Leaving a Mark

Death has a way of taking what it wants. He was not going to last much longer. He had only been in the hospital for four days, but he had gone downhill so fast.

I always knew in the deep recesses of my mind that I would experience death up close as someone’s life waned, but I tried not to think about it. I was thinking about it now. I found myself marking time differently with someone in distress.

He had been fine last week. We had our regular visit at his small, one-bedroom apartment with the drab curtains that took my mom years to save up for. There were few extra things on display. Just some old trinkets from roadside stands that were faded mementos of car trips from my childhood.

These visits were left to me as his social circle kept shrinking. That was especially true since Mom died. In the years since her passing, he kept on with a strong exterior but he remained wounded. The cancer had been cruel and had cut short their golden years. The medical bills were mostly covered but there was never any room for extras for them financially, nor for him since then. They scraped by and gave me the best future they could.

At least I was an only child. They couldn’t have afforded another mouth to feed. A day laborer and a part-time librarian are not on anyone’s list of top earners. I remember them being happy on payday but less so as the week progressed. Their financial state never seemed to trickle down to me though. I didn’t pick up on their stress until after I was out of the house. Even then, they barely broadcast their status, meager as it was. They seemed satisfied to spend what they could on me. I’m not sure I ever thanked them. I’m not sure I knew how to. All the while, my father remained frugal out of necessity and privacy, unwilling and unable to spend money on himself.

I guess I followed in their financial footsteps. I was used to a life without extras so I just continued it. There was only a couple hundred dollars in the bank just like my parents’ account. There were no luxuries. There wasn’t any spending. There was only paying. Paying bills, paying taxes, meeting obligations, meeting demands. I could get dragged down by it if I thought about it too much.

I just kept my head down and went about my business. Right now, my business was using the last of my sick time to be with the only person who would’ve done the same for me. He didn’t seem to be in any pain. Of course, he was on enough drugs to keep him comfortable but not lucid. It would have been nice to talk to him one more time.

So I decided to do some talking even if he wasn’t able to reply. I talked about the memories I had of growing up poor but happy. I recounted holidays and birthdays with cake and ice cream. I told him I appreciated the model he was for me with my mom and in his work ethic. Some of the stories made me laugh a little and I almost expected him to smile. Each remembrance left its mark on me.

I grew quiet after a time and stared into the whiteness of the sterile room. I counted the lines on the ceiling. Each mark on the ceiling tiles was meant only to break up the otherwise boring expanse overhead. I was startled out of my thoughts as he started to mumble. I drew close to see if I could make it out.

“I left...the twenty th….”

It took him so much effort despite his age and the sickness and the drugs. But it seemed clear enough. At least the words seemed clear, but the sentence made no sense. Today was the 22nd and he had arrived at the hospital on the 18th. He hadn’t traveled anywhere special in years. Maybe he was having a dream or I had dredged up a long forgotten trip in his mind or he was just delirious from everything he was going through.

“Cooooffee…”

I just stared at him not sure what to do. It seemed strange to hear such a specific request. It was not one that could be fulfilled in his present state. What would make him think about coffee now? I decided it was more delirium at work in his confused brain.

It turned out to be his last word. Just a few hours later he passed. He seemed to be at peace but how can we ever know what those last moments of consciousness are like? How can we know what consciousness is like for anyone else at any time? His dying and death had made me philosophical and now anxious.

There was a casket and funeral to pay for. There was an obituary to be written. There were a few people to notify. And there was no one to do it all but me.

I hoped that if I kept my head down like I always had that things would fall into place. Not knowing where to go, I found myself turning his key in the door of his humble apartment. It felt like part of him was still there.

Grief has a way of leaving its mark like reality slapping you across the face. I realized I would have to clean this place out by the end of the month to avoid another expense. At least he kept it fairly clean for an old widower.

For now, I wandered around aimlessly from room to room, not really thinking, just being dazed. There wasn’t much there for me. I hadn’t expected to get anything from him. I figured he needed every last dime to keep up even this small existence. I supposed that there were a few, small items that could be sold or pawned and the rest could be donated.

Upon entering the kitchen, his final words came back to me. They still didn’t make any sense but I’m sure everyone takes something unexplained to their grave. In considering his last word: coffee, I thought I would make a cup in his honor as a kind of salute to the man he was.

It was strange, I thought, how I hadn’t seen him drink a cup of coffee in years. He used to drink coffee all the time in his working years and when Mom was still around. In all of my weekly visits since Mom died, he only had tea or sometimes beer. I would offer to make coffee, but he would jump up and get us drinks like there was a spring on his chair. He would tell me to sit down and he would get it.

I would get it this time. Opening the cupboard, I saw the familiar tins lined up from biggest to smallest: flour, sugar, coffee, tea. In front of the coffee tin was a small, black notebook. It was a little worn around the edges. He had not put his name inside the front cover. He had also not written anything on the line offering a reward.

I guessed that he would have loved to have found such a notebook in the park with a clear name, address, and large reward written on that page. It could have been life-changing for him to find and return someone’s treasured notes.

I flipped to the first page and there were only lines there. Hash marks. The kind of marks you make to tally things or to keep score. Each grouping had the traditional four vertical lines and the diagonal slash to mark groups of five. And there was page after page of them. What could he possibly have been keeping track of? The days he had been alone since Mom had passed? The pigeons that landed on his windowsill? Games of solitaire he had played at the kitchen table?

The hash marks gave way to empty pages at the back of the small notebook. There was no indication of what was going through the old man’s mind. I was beginning to feel small and old. I was trying to avoid the thought that he had not left his mark in the world, and that I was following in his footsteps again.

Even so, I was still going to raise a meaningless salute to him with stale coffee in a stained cup. I grabbed the coffee tin off the shelf so fast that I misjudged its weight and it slipped from my hands. I anticipated the mess as it was falling already cursing my carelessness. The tin clattered to the floor but without spilling any dark, brown flakes. Instead several rolls of cash emerged.

I looked around defensively expecting someone to have heard and to suspect me of something. Bending down, I removed a rubber band from a tightly bound wad of cash to find 100 $20 bills. There were ten such rolls that he had squirreled away in that container. I was relieved to find a wide variety of serial numbers on the bills indicating they had not been stolen. At least, they hadn’t been stolen all at once. The likely story was one of scrimping on an item in his present to provide for my future.

Suddenly, the notebook full of hash marks made sense. There had to have been at least 1000 proud, prudent marks representing thoughtful decisions. One for each $20 bill that would be my father’s secret inheritance to me.

Life has a way of giving when you’re in need. He had been thinking of me right to the end. I still couldn’t say “thanks”, but I could feel it. And that feels like enough. After a life of sacrifice, he had sacrificed a little more at the end of each month. Then he guarded his secret marks on life and kept drinking tea.