Dylan James is an emerging writer and painter based out of Columbus, Ohio. Instagram: @dylanthomasjames
An Ending Non-fiction by Angie Brady CW:Risky Behavior & Mental Health
A high-pitched shriek pierces the air. The shriek is quickly followed by a giggle as a little blonde girl pumps her legs and runs - runs for the safety of the tree that is also first base. She feels the wind in her face and imagines the amazing speed at which she travels. But of course, her little legs are not very fast, so the tall man with little hair on his head smiles indulgently, shortening his steps. She beats him to first base, and he ruffles her hair before returning to the middle of the yard. He throws the ball gently toward home base again, and a second girl runs and kicks with all her might.
The game is called Home Run Derby, and the trio plays the game loudly, with abandon. The man would say it’s a tradition to play the game with his daughters on a sunny Saturday afternoon. But the girls would just say they were spending time with their dadda.
I can’t stop my feet from faltering as I walk in the door. But there’s really no choice, so I chat and smile with the nurse at the front desk. She points down the hall. “The first door on the right, dear.” And when I walk over the next threshold, my steps don’t falter. The first thing I see is his familiar bald head, facing away from me. I can’t help but let out a breath. He’s just resting, and with only his head peeping out from the covers, I can almost imagine that nothing is wrong.
“Don’t stepon my dress,” the bride says, giving the man next to her a side-long look. The man is quick to look at his feet - there’s a good chance he’s more nervous than she is, and she regrets the warning that will only make him more anxious. But when he looks down at her a minute later, there are tears in his eyes, and the bride forgets to worry about his feet or her dress or the long walk down the aisle. “I’m so happy for you,” he whispers, and then the music starts and they begin their slow walk. Step-together. Step. Step-together.
Not wanting to wake him, I slowly move around the end of his bed to get to the chair. My leg catches the blankets, and they pull away from the bottom of the bed. All I can think as I look at his size 14 feet nestled on top of each other is “alien.” His feet are so large, but even his feet have lost every ounce of fat. Every bone is visible. The skin sags. And this must surely be an alien in the bed - not my father.
The two girls don’t need to hold hands to show their solidarity. Their skinny bodies are pressed against each other - hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. They fit perfectly in the adult-sized recliner. But the adult in the room isn’t in the chair, he’s on the couch. And he’s waking up. The snores stutter to a halt and the girls don’t know what to do besides look at him. Watch him groggily sit up on the couch, run his hands down his face. He squints at the two girls and tries to smile. “Lest play outside,” he says, almost hiding the slur.
Almost.
The girls nod solemnly, automatically putting on their jackets. But when they look back to the man they pause. He can’t hide the shakes in his hands as well as he can the slurring. “Can I - let me zip that, Dad,” the little girl whispers, stepping in front of her sister who is wiping away a tear.
The chair they have next to his bed is comfortable - meant for people to sit in for hours. Hours and hours as they visit their family. God, I just hope I can last half an hour. From here I can see his face, and his hands are pressed together and tucked under his head. He’s like a child, cushioning his head on his still hands. Maybe he’s praying, too.
The trio is bundled up, the two women in scarves and boots, purses secured across their bodies. The tall man follows close behind them, hat and gloves prominent as he cranes his head around. The girls walk with an ease that came from familiarity. But the man - the man’s eyes are wide with the wonder of a child. The lights, the sound, the overwhelming clamoris not something he is accustomed to. And then the girls grin back at him and turn a corner. The man follows them, trusting their guidance in this chaos. They pause to let him look, and while he looks up at the tree, the tree bigger than a house and lit more brightly than a stadium, they instead look at him. And they see the hundreds of lights reflected in his eyes. The man doesn’t so much as blink as he looks at the tree and reaches out to lay a hand on each girl’s shoulder.
The three take a moment to stare at the tree, letting the man’s eyes drink in the wonder of the Christmas lights. And if any of them notice the slight tension in the girls’ shoulders, none of them say anything.
I check the time on my phone again, wondering selfishly how long is long enough to stay and sit beside this alien. But this time when I look up, his eyes are open. And staring. I force a smile and sit forward, my stomach dropping out and words catching in my throat. But maybe I don’t need to say anything, because his eyes don’t see me. Not really. They are wide, staring right at me. But there’s no light behind them, little recognition. Like looking at a baby who knows enough to look at your face, but not enough to know if they’ve seen you before. I know I should reach forward and put my hand on his shoulder, or say soothing words, or even cry for Christ’s sake. Instead, I blink at him, and he blinks back.
“Shotgun!” The girl says loudly, racing ahead of her sister. The two bound off the steps, across the yard, and into the waiting car. Their softball bag lands heavily in the back seat, meticulously packed for a practice session. Their dad was always better at batting practice than their mom, so they are glad they get to visit with him this morning. The car is rolling down the road, their seatbelts clicked in place, before they realize something is not quite right. Maybe it was the silence, or the way the car wasn’t quite going the speed limit, or the smell that pervaded the car. It was probably the smell.
The girls freeze in their seats. Past a lump the size of a softball in her throat, the girl in the front asks to go back home, she forgot something. Please. Her sister echoes her request. “You didn’t forget anything,” the man says unsteadily. But the girls see that he is making a loop back around to the house. A slow loop. Tortuously slow, and their breath barely passes from their lungs as they wait for their house to come into view. His slurred apology is not acknowledged as they stumble from the car and race back into the house.
I open my mouth, knowing there are things I should be saying while I still can. Justifications for letting him be in this place. Consoling words to remind him of pleasanter times past. But instead, all I can think of are the words he should be saying to me -
“I’m sorry for driving drunk with you in the car. I don’t think you ever trusted me again after that.”
“Do you remember that time we went to the city? I was so happy you girls had forgiven me, even if you shouldn’t have.”
“I remember the first time you saw me drunk. You were too young for that - I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”
“I was so proud to walk you down the aisle. I didn’t deserve that.”
“I wanted to stick around long enough to play Home Run Derby with your kids. We were happy then. I was happy.”
“I’m sorry for being an alcoholic.”
“I’m sorry for choosing alcohol.”
“I’m sorry for your memories.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So sorry.”
I close my mouth and watch as his eyes close again, knowing I’ll likely never hear his voice again, let alone hear those words. I quietly get up, letting him sleep in whatever peace he’s found. But before I walk out, I take a breath, ready to let it go. Ready to break the silence of the room and tell him it’s okay, that all is forgiven.
But my words won’t come either, and even my feet don’t make a noise as they carry me out of the room.
Angie Brady is an aspiring writer, eking out words before it’s time for her son’s next bottle.