Will and the Wisp
Why does he call me father?
I guess towards the end I was more of a father than a son to him. The last thirty years of my life I felt imprisoned by obligation, shackled by the kindness a father bestows on a son. The resulting resentment buried me in guilt.
Some days are so cloudy I hesitate before taking any steps, fear and uncertainty blinding every move. I guess that is to be expected, I only buried him a week ago. Maybe that’s why he keeps appearing to me. He stands in the doorway, his hands deep in his pockets, his voice and eyes patient, but each breath heavy and disheartened. He thinks I don’t see that. He thinks I don’t know what it’s like to be frustrated. But I grew up bearing frustration, never knowing what to say or what to do. I remember that well.
The day after my tenth birthday I woke to find my mother gone. That morning, our house was burstingly bare. I walked around the house looking for her, even though I somehow knew the moment I pulled the covers away from my body that she was gone. Walking into my parents closet, my father’s work shirts hung gleaming high above my head, so heavily starched the sleeves all stood at attention. A row of wire hangers hung haphazardly, stripped and left behind on my mother’s side. The garage echoed with emptiness, with no trace of the car she had always driven except for a small oil stain that was still smeared on the concrete. Every family picture that had been placed around the living room had vanished, as if we had never really all been together.
I didn’t know what to do that morning, so I just ran out the door, hours early for the bus. The house was strange after that, big and cold and the silence so deafening I’d have to bury my face in a pillow on the couch. Then—if my cries were heavy enough—I would find her, the smell of her perfume still trapped deep within the fabric.
The next day I came into the kitchen to see my dad shaking a carton of orange juice.
“What can I make you for breakfast Will? How about eggs? Or do you prefer pancakes?” He handed me the glass of orange juice, and I took it. I didn’t bother to tell him that I always drank milk or that I didn’t like eggs.
“Anything’s fine.” I sat down hesitantly, wondering if I should get out my own plate this morning. He had always called me William. My father cooked with his back towards me, cracking eggs in a small bowl and scrambling them while I just sat there, staring at my hands and wondering if I was ready to ask questions I already knew the answers to. It was odd seeing my dad stand at the stove, but he cooked as if he had done it every morning of my life.
“Where did mom go?” He turned and set the food down in front of me, put his hand on my shoulder, and calmly explained to me that mom probably wouldn’t be coming home. I didn’t know what to say, so I just ate my eggs.
From that day on, it was my father who waited for me at the bus stop to walk me home from school. He cooked dinner for me every night, and it was his voice I heard on my way up the stairs reminding me to brush my teeth. We started watching football games on Monday nights, and the first time I saw his Notre Dame play he let me take a sip of beer. Even though I didn’t like it, I smiled at my dad and licked my lips as if it were the coldest can of cola in the world and laughed while he sang his school’s fight song in a voice so deep it boomed and filled the entire house. As if my mother had never been the one to do anything, we effortlessly settled into our new routine, seamlessly going about our days.
Without the distraction of my mother, I began noticing things about my father. He could never remember where he put his keys, and he seemed to always be searching for something, but when I’d ask him what he was looking for, he’d give me a blank look and then chuckle, scratch his chin, and then move on to something else. I teased him that he was getting old, and he’d laugh and tell me that it would happen to me one day.
The changes in my father were gradual, but progressive. It was easy to ignore at first. He’d loose his keys, and then we’d find them, still in the ignition after searching the whole house together. I’d come home from school to find his car parked in the driveway, the engine still running and the door left ajar. It wasn’t until he took the lid off of the orange juice before he began shake the carton that I really began to notice all of the changes in my father. And then that’s how it was…every morning I’d walk into a kitchen splatter-painted with juice, orange dripping everywhere from the refrigerator to the counter tops and see my father on his hands and knees, wiping the tile down with a damp cloth, stained orange, mumbling under his breath. I’d laugh nervously, help him clean the kitchen, and then drive off to school. Other days I’d wake up to find him still in pajamas, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.
“You’re up early for a Sunday.” He got up and headed to the kitchen to begin making my breakfast.
