The Lost Hereafter

I slammed the door shut of the old rust-wagon that had managed to get me from Philadelphia to here. I inspected the winding, snow-packed hill that led to my grandmother’s house and knew there was no way I was making it up in the car, so I straightened my uniform and started walking. I had a note clutched in my hand from my grandfather that I had forged his signature on. God bless his rotted soul.

It wasn’t what I had intended but this jump had cost me my savings and I didn’t know when, if ever, I would be able to do it again. I mean everything had gone wrong. I didn’t make it back as far as I planned, that was the main problem. I wanted to shoot him right through the head in battle. None of this purple heart shit. He was mad. He was medically discharged for being psychologically unsound and sent back to his family. What a great idea. I wanted them to view him as a hero, instead of a maniac. As if it could offer them much comfort anyway.

Instead, I found myself his nurse in a VA hospital. He had been shot and the procedure to remove the bullet, not the bullet itself, had somehow left him paralyzed on the left side. I would not let my Grandmother care for a man who had bloodied the noses of her children. I refused to allow the dragging of his stumpy leg upstairs to haunt my mother’s dreams for the rest of her life. No sir, you can take your pre and post tsd and shove it. I raised my hands to smother him with a pillow before another nurse came in. His eyes widened but he was not talking yet, just grunts. I laughed and pretended to fluff it and switch it out for him. He motioned to the water on his bedside. I couldn’t believe it but I was searching this monster’s face for something. Empathy. Compassion. Regret. A man that went through what he went through has a right to be broken, but he has no right to severe his family. I handed him his glass with a smile while I burned with hate inside. I pondered for a second letting him know exactly what I thought of him. Tell him I wasn’t scared and if he didn’t start treating his family with respect and dignity that I would come back and murder him. I could tell him things about his life, about the future. Maybe I could show him pictures of things he had never seen. My Grandmother growing old without him. His youngest daughter with her kids, struggling with alcoholism and marrying a man three times her age. You did this, I will say. You are the beginning of this story and I am the end.

Or I’ll just kill him.

As I made my way up the long road, I was surprised at how little had changed in 30 years. This was now 60 years ago from my present, but it would be another 30 years before I would visit this place as a child. There would be a newer house not built yet, now a horse pasture in its place. A small trailer, where one of my aunts lived with her family. But everything else smelled and looked as I remembered. The cemetery, the train tracks below as you crossed near the top. This winding road was just as long as I remembered. The mystery that excited me as a child terrified me now as I reached the top, cloaked as a stranger with bad news. They would have heard of his death by now, the police would have come. They will cover their asses and just say it was complications from surgery, not wanting to admit that their recent stroke patient had ripped his IV out and they had not noticed. Where was the nurse on duty? No, “complications” is easier.

I took a deep breath as the faded yellow house appeared in front of me. No, I won’t let your daughters date horrible men. I won’t let my Mom become scared of her own shadow. I clutched the note harder.

“Mrs. Bendell is not home.” A young lady answered the door. It was my Aunt Sharie, long dark curls falling below her shoulders.

“I can take a message? What’s that note?”

I was holding back tears and I felt my always steady hand starting to lose it’s resolution.

“This is a note, from Andrew Bendell the second.” I said, flatly. “I was his nurse, and he asked me to get this to you in case something should happen to him.”

She seemed surprisingly unmoved.

“Should I wait for my mother? Is it for all of us or just her?”

“It’s for you all, but she might like you to wait.”

She shrugged and asked if I would like to come in, but I refused. I heard children playing in the background. I was relieved at not seeing my Mom, although I wanted to step inside badly. I didn’t feel it was a good idea.

“I must be going” I said, “other duties to attend to. But please, make sure the whole family reads the letter. It was his last wishes. Take care.”

As I drove away, I cried and I prayed and I cried some more. I stopped for coffee at the restaurant where my parents would have their first date, 13 years later. I read the first draft of the letter again, for the 50th time.

Dear Elizabeth, my beautiful wife And Barb, Birdie, Sadie, Edward, Sharie, Margie, Betty and sweet Lenny who I haven’t met yet-

I am so sorry for the pain I have caused you. You didn’t deserve it, and I did love you more than life. I was damaged but it was not excuse to damage you in return.

I don’t expect forgiveness, just please use your pain as a catalyst to follow your dreams, your passions. Don’t let anyone stand in your way. Love your children the way I never could.

Lizzy, please know you were the love of my life. I am sorry I didn’t tell you enough.

Your lives will be fuller and more beautiful without me, I know this, and I take this sadness to my grave. Don’t let me stop you anymore.

With all the love I can manage, Andrew