Stillness

Saturday morning. He sat idly in the dark leather wingback chair my mother bought for him years ago, its age evidenced by the cracked hide where his legs rested. Steam no longer rose from the coffee mug next to him and an almond puff pastry he usually enjoyed for breakfast lay untouched, not a single crumb tempted out of place. The morning sun beamed brightly into the room, and I knew it was time.

"Dad?" I said gently. I could never get used to the silence of these moments; it seemed unnatural to be in a room this still with a man I once knew to be animated and booming. He stared out of the window, his gaze held by something distant and clouded- something I could not see.

He blinked suddenly and his face crumpled with uncertainly.

"Charlie, be a good boy and fetch some hot coffee. Make one for your mother, too. You know how she gets," he shrugged and returned his attention to the window.

"Mom's out for the day. At the spa- something about nails and hair and lavender oil," I replied.

"Ah, right," he whispered without intention. Familiar stillness fell into the room again- I was losing him.

"Should we get started?" I asked and walked over to the closet, watching to see if he would catch on. A pin-drop pause, then he leaned over the side of his chair.

"Started with what? What are you going on about now?" he asked.

"Cleaning this closet. Mom's been on you about it for weeks. I told her to go enjoy her day and I'd help you get everything sorted out," I sighed, swinging the door open. Stacked boxes and moth-eaten sweaters greeted me as the musty scent of forgotten, unbothered things wafted out.

"So, Betty goes and has herself a day while we do the cleaning," he chuckled, "Gotta love her. Ok, son. Let's see what we've got. But can't be too long, I have to head into the office to meet... to meet, you know. Sam. He has something to discuss with me later."

A few months ago, I made the mistake of telling him he was retired from University, and at the mention of it, he lost whatever grip on reality he had that day and nearly boxed my ears thinking I was an intruder, someone looking to hurt him or his wife. Me, his son of forty years, a stranger out to do him harm.

"Don't worry, Pop. Shouldn't take too long. Let's start with the boxes and work our way in. I have a feeling most of these sweaters will have to go," I reached for the first box labelled Uni and unfolded the flaps.

"Your mother will never rid this place of those sweaters. Trust me, I've tried. Betty's the type of woman who requires a lot of work, but like the type of work it takes to have a real nice garden- constant love, service, and understanding," he said smiling.

“Whatever you say, Pop. Ok let's see what we have here," I said while pulling out achievement plaques, thank-you letters from students, and his bag of lucky pens. Dad was a tenured professor of archaeology back in the day- a real life Indiana Jones. He traveled all over the world from the white city cliffs of Greece to the overgrown jungles of Honduras, and when he met Mom, she sat shotgun through every bumpy prop-plane ride, Jeep excursion, and mosquito infested hike. When they came close to a discovery, they would stay up all night researching the possible ways for their hypothesis to be incorrect, and when they found none, they began drinking and laughing giddily, attempting very poorly to remain quiet while I slept upstairs. My father viewed archaeology not as a window into the past or a predictor of the future but as a mirror reflecting different aspects of our present, speaking subtle truths into the foundation of our souls. He said we were not unlike the people who walked the Earth thousands of years ago, and the same would hold true for our descendants in years to come.

Now he sat slumped in front of me, his cataracts a milky sphere covering what was once a blue iris, with scraggles of white hair hanging unkempt around his worn, wrinkled face, as his mind, the best part of him, fell away piece by dreadful piece into an unfathomable abyss.

"What's that?" he asked while peering down into the box at a small, black, leather-bound notebook. I handed it to him, and he began swiping through the pages, slowly at first and then with haste. He let out a hearty laugh and stood abruptly, wobbling on unsteady feet until I stabilized him.

"What! What is it!?" I exclaimed. My heart raced with excitement as I saw a glimmer of my past emulated by his enthusiasm.

"You won't believe it. I'm telling you, my boy! You won't believe it! I have to tell Betty. She won't want me to do this without her," he said as he limped over to the bathroom and began grooming himself.

"What did you find, Dad?" I asked, following closely. He stopped and looked at me strangely as a slow smirk slid across his face.

"Dad? Get a hold of yourself, Sam. We have work to do. Get the gin. We found it. I tell you, we found it!" he laughed loudly, and I ignored the feeling of a needle stabbing somewhere deep in my chest. I can be Sam if he needs me to be. Slapping the hairbrush down on the counter, he turned to look at me. He paused a moment too long and the stillness began to creep its way into the room like an unwelcome undercurrent threatening to drag us back out to sea.