“It’s a school day dad, I have to leave soon. Maybe you want to get dressed for work.” I hurried to the kitchen to pour my own juice. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but then he just turned around and walked away, mumbling something about boys and respect for their father’s. I wanted to scream at him, shake him until he remembered. Instead, I ran upstairs to start ironing his work shirt. Fingering the white thread of the embroidered William across the front pocket, I felt stifled by regret and resentment. I grabbed my keys and headed out the door, thankful for the sanctuary of school. Every day I couldn’t wait to leave the house, but when finally surrounded by the comforting walls of my high school all I could think about was getting home to my father who may have left the stove on, or the water running, or something boiling on the stove. With each passing hour, I wondered if my father had gotten worse.
“I think you should get checked out dad. I’ve read that there are medications they can give you…you know, to stop the progression.” I was scared to speak the words, but reality was the wall my back was up against, and I couldn’t ignore every screeching sign any longer.
“Alzheimer’s runs in families. My dad didn’t have it, and neither do I. I know I can be forgetful, but it’s just a part of aging.” He looked disgusted. “I don’t know why you are pushing this Will.” His eyes softened. “The only thing I gave you was my name.” But they only softened for a moment.
He was irritable. It became harder for me to remember my dad as the man he was when I was young, the man who watched football with me on Monday nights and who cooked me breakfast every morning since I was ten years old.
I had never heard him yell that way before, as I did the day I brought my father to the doctor. Sitting in the parking lot he shouted and banged his fist on my dashboard, the plastic cracking under the weight of anger so heavy. The tone of his voice fueled my own anger, and desperate for help I grabbed him and contained his flailing arms until his voice and body went limp.
“Let’s just see what they say dad. If I’m wrong, then we’ll celebrate.” And out we went, our steps in stride with one another, our awareness of the situation pulling at our feet. There would be no celebration that night, and the doctor’s words seemed to dig my father into a deeper oppression that only darkened his condition.
We were both at the hospital when my son was born. Holding him in my arms, I looked down at him, remembering what my father had said about Alzheimer’s running in families. I held him a little tighter. He had my father’s eyes, our name, and I couldn’t stop myself from praying that was the only thing he had inherited from my side of the family. We sat my father in a chair and placed the baby in his arms. He looked up at me, his whole face lit up with excitement, and for a moment, I thought my dad had come back. But just for a moment.
“I knew I made the right decision. I married his mother because of him. I didn’t think I was ready for a kid….but isn’t he perfect. William. A solid name for a perfect baby.” His voice was strong and confident. “Those are hands of a football player, I tell you. I can’t believe I finally have a son!” And then he softly began singing his university’s fight song.
The day I buried my father, I stood and watched them lower his casket into the ground and suddenly I knew I was free. He was at peace, his mind was at rest, and I realized I did not have to worry any more. My whole body simultaneously exhaled, weakening my knees and making me sway. My son caught me and let me lean against him. I stood there, allowing people to pat me for support, while my son cried for his grandfather. I didn’t know what to do then either, so I started singing my dad’s fight song in my head, begging for absolution.
And now here he stands before me, acting as if I don’t know anything about frustration. Why does he keep appearing? The memory of him lying in his casket, his face placid, his mind finally at rest, had made me feel eerily at peace. I thought I was happy that he had finally passed away, and hoped that he had found whatever he had always been searching for. But maybe I wasn’t ready for him to die. All those years I had wished to be free of him, free of his unawareness and free of his unrecognizable stares, and now sitting here, wishing it wasn’t so and still deceptively seeing him in front of me.
“You should have gotten checked out dad. I told you that the earlier it was caught, the easier it could be to treat. It could have slowed down the progression and—-”
“I don’t have Alzheimer’s. Why are you here? What do you need now?”
“I want you to know that I am here for you. I feel bad about this, but I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“I thought when you died you’d leave me alone. I thought maybe I’d find peace.”
“Father…”
“I am your son. Don’t you ever remember anything? How is it possible that you live, but you don’t live in this moment? Just remember. Just try to remember. Mom left us when I was ten years old. You use to take care of me, but I think I’ve been taking care of you my whole life. For God’s sake, I have a son I have to look after now, and a wife. And you’re still here, consuming all of me!”
