The Man Who Was Always Never There

SON...

The wind whipped and scuttled as Mother drew her last breaths, and I too felt as though I were mere moments away from drawing my own. It was the thought of losing her for good that provoked such dread. That coupled with the nostalgic drawl of the eastern gust sending the trees drubbing the windowsill beside the chair in which I sat.

Despite Doctor Thompson’s undeniably valiant efforts, there was nothing left to be done to save her. Even with the staggering advancements in modern medicine, there was only so much to do before acknowledging and succumbing to the inevitable fallibility of one’s genetic makeup. Witnessing my Mother coo and wither like a wounded child only proved to broaden my contempt for the malignant cells as they revolted against her.

An acute despair contracted my airwaves as I gazed upon the lone pedal of the magnolia tree brushing against the window. Mother’s breathing weakened as I shifted my focus to my index finger; I had mistakenly trimmed the nail into the shape of an arrowhead. Red droplets arrayed the white carpeting below. I had drawn blood.

Something cold nudged my wrist. As I looked up, I saw that it was my mother’s hand grabbing hold of me with her right hand, waving me closer with her left.

“Hey ma. What is it?”

She dug her chin into her chest as though in slow motion, mustering the strength to swallow and gave a faint smile as she returned her neck to its original position.

“You’re such a good boy,” she said. “I have something for you.”

Her hands disappeared beneath the floral comforter and withdrew a little black leather notebook with my initials inscribed on the front.

“What’s this?” I asked.

She proceeded to cough uncontrollably, resulting in the most enthusiastic maneuvering I’d seen during my visit, as she otherwise seemed incapable. She must have lost 40 pounds since last summer. It was as though I had wandered into God’s workshop, baring witness to the assemblage of veins, bone, and flesh that would eventuate the human form. In truth I was seeing the recycling process unfurl in real time. Disheartening isn’t the word. I’m not sure if such a descriptor existed that would effectively depict this cruel scene.

I lifted the bottle of water to her lips and rested my hand on the back of her neck as she got her bearings.

“Listen. This notebook contains my will, and much more,” she stammered.

“Mom, try and get some rest. You need rest,” I said.

She sat up, leaning towards me, and brushing my cheek said, “Listen to me dear boy. You need to promise me. Promise me that you will take care of this house. I love you with all my heart. It’s considerably less than we had hoped, but we have set $20,000 aside for you. The details are in the book. We love you so, so much.”

Mother reclined and exhaled as I wondered who “we” was in reference to. There was no “we” beyond her and I. Maybe it was just the pain medication causing confusion.

“Mom, you said ‘we’. What did you mean?” I asked.

Her eyes began to well with tears.

“Your father is here sweetheart. He’s always been here. He lives inside the walls,” she said. “Your father was sick. He contracted a disease not known to man. Highly contagious. We were only trying to keep you safe.”

And like that, she was gone.

My mind wandered from the bedroom and began to drift along the hallway and down the spiral staircase when I noticed that my feet had followed. I heard a thumping sound coming from the living room and what appeared to be a muffled hollering. Someone was pounding on the wall.

“Georgie! It’s me! It’s your father!”

FATHER...

I’ve been caught between these narrow walls for ages. Twenty seven years to be exact. Peering out at the world through the ably manicured holes installed by the village handyman so many years ago. Before I was effectively displaced amidst our home’s rather elaborate foundation, which, despite it’s size, did not lend itself to too much meandering beyond the first floor and the basement. Although I suppose I could make another attempt at ascending towards the second floor byway of mounting these feeble hands and feet on stray nails protruding from the sides. Perhaps not. Too much work for this old bag of bones. Plus, there’s no guarantee that Marsha had that handyman plug holes in the walls on the second floor. Marsha. My sweet, sweet Marsha.

The viewing holes, which had been strategically placed in each room on the first floor, were two and a half inches in diameter, with a plastic divider placed between our divergent worlds. It was through these openings in which I watched my little boy take his first steps, utter his first words.

I would look down at my palms and imagine his pristine, factory fresh hands in mine. Hours passed as I replayed this fantasy over and over in my head. So much so, that I became convinced, if only for a brief moment, that I could feel his tiny hand wrapped around my finger. And suddenly, the years began to turn over one another like the pages in a book. Lines and grooves etched themselves along my brow, and aches beyond those already present in my lungs announced themselves with great fervor. The boy grew until the home could no longer contain him. And off he went. Then, it was just Marsha and I.

