Last Minute Delivery

My father was calm this morning. He suffers from dementia and the relaxed, friendly man I once knew became something alien, contained within a withered, yet recognizable vessel. Although his skin sags, his soft facial structure is still clear. Even with glazed eyes, he still has the same deep brown irises that always made me think of soil drenched in fresh rain. Those were his favorite days, the rainy ones.

He’s aged significantly in the past several years since his dementia set in. Though he looks like a vague reflection of the man who raised me, he still looks familiar. Unfortunately, he doesn’t act the same.

He was a gentle man, my father. A man tortured by heartbreak, grief, and lost love. A sensitive soul who would never raise his voice, who was always understanding. Now that I have my own child, I don’t know how he did it.

But underneath that familiar mask is a new person. An aggressive and agitated one. As if his disease not only changed him and warped his memories, but poisoned his soul. He used to smile all the time, even when his eyes contradicted his happy lips. Now he scowls. He yells. He says horrific things. I was never one to believe much in evil, but if it does exist, it has taken hold of my father.

But any morning when he’s calm and remembers my name is a success. I made him a cup of tea and served him a hot biscuit outside on my porch and he thanked me. I could hear his old self in those words.

In the last few months since his condition worsened, I took him back home with me. My son, my father, and I live together in the woods, in my childhood home. I never even thought about selling the house, even after my father left for the assisted living home. It’s everything I love in one property: forests, quiet, privacy, nature, and beauty wrapped into one. Unlike my father, it’s changed very little since I was young.

After I gave my father the tea and biscuit I heard a strange buzzing sound coming from the front yard. I looked at my father, but luckily he was too deaf to hear it. Walking back through the house I cautiously opened the front door and saw an old, beat-up drone holding a rusted metal box. The paint on the drone had worn off, so I couldn’t make out the name of the company. One of the blades on its right side was broken so it sagged at an angle. As I opened the door, it set down the package and turned away, flying out of sight past the tall pine trees.

“That was strange,” I said out loud to myself. I’d never seen such a worn out piece of machinery in my life. I couldn’t imagine that any of the delivery companies would keep a drone like that in such a condition. Perhaps it got knocked down by a falling branch or something. But that didn’t explain the package itself. Not only hadn’t I ordered anything, the small, metal box was rusted and pieces of hard dirt clung to its sides.

Cautiously I picked up the box and brought it to the kitchen. I thought my son would be interested so after setting it down on the countertop I went to his room only to find it empty. He was old enough to wander or go out without telling me, but I thought it was a bit early for him. I wanted to share this strange experience with him, but I was too curious to wait.

Back in the kitchen, I struggled to open the box. It appeared to be an old tea tin made of thick aluminum, but the top was rusted to the bottom so no amount of force could will it open. I jammed a butter knife underneath the lid and the rusted metal bent easily. After a couple of minutes of careful work turned into frustrated hacking and pulling, I managed to take the top off.

Inside it was moist. Luckily, the contents were encased in a plastic bag that had remained intact. Carefully, I picked up the bag and opened it. There were two folded pieces of paper that looked yellowed by time. Glancing at the first page, I saw it was addressed to me.

Intrigued, I read the elegant, looping handwriting. There were small splotches on the paper, but I could read most of it without issue.

Dear my beloved Jackson Jones,

This past year without you has been a mistake. I felt the severity of my mistake the moment I left you, and ever since my longing and regret have only grown. You were my only family and I cast you away as if you were nothing.

I see now that although I love you, something inside me was screaming. I couldn’t convince myself that I deserved someone like you, because everyone in my life has done nothing but tear me down whereas you only ever supported me and made me feel loved.

A few months after you left I decided I had to come back to you. I started to save all of my money for the trip across the country. I worked terrible jobs and saved every penny. My landlord increased my rent, which delayed my plans even further.

Then, a month ago, I fell ill. I’m not sure if it’s some mold that’s growing in my small apartment, my overworked and heartbroken body, or something else, but these hospital bills were going to delay me even more.

At first, I felt determined to get better so we could finally be together again. I’ve learned to love myself, although I still hate that I ever let you go. But the doctor told me that my condition has worsened. I may not last another month.

While I wished more than anything to see you again, I wonder if this is the price I had to pay for hurting you so.

Please write back to me so I know that you received this letter. Tell Jacky I’m sorry and that I love him.

Yours forever and always,

Birdie

As I first started reading it I thought it was my ex-wife who wrote it. She’d abandoned me and my son years ago. Not only did the handwriting not match, but I knew she had family and would probably never end up living paycheck-to-paycheck. Also, she wasn’t someone who would ever write something so emotionally charged, and her name is Mary, not Jane.

Then with a pang of panic, I thought that it must be an old letter to my father, who shared my name. But he’d told me that my mother, Jane, had died shortly after giving birth to me. Also, why would it get here now? Maybe my mother was still alive? Could it be a mistake? Someone sent it to the wrong Jackson Jones?

I couldn’t make heads or tales of it, but I didn’t think that my father would’ve lied to me all these years. Also, if I asked him, what would his reaction be? I couldn’t even be sure he’d remember my mother, it had been 40 years since they’d last seen each other.

I decided I’d take some time to think about it and maybe ask my son’s opinion when he got back to the house. I cleaned up the mess I’d made when opening the box and tucked the letter into my desk in my office.

Then I heard the sound of something breaking coming from outside. I rushed out to find the teacup shattered on the porch and my father clutching his chest.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

He was breathing heavily and his brow was furrowed. His face strained as if he was concentrating on something.

“It’s ok,” he said calmly.

“I’ll call 911, I think you may be having a heart attack,” I said, worried the worst was happening. As I pulled out my phone he covered it with his free hand so I couldn’t dial.

“No,” he said, still straining. “I can think now, Junior. I think it’s time.”

“What’re you talking about you need help!” I said, moving his hand away from the phone.

“No, listen to me, Junior. I meant to tell you years ago, but I never did. It hurt too much to think about. And I was worried it would hurt you too… If you found out. Your mother…” he said breathing heavily, forcing out every word, “...she didn’t die, she left me, she left us…”

My eyes grew wide as I realized what he was saying. “I just got a letter from her! I don’t know why it took so long, maybe the drone crashed or something. But it says that she loves you and she thinks it was a mistake. She said she tried to make it back to you, but she got sick before she could.” Tears streamed down my face as I spoke.

My father was smiling but his eyes were wet, yet clear. “I love you, son. I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said as he drew his last breath.

I wept for a minute and tried to make sense of everything. Then, my son saw me from a distance and shouted: “Guess what? I found this old drone in the woods and I managed to fix it up and get it going again!” As he drew closer he saw that I was crying, “What’s wrong, dad?”, he asked.