“Maybe it’s time for me to go.” He spoke softly, his voice quiet and exasperated. I remember that. He still stood at the door, but behind him I could see attendants pushing carts up and down the corridors. Medicine rattled in their tiny plastic cups, and if someone wasn’t paging a doctor in the background, it would have sounded like a symphony…the wheels, and the rattling, and the rhythmic foot steps pacing up and down the hallways. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to inhale the life from the room.
“Why am I here?” I looked around, feeling bewilderment bubble up inside of me.
“Father –” He put his hand on my shoulder, rubbed me reassuringly, and I looked at him, confusion blurring my thoughts. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that when I opened them, he would be gone. Rubbing my head, my temples pulsated through my fingertips. The blood flowed hot inside. I opened my eyes and looked around, looking, looking. Why is he calling me father? I stared up at him. His face eclipsed the florescent light above him, making a bright halo around his whole head. I looked into his blue eyes, so much like my father’s. I sighed. Some days are so cloudy I hesitate before taking any steps, fear and uncertainty blinding every move. I guess that is to be expected, I only buried him a week ago. Maybe that’s why he keeps appearing to me.
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Very nicely done. A few spelling errors (loose when you meant lose, etc) but nothing too distracting. The last paragraph seemed… rushed to me. The bulk of the story flowed so perfectly until that point. Make it a little clearer to the reader what is happening when his father reappears, and then reevaluate your sentences starting with “I squeezed my eyes shut” all the way until the repetition in the end. Some of it seems redundant, and some of it seems it could be combined in that paragraph.
Other than that though, thanks for posting this. I lost my dad when I was 16 in a similar situation, so I definitely cried. Which is a good thing. :]
lu.
that is an absolutely brilliant story… and the only reason im writing ths review is to tell you that i dont see anyway you can better it. i just wanted to tell you im favoriting it and i sure would not mind if you refunded it…
thank you for sharing this with us.
well done
xl13dj13x
I think this story is very good, an excellent ending. For me it would help to tighten up the progression; time passes in jumps and starts, from the time the mother leaves until the father dies. The transitions, such as to high school age and then fatherhood, are abrupt. Your punctuation needs a once-over, sentences like “I don’t know why you are pushing this Will” should read “I don’t know why you are pushing this, Will.” I thought the phrase “burstingly bare” was a little tortured.
Overall this is a good story and I definitely think you should keep working on it.
I was slightly confused by the dialogue at the end of the piece, unsure of whom it was doing the talking or thinking. The subject of the story & style make it a compelling read and thoroughly enjoyable. Great story.
I really like this. It’s nicely written and I reckon fairly well paced. I’d start to think about submitting it to short story magazines and the like.
I also love the pathos in this piece, you pretty much got me there.
Now with all of the above, I offer these (feel free to see them as niggling) suggestions lightly…
The day after my tenth birthday I woke to find my mother gone – From a grammar perspective, I think it’s ‘woke up’ and without the preposition, it’s ‘awoke’.
Incidentally, as an aside, read this out aloud and decide what rhythm feels true to the story. That way when long-smiths like me show up or the ‘short-sentence brigade’, you can best choose what works for you.
The garage echoed with emptiness, with no trace of the car she had always driven except for a small oil stain that was still smeared on the concrete. – I’m a fan of long sentences. However, the rhythm here is just off. I reckon a comma is required after ‘stain’ to keep the rhythm jogging nicely. I have the same feeling about the following sentence regarding the family pictures.
Every family picture that had been placed around the living room had vanished, as if we had never really all been together. – Lovely sentiment, but the second phrase is clunky and I’m not sure there’s a workable rescue that’s not a rewrite of the phrasing.
‘Then—if my cries were heavy enough—I would find her, the smell of her perfume still trapped deep within the fabric’. – Gorgeous!
‘As if my mother had never been the one to do anything, we effortlessly settled into our new routine, seamlessly going about our days. ’ – Lovely observational prose.