"Uh, yes, you're right. My apologies. What do we do first?" I rushed the words out like vomit. He blinked, then held up the notebook.

"This has everything we need. Call Betty," he insisted.

“Relax old man, read your notebook," I laughed nervously and fumbled in my pocket for my phone. "You won't believe this, but she's already there. We need to get going."

"Right, of course. Ha! My Betty, beating us there. Gotta love her," he grabbed his cane and fedora, then led us out into the hallway of the complex. A nurse passed us and nodded in mutual understanding as we stepped into the elevator.

"Where to then?" I asked.

"Just get the jeep, I know where we are going," he shrugged me off for prying into his secrets. The elevator chimed cheerfully, and I sang along in quiet anticipation.

I knew every step of what would happen next: we would get into my Toyota Corolla and talk about what he had discovered (always in vague terms), take a lap around the block and return to the nursing home. I'd been doing this charade for over six months now- every Saturday morning, I’d visit dad and work in a plan to help him find the little black notebook which would inspire him like in days past. At least that's what Mom said when she made the book a year ago, right after she was diagnosed with cancer. Dad's memory had already begun to fade by that point, and she was the one thing that could bring him back. But the cancer was terminal, advanced already. Time gone too soon.

"Here," she said to me one day as she pulled out a little black notebook. Dad was snoring on the couch at the time while reruns of I Love Lucy flashed across the television screen.

"What's this?" I asked.

"It's for when I'm gone," she smiled endearingly and rubbed her hands together with prideful accomplishment.

"Mom..." I started.

"Don't, Charlie. I'm not one afraid to face the facts. This is something special I can do for the man I love, for the man making all that ruckus over there," she nodded her head in his direction. "Let me. Please."

I looked down at the book and flipped the pages between my fingers. They were filled with simple phrases like You found it, It's right there, Keep going, and I love you. There were a few sketches that resembled maps unlike any I'd ever seen, and when I asked her about it, she laughed and said You wouldn't understand. She reached for my hand and looked at me as if she weren't a woman dying, but rather as a woman who had truly lived. She died three months later.

My hand tingled at the memory. The next twenty minutes went as planned, but when we returned to the nursing home, Dad didn't get out of the car. He sat there, quietly staring out through the front window, as a blankness veiled his face. The stillness was back.

"Dad?" I asked, uncertain if the Sam persona had run its course. He continued to stare and just before I was about to speak, he shook his head.

"This isn't right," he said simply.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"We missed something. I... I missed something," he stammered and opened the notebook.

"Pop..." I began.

"Charlie! Listen. Listen to me," he exclaimed. It felt good to be recognized again. "I know what she is saying to me, Charlie."

"What... what who is saying to you?" I asked.

"Betty, your mother. Remember her?" his humor went unappreciated. "I know what she wants, I know where it is."

I let go of my breath and tried to rub frustration from my eyes, but when I looked at him, I saw something I had not seen in months: hope. Real, unadulterated hope.

When we arrived at the city bank, he assured me the location was consistent with the instructions Mom had scribbled out for him in their secret language within the sketched map.

“Well,” he said.

“Well what?” I exhaled.

“Well aren’t you going to go in? We must be here for a reason,” he said. I cracked the windows, told him to wait, and locked the doors as I went inside.

“Sir, we are about to close,” a lady said to me.

“Sorry, ma’am. I… I don’t really know why I am here,” I laughed nervously. Her eyes narrowed as she looked down her nose.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked.

“This may sound strange, but does the name Betty Windman mean anything to you?” I asked. Her gaze softened as her mouth fell open into a smile.

“My. I see it now. You look just like the picture your mother brought in,” she said sweetly.

“I… I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I replied.

“Well, before we go any further, I do need to see a quick flash of your I.D.,” she smiled. After the formalities, she motioned me into the safety deposit room, handed me key #52, and assisted with the corresponding box. My heart dropped like a bowling ball, straight down and hard into my gut.

The box sat in front of me, and I thought briefly of Dad sitting in the car. Should he be here for this? What if the contents upset him and I can’t get him back home?

I opened the metal lid and saw what Mom had left behind. It wasn’t for Dad- it was for me.

Inside lay several stacks of crisp, green bills, with a sealed envelope on top addressed to me in her handwriting:

I told you he could do it, Charlie. The notebook was for him, and I thank you for taking on that responsibility. Now this is for you. There is $20,000 in this box. Use it as you wish. I hope you enjoyed this taste of the chase. Remember, your father and I love you, no matter how absent we may seem. Now go do something for you. Xoxo- Mom