Within the first month of self containment, another handyman installed a mail chute with two doors, one on each end, leading from the kitchen to where I resided within the wall. In order to combat contamination, an airlock system was implemented as well as an automated disinfectant process that would scrub all items passed from one end to the other of any and all bacteria. It was through this chute that Marsha would deliver my daily vitamins and meals. And while I had little to contribute beyond casual conversation, I made a point to ask Marsha for wide rule notebooks and pencils so that I could pen and deliver letters, poems, jokes for her amusement. Sometimes she would write back. Other times she wouldn’t. I understood that I was a burden of rather unique circumstance. But I grew increasingly lonely, and scared that each day granted would be my last, without the embrace of the woman I loved to give me solace.

Even though she was saddled with a dying husband living in the walls of her home, she always made an effort to make me feel included in her day to day. She would recap her day at the office while she did the dishes, and made sure to angle the television in the bedroom towards me so that we could watch along together. Friday night was movie night. This was my favorite, as she would prepare a heaping bowl of buttered popcorn for me to enjoy while we watched. We even had our meals together. I stood with my eye pressed up against the wall, standing and conversing while we enjoyed our breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I still remember caressing her face for the last time, as if it were only yesterday, as the saying goes. Her skin was disarmingly smooth though not without character. Broadly occupied with clusters of freckles, offset by flourishes of flushed pink.

The crinkles of the plastic chamber in which I had become ensconced as a response to the nameless disease I had contracted painted over my mind in an endless echo. Her face pressed up against the plastic exterior while I tried and failed to wipe away her tears from the inside.

Despite Dr. Thompson’s boundless efforts and the university’s tireless research, my diagnosis went without resolution. After 7 years of painstaking analysis from the medical professionals, not too mention the nearly crippling financial investment on our part, we decided that it was best to maintain what little savings remained to pass on to young George when she passed. Considering my necessary lack of physical involvement in all things related to the outside world, Marsha and I agreed that George should not be made aware of my existence until he was of age. We feared that if my presence was made known to George while still in his youth that he might attempt to visit me, rendering himself indefinitely ill.

Marsha cobbled together our finances, and included all the particulars in the little black notebook she had been journaling in since her diagnosis was given 6 months prior. She enclosed pertinent bank account information as well as her last will and testament, in which she would leave George with our combined savings of $20,000.

Last month the doctor and I met eye to eye in the living room where he proceeded to inform me that Marsha had but 2 weeks left to live. I had been intractable ever since. I fought my way out of sleep and cursed God for what he had done to his most innocent, beautiful creation. The only consolation being that I would see my son again, and that after all these years, we could finally meet.

Something was stirring in the air. I could feel it. She was gone. At risk of scaring the poor boy, I began to pound on the living room wall. My son had finally come home.

MOTHER...

There are two sides to every story. With the end of my life fast approaching, and that sentiment in mind, I have become acutely aware that I can only share one of the two sides, that one being my own (as I imagine the other side of our story is told after we die). Although, in your case, there is someone left behind who can tell the other half of my story, as I’m sure you now know. Your father and I used to joke around that he was the reluctant guardian angel of the family. Always keeping an eye on us both, holding onto our pain and joy in ways that you and I can never fully understand. After all - he didn’t have much to occupy his time inside these walls but to be as close to us both as he possibly could. I can imagine how confusing all of this must be. I assure you that it was no walk in the park for your father and I either.

In the pages of this little black book, I have committed myself over the past few months to sharing all of the stories I never told you, sweet boy.

Something tells me that this will be my last entry. My mind isn’t what it used to be. I’ve lost certain memories with the cancer spreading to my brain and all. Some days I can hardly believe that I can still write. One thing that I never lost was my love for you. I hope that you’re not upset with me. I know that your memories dictate otherwise, but your Father was always there for you. I could hear him humming you to sleep when you were just a baby. Through the walls, he would hum. You absolutely loved it. It worked like a charm. I’ve drawn a map so that you know where all of the holes in the house are. It gives me great joy knowing that you can get to know your father now. I know he can’t wait to see you.