‘It wasn’t until he took the lid off of the orange juice before he began ( ) shake the carton that I really began to notice all of the changes in my father’ – missing ‘to’
‘And then that’s how it was…every morning I’d walk into a kitchen splatter-painted with juice, orange dripping everywhere from the refrigerator to the counter tops and see my father on his hands and knees, wiping the tile down with a damp cloth, stained orange, mumbling under his breath. ‘
- There’s too much going on in the above sentence. For my money, the ellipsis throws this sentence a bit. If you want to keep it, I think you’ll need to end the sentence at ‘counter tops’. Also, you don’t need ‘stained orange’, because the point is made earlier and finally, ‘down’ relates to the verb and so should be next to it rather to ‘tile’.
‘the plastic cracking under the weight of anger so heavy.’ – Nice!
All those years I had wished to be free of him, free of his unawareness and free of his unrecognizable stares, and now sitting here, wishing it wasn’t so and still deceptively seeing him in front of me. – Nice but clunky. Try taking out the second ‘free’ , including first person present tense for ‘sit’ and ‘see’,. Also think about excluding ‘deceptively’. I think the mystery remains intact without it.
All together, lovely…
This is almost a great story. The cyclic nature is great. THe repitition of the first line at the end, i also liked. The orange juice all over, great.
The only thing i think this story needs is a little bit of a divergence from the typical tropes of the genre. There are a lot of alzeimers stories out there, and while you make your make with the juxtaposition of the father son, i feel like you can do more with the symptoms leading up to that. Keep the oj, keep the keys… but maybe throw in something that a reader wouldn’t expect. Also, i think the reluctance to accept the disease (the first time) is a little heavy handed. i ask you tone it back.
james
Nice. You did a hell of a job with this, but, even so, there are still a couple of problems that need to be addressed. First, the progression of time is not clear in the early part of the story. We go from mom leaving to his dad’s dotage without much of a break in between. It’s not clear whether he had signs when mom left, if that was the reason or what was going on. The second problem is the mom. Anyone, who has a loved one afflicted with alzhiemer’s and leaves has to battle guilt and depression for the rest of their lives so her just permanently disappearing doesn’t ring true. Maybe it would be better to kill her off or to have infrequent calls, letters, or some other manifestation of her guilt – just don;t ignore her, even if she is gone.
He are a few minor things I noticed on the read through;
“frustrated, but
“was burstingly bare” burstingly is a poor word choice
“Every family picture that” she took every family picture, but not the kid? A mother leaving a child behind is so unusual that there has to be something pretty compelling.
“a deeper oppression” depression
A sad story of a difficult subject: aging and ilnesses, Alzheimer´s. You write with sympathy and you took me on a good ride of someone´s experience. I felt it. A very talented writer. This text is ready to be published, if one can find a right forum. It is a matter of time and place and a matter of will.
A very strong message. I have a flash fiction piece along the same lines entitled Circle.
Stylistically, this is written in a passive voice. Passive voice tends to make writings feel like lectures. It makes the readers aware they are outsiders looking inside someone’s life. Making them feel like peeping toms. Passive voice can work, but it is extremely hard.
As I was reading this, I couldn’t help but feel a little bored, a little detached, a little out of place. I couldn’t really connect to your narrator. He was simply telling me about his father an the disease’s progression. And it was just too matter of fact. I couldn’t see the emotional upheaval that this should have caused, even worse, I didn’t FEEL it.
Therefore, I don’t think the passive voice works here. This needs to be re-written in active voice along with actual events unfolding for us, instead of being told to us. You do do some of that but not enough and very sketchily at best (first breakfast scene). You missed many opportunities to get us to connect to the two main characters and really get to know them. Make the events real by showing us them. Show us the frantic searches for the car keys. Show us the little forgetful events, show us more of the struggle these two men faced.
He’d loose his keys -”lose” his keys
Oh this is the saddest thing I have read, and so eloquent. My grandfather had alzheimers and this is written with the knowledge that one has when living with that nightmare. You describe the confusion and thoughts of the family so well. This is absolutely wonderful. Please, don’t change any of it. I love the ending where the son becomes the victim of the disease as well. Very good story.
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