Hidden Sorrow

“Pete… This is your father. I don’t know… I have to tell you something. It’s important! Why don’t you ever pick up when I call… Pete… I lo.” (Click)

The last message my father sent me just before he died. The funeral was yesterday. Not many people came which was to be expected. He was a hard man to love and pushed all his friends away. He was never cruel just to be cruel but he was cold and distant.

My mother passed away from lung cancer nearly a year ago. She was our world; full of life and laughter. I never saw what she saw in my father. I asked her one day why they got together. She went on about opposites attracting and but she always had a tiny devious smile whenever she spoke about him, like she knew his little secret. He never told me his secret, never said much of anything to me other than the bare minimum. Why was I left out? After she died his icy distance turned to a fiery heat and he became angry at me every time I was in the house. He was never violent almost like he was holding something back however there was plenty of furious shouting.

The bank called me to come in and close his accounts today. He became disabled a few years ago, before mom had her own issues flare up with her lung cancer, due to an accident at his company. Many years were spent on fancy lawyers in lavish courtrooms fighting the insurance company. Every time he had won they would appeal the case and on and on it went. It nearly drove my father mad and was probably one of the causes of my mom’s cancer. All of the stress, the pain and suffering did not do anything for their health. All that was left after mom’s medical bills and his disability lawsuits with the insurance company were the house and $20,000.00.

I came to the house to start to pack his things. It was a fair size home 2300 square feet, tiled floors, stained wood panelling, popcorn ceilings. Nothing special and pretty basic. I was an only child so this home seemed huge growing up. The brick surrounding the house was brown with red brick patterns interlaced throughout. I walked up the rickety steps I helped to install as a teenager. I say helped but in essence I was yelled instructions and told I was doing this or that wrong the whole time. I opened the front door to the mirror fun house that was my old home. The walls leading into the house and going up the stairs had long sectioned eight foot mirrors running from ground to ceiling. I suppose my father liked the idea of being able to see every corner and movement in the house. I went to his bedroom and suddenly a thought came to me. I have never called him Dad. Not once. Most of my mother’s clothing and belongings I got rid of when she died. Her clothing went to either good will or various charities; I didn’t want it going to waste. My father didn’t say anything about that.

As I entered his room I commented on how sparse the room seemed. My mom made the room somehow pop. Maybe it was all of her stuff that gave it a lived in feeling rather than someone renting for the night. One king sized bed, one standard brown fake wood office desk and fake leather chair, a lamp from the 1980’s on a cracked stained wood nightstand next to his bed… I immediately noticed a little black book on his nightstand. I never saw him write before other than a cheque to cash. I turned to the closet and start there. The little black book can wait. I opened the closet door. It creaked loudly just like when I was a kid playing hide and seek with my mom. The hinge’s needed some oil then and they need some now, she would always find me when the door creaked. I turned on the light to find the small room filled with brown boxes and very little clothing. The suit he wore to mom’s funeral and few other shirts and pants combos hanging there lifeless. I opened up the first cardboard box and a gust of dust flew in my face. The musty odour emanating from the box was of old books. Once my eyes cleared of dust more of those little black books were staring at me. So I grabbed the box and brought it to the bed. The bed still smelled like him. In a way that smell was comforting but also brought back a lot of bad memories.

I remember my senior year high school baseball championship game. I was so excited and my mom was too. My father never said a word. He drove us to the game and I asked him to come watch. My mom was going to watch. He said, “No, I’m busy. Call me when it’s done.” My mother had a small smirk on her face and gave my father a kiss. The secret she knew about him once again surfaced on her smile. I got two home runs that day and my team won the championship. I was so excited to show my father the trophy. When we got into his pickup truck I held up the trophy to him. I was waving it from side to side happy and giddy from my win; my mother cheering words of approval and warmth like she was in the stands. He was silent, then he said, “Trophies don’t mean anything. Anyone can get one. They give them out for participation.” My waving stopped and my shoulders once high fell to the ground. My mother said in an endearing voice, “Don’t worry about it, you deserve this. We are proud of you.” She said WE are proud of you. He didn’t. He never said I am proud of you Pete or even I love you. I have never heard those words from my father.

I took one of the little black books from the box and opened it up. It was a diary. It… IT WAS HIS DIARY. Every page was dated and signed by him. I threw all the books on the bed and began scurrying around trying to find the first date entry. Found it… the first date he began writing was the day I was born.

October 1, 1988

My son is born! I have a son! This is incredible. We named him Peter after my grandfather who was so kind and so wonderful until he died. I have a wonderful wife who I don’t deserve, a great job that pays benefits and a pension and now a son! This is what life is supposed to be. I feel…Why am I thinking of my father now. My father the man who said I was worthless and would amount to nothing. Screw him, I have to stay focus on being there for my family. My son will never know what my father did to me and God willing he never will. I will be better than my father ever was. Time to focus on Pete and my wife. I am so excited to play baseball with him. It is my favorite sport.

As I go through the rest of the books my eyes begin to water and then tears start pouring out like unwrapping and onion. At first your eyes water but then as you really get into it the onion it pierces into your senses making you wish you hadn’t started the process. My father’s diaries detail how my grandfather would beat him nearly every day for no apparent reason. His brothers would never get any punishment but being the eldest of three and the one who my father thinks cursed my grandfather to parenthood got a lot of the beatings. Not just beatings but verbal assaults too like, “You’re worthless, No one wanted you, You always make trouble for me, Why can’t you just keep quiet and know your place.” Had I misunderstood my father all this time? The next book I open has my high school baseball game in it.

April 8, 2006

Today is Pete’s high school championship game today. He asked me to come and watch. I… I can’t. My father has been plaguing me more and more these years. Ever since Pete was born I have been trying to hold back my anger towards my father. I do not want to show my son this side of me. Only my wife knows the anger I feel and the hatred toward that man that I have. My most vivid memory of my father was when I got back home from a baseball game my team and I had just won. We all got these cool trophies with the little guy on top swinging his bat. After walking inside my house my father swung my favorite baseball bat, the one I got signed by one of my heroes, over my back without any notice disintegrating it over my back. It shattered into a thousand pieces. I can still hear the thump. I crashed to the floor and my trophy flew on the ground. I couldn’t catch my breath for a few minutes. My father just stared down at me…watching me be helpless… and after a few moments said, “Clean that mess up or so help me!” He then turned around and saw the trophy and said, “Trophies don’t mean anything. Anyone can get one. They give them out for participation.” I will not be my father but his memory makes me say stupid awful things to Pete and I just want to tell him good things. When I dropped my wife and son off at the baseball diamond I drove half a mile to a coffee shop. Parked the car and walked back to the diamond. I hid… like a coward afraid of what my son’s reaction would be to me being there. I hid behind the bleachers watching. Whenever the crowd cheered, I cheered. He was amazing at the sport. Better than I ever was. I was so proud of his two home runs.

Tears just kept rolling down my face. I finally opened the little black book on the nightstand. I opened the book and read all the way to the last page.

January 8, 2021

This might be the last time I write in this little black book. I can feel it coming. I’ll be with you soon my dear. I’ll call Pete and finally tell him everything… He never answers his phone when I call. Pete… If you are reading this I assume you have read every other book too. I should have said this in person but maybe when we see each other again I will be brave enough too. Pete… I love you. I have always loved you and always will. I wish I could have told you this in person but I was too much of a coward. Pete… I am so very proud of you too. Everything you have done I cannot even say how it makes me feel. You are my light and my love. The greatest thing I have ever created. I love you Pete and I am proud of you.

I close the little black book and wipe my tears. “I love you too…Dad.”