Ferry on a Dream

Running up to his door, it’s hanging open- why?

<Walking up to his door. The lights are out, why?>

A sleeved arm snags me out of the air by my chest, knocks the wind out of me. The arm wraps me up and pulls me to the ground. A man’s voice- “You can’t go insi- Hey – You can’t- THOMAS. You can’t go inside. Stop. Stop”.

<I don’t knock. I squint into the dark split-level and fumble for the light switch. Finding it, I blink away the spots in my eyes and stand on my toes, looking up over the stairs into his bedroom. The TV isn’t on, and his chair is empty. Something isn’t right.>

The bishop’s wife takes me from the Sherrif.

<His closet door is open; a brown leather bag is on the floor.>

I can see her mouth moving, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. My wife is crying and putting her hand on my back- God it’s annoying! Why can’t you all get out of my way?

<His pills are on the banister, alongside his mail and his reading glasses. His afternoon pills, I realize, seeing the time on the oven clock reads: 9:43pm >

I am awash in a sea of rage. Flashes of forever longing and unspoken words consigned to silence robbed me of my sense. I scream about murder, plots and daggers in the dark. I scream senseless indignant accusations. I scream until I don’t have any power left and my throat is warm and wet with blood.

< I move slowly back down the stairs. His house is quieter than death. The hall closet at the bottom of the stairs is open, the camping tote is open, lantern oil has spilled on the carpet. The tarp is gone. >

My aunts and uncles are showing up in droves. My entire step-family is congregating in the yard- Grandpa Val went to get burgers. I can’t feel my face, my teeth hang from my skull, buzzing irritatingly. What time is it? I can’t even remember how I got here.

<The door to the garage is cracked open. I push it open the rest of the way, my own breathing spoiling the silence in halting, choppy refrain. The dark garage is illuminated by the light at my back as it spills into the room, revealing dad’s slate grey truck. The tailgate is down, and the blue fabric of the missing tarp peeks around the corner.>

I sit by myself in a crowd of my own blood, people who look like me, but cannot fathom me. They bite back their own pain and try to save me from mine. Consolation for condemnation, empathy for entropy, presence for penitence. I still can’t feel the wind on my face. I’m covered in hands, all on my shoulders. I would rather they were around my neck, stamping out the embers in my chest before the hearth reignites, and I feel again.

<Seated on the back of the tailgate, the man who taught me how to play Donkey Kong Country and how to climb a mountain, how to cook a burrito and how to till a garden, how to tie my shoes and wipe my nose. He holds a revolver in his hands.

“Dad…”

“You’re not supposed to be here”>

I never came. I knew the bad wind the moment it blew down from the mountains, but I chose the warmth of ignorance. He was untouchable, and I still needed him. He didn’t need me.

< “What are you doing, Dad? Don’t…”

“You can’t be here; it didn’t happen this way”

“What? Please Dad, I’ll show up more often. I’ll visit you every week, three times a week. I’ll bring Molly, dad she needs you too - dad please, she’s only 10. “

“I wish I could tell you how proud I am of you, Thomas. I wish I could have helped you when you needed it. I wish I had the money to give you and Beth a chance to live happily together.”>

20 years old. I don’t go to school. No motivation, no faith.

< “Dad, I’m here. I stopped you! You’re going to be okay. It’s not too late. We can do all of that. I don’t need your money.”>

22 Years old, and I’m declaring Bankruptcy. I led my new wife to financial ruin.

< “Thomas, you don’t understand.”>

24 Years old, and my wife has a brain tumor. I don’t know how to go on without her.

< “Dad, PLEASE don’t leave me. Don’t hurt yourself. >

28 Years old, lost another job. I can’t stay motivated. I have no work-ethic. I just want to lay down and never wake up.

< “You aren’t supposed to be here. This isn’t the way it happened.” He adjusts his grip on the revolver. >

30 years old, left Utah behind at last. My wife and I follow her family to farm country in Iowa. I still don’t know how to change my oil, work on a water heater, hell, use a screwdriver. I never learned.

< “I’m right here! I cared, so I came. I wasn’t a failure, I showed up when you needed me, please don’t leave me!” >

34 years old. We can’t have a baby, IUI Fails. IVF Fails. I bitterly think to myself “I wouldn’t know the first thing about being a dad anyway.”

< “It isn’t you that came to see me. You’re nothing but a ghost of what I wish I had seen before the end. It wasn’t you. It was her.” The light behind me is blocked, voices carry through the house, calling for “Shaun” and “Dad”? My younger sister has come to check the garage. >

36 Years old. The pain never gets smaller; you grow larger around it. That way, you don’t bump into it as often. Entire days go by without encountering that sore spot in your heart. Looking for a way to bring it to life, I begin writing.

<The smell reaches her before her eyes can adjust. A deeply scarring odor of overpowering malignance puts her to rout. She returns with her mother.

“Dad, you can’t do this to her. You can’t do this to ME”

There is no one left to reply. As it was said, I was no more than a ghost, brought here on the ferry of a dream. I could only smell blackened stone and felt rotting timbers underfoot. The tide was going out. >

I’d watched it play back endlessly in my mind. What if I’d been more attentive? What If I knew what I know now, back then? About mental health, the resources available. God, what if I had just paid closer attention?! The worst part is, my 10-year-old sister is the one who had to find him? How is she ever going to be okay with that? God damn you, dad.

<How close it came still tortures me. The razors edge of possibility divided- a gunshot and a bloody tarp, - or us embracing like we hadn’t done since I was a child, and my dad held onto me after a nightmare. Only this was his nightmare, and his son was there for him. The gun is gone; he won’t have that in the house anymore. And I won’t let it get this close, ever again.>

But if it hadn’t happened exactly as it did,

what changes would the tide have seen?

I’m left to wonder at the helm, of a ferry on a dream.