve never met. All I asked you to do was write the eulogy and you’re telling me you can’t handle that one simple request?”

“That’s what I’m saying Angelica. You’re proving my point here. He was an asshole.” A few heads turned his direction. He darted down an empty aisle. “He doesn’t deserve all this effort. He never put this much effort into anything when he was alive—his family least of all.”

“Well, whether or not he deserves it, he’s getting it. The plans are in place. Write the eulogy. I’ll see you in three days.”

The phone disconnected. Sam kept it at his ear for a moment longer, listening to nothing, letting everything settle. He looked around, taking in the white tile and florescent, gathering a sense of place he’d lost. Somehow he’d wound up in the pet section. An assortment of empty fish tanks lined the shelf in front of him, his face a broken reflection watching from the glass. He returned his shopping cart and left the store without purchasing anything.

Two days before the funeral.

The angry red dot in his shopping cart looked less like a plus icon and more like crosshairs. $300. That’s how much it would cost to fly to Oregon. His credit card lay flat on the table. His cursor hovered over ‘check out.’ He chewed at dry skin on his lip and waited for something, unsure of what. As if on cue, his phone lit up.

“Have you bought your plane ticket yet?” Angelica was breathless, he could hear cars and the sound of machinery.

“I can hardly hear you, where are you right now?”

“I’m outside. I’m walking to the store, I have a few last minute things to get for the reception.”

“Don't most funeral homes take care of all this?”

“Technically. But I wanted to oversee a few things.”

“Of course you did”

“What time do you arrive in Eugene?”

“I’m about to buy the ticket now.”

“How long are you staying? You should probably get a hotel, at least for the first few nights. I’d offer to let you stay with us, but I already gave our guest room away to Aunt Stacy and Uncle Bill and they’re bringing their kids, so it’s going to be a full house for me.”

Sam used a finger to slide his credit card back and forth across the table.

“Sure, sure,” he said, nodding.

The metal clanking grew louder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Angelica said. “They’re doing construction on this road and they closed down the sidewalk on both sides. Very cool. Ugh. Guess I’ll turn around.”

A pause, wherein he heard nothing but exasperated breathing.

“Oh, by the way, you never sent me the updated version of the eulogy.”

Sam glanced at the Google Docs tab. Untouched from two days earlier.

“I’m working on it,” he lied.

“Sam.” Angelica was concerned now, “Are you going to be ready in time?”

“I’ll be fine. What happened to all that faith you had in me yesterday?”

“It’s quickly draining. Oh shit, they’ve got this sidewalk closed too?” Angelica groaned, “I’ve gotta go. Work on that eulogy. I’m excited to see you.”

“I’m excit---” Sam started, but she’d hung up.

Sam groaned and rubbed his neck—yesterday’s headache seemed to have spun itself into a full-body tightness, or was it the other way around? The tightness caused the headache? Either way he definitely wasn’t feeling well enough to do any planning. He minimized the tabs and went to the kitchen to make tea.

The day before the funeral.

He hadn’t slept well that night, formless, transient images fading in and out like shadows behind a curtain. A few moments had lingered, the curtains drawn back briefly to reveal the slug-stained kitchen, his mother at the sink, the faucet running, not with water, but with thick, gelatinous seahorses, squelching as they pulled free from the canal and landed with an echoing plop, curtains closing, opening again into the aquarium, his father’s face pressed against a tank, he turns and whispers ‘isn’t she beautiful,’ the angle shifts slightly revealing Tracy's head, stuck behind the glass, gills like long gashes in her throat, opening and closing wordlessly.

Sam sat at the kitchen table drinking chamomile and remembering, feeling strange in the cold afternoon sun. Then, a text from Angelica.

Send me your arrival time.

Sam sighed. If he got a red-eye he could make it in time. But the eulogy….He opened his laptop. The tab was still active. He read through what he’d written three days earlier. It was perfect. It screamed ‘cherished’ and ‘devoted.’ It was a lie.

Do you think you could pick up a couple bottles of wine for the reception?

Another text from Angelica. Sam turned his phone on mute. His headache was back. Outside there was shouting, the sound of shoes and basketballs connecting with pavement. He watched them play, the sun clear and unforgiving directly overhead. He stayed like that until the light fell against their backs, silhouettes long and reaching. He was sure he had unread texts from Angelica. Most likely calls too. He opened his laptop again and looked at the time. He could still make it if he wanted to. He clicked on one of the open tabs. There was a sale on the food processor he wanted.