FIVE
* * *
Air. In and out, flowing, shared. We breathe the air breathed by our ancestors, by Jesus and Moses and Muhammad and Buddha and Confucius and Quetzalcoatl. We have shared it with every animal, with every plant, with whales and elephants and termites and dinosaurs and trilobites. It is the bond among us, universal, wedded to life itself.
Chandler, riding the elevator up to the fourth floor of the south wing, breathed this air. And down the hall, Sid appearing with a greeting and a hug, the greeting expressed with vibrations in that same air, and Mom moving through it, to him, holding him, holding him close, as he stepped into the room where his father would soon end his own common bond with air.
Dad looked up from where he lay, saw him. His voice was soft, hoarse.
"Get out."
Mom looked at Dad, at Chandler, at Sid. And she opened her lips to speak, but Chandler raised a finger to them and just touched them, silencing her. Then he spoke.
"Sid, could you take Mom outside, maybe get her something to eat?"
Sid nodded. "Sure."
"No," hissed the voice from the bed.
But Sid did not obey this voice, and he took Mom out the door, his arm over her shoulders.
Chandler turned to face the bed.
"Get out," his father growled.
Chandler didn't answer right away. Instead he just stood, looking down at the emaciated figure before him. There was a smell in the room, that of antiseptic and urine in battle, and the quiet sounds of machines, and the tubes and needles and bags of solution. But at the center of this was the man, or the thing that had once been a man.
Wasn't he bigger? Chandler thought. Isn't your father supposed to be bigger than you are?
His answer came then.
"I can't do that, Dad."
"You little bastard," Dad said, and his hand moved for the box that would page the nurse.
Chandler beat him to it, moved it out of reach.
"No," he said. "No nurses, no orderlies. Just you and me."
His father looked up at him with venom in his eyes.
"You here to gloat? Is that it? You just here to see me die? Go to hell, boy."
Chandler ignored the barbs, pulled up a chair.
"You know," he said, "I think this is the first time in my life that you've ever had to listen to me. It's the first time you couldn't walk away."
"And you think I'll really listen now? You're even lower than Sid. He at least got rehab for his habit. Well, all right, boy. You want to save my soul or do some other preacher crap? Go ahead and waste your time."
Chandler shook his head sadly, looking down at the dying man.
"You think I care about your goddamn soul, Dad?"
His father looked at him, his eyes suddenly wide. Chandler spoke again.
"I couldn't care less, actually. You think I'm here to waste my time trying to make you a decent father? You aren't. You never were. Being a good father means loving your kids more than you love yourself, and you never could do that."
"I gave you everything ...." the man began.
"You gave me life and then you tried to take it away. Well, Dad, I got it back, you know? Almost all of it. And I'm going to take the rest of it back today."
Dad glared, his eyes like a cornered animal now.
"But before I do," Chandler said, "I thought you might like to know some things."
"Go to hell," the old man said now, but his voice had weakened.
Chandler chuckled. It was a natural thing, a sudden moment of humor in the room that reeked of death. Then he spoke, his voice clear.
"First, you need to know that I've met a woman. Her name is Roxanne, and yeah, she's crazy just like you are, but I think I love her, Dad. I think I might just marry her, and I might just have some kids with her. And I'm going to love those kids. No matter who they are or what they do, I'm going to love them. And when it's me lying there instead of you, the last thing I'm ever going to think is how much I love them."
His father's expression did not change, but the old man was silent now.
"Second, I want you to know that you aren't the only asshole in the world. I work with a guy now who has spent the last several months trying to run me out of town because he's so damn miserable about his own pathetic life. But you taught me something, Dad, that I don't think I quite realized until now. It's not my problem. Maybe Grandpa treated you like hell. Maybe he took your life away, and you hated him the way I hated you. Maybe the only way you could ever face the world was by beating down every inch of it that didn't do what you told it to. I don't know, and surprisingly, I don't actually care. Because that's your problem, Dad, not mine."
It was very quiet now, in the death room. Chandler felt the heat in his face, heard the roaring of the blood in his veins, the pounding in his head, and as he spoke again it almost seemed like it was someone else with his voice. But it was him.
"Third," he said. "Listen now. Part of me will always hate you. You know that, I'm sure. Neither of us can make this a happy ending. But there is more, and before you die you are going to hear it from me, and you can do with it what you like. You are my father and more than I have ever hated you I have loved you. So this is my gift to you, Dad, right now. I give you your freedom. I release you, unconditionally. You are forgiven."
#
Chandler sat with his father for a long time. And in that time his mother and brother returned, stepping quietly into the darkened room, where they each found a chair and sat around the bed and the machines and the tubes and the bags of liquid, dripping into and out of the small body that lay at their center. And in time there were more words spoken, and then none, and this final silence was broken only by a hushed weeping accompanied by the sounds of three people as they held each other close.
THE END
* * *
Air. In and out, flowing, shared. We breathe the air breathed by our ancestors, by Jesus and Moses and Muhammad and Buddha and Confucius and Quetzalcoatl. We have shared it with every animal, with every plant, with whales and elephants and termites and dinosaurs and trilobites. It is the bond among us, universal, wedded to life itself.
Chandler, riding the elevator up to the fourth floor of the south wing, breathed this air. And down the hall, Sid appearing with a greeting and a hug, the greeting expressed with vibrations in that same air, and Mom moving through it, to him, holding him, holding him close, as he stepped into the room where his father would soon end his own common bond with air.
Dad looked up from where he lay, saw him. His voice was soft, hoarse.
"Get out."
Mom looked at Dad, at Chandler, at Sid. And she opened her lips to speak, but Chandler raised a finger to them and just touched them, silencing her. Then he spoke.
"Sid, could you take Mom outside, maybe get her something to eat?"
Sid nodded. "Sure."
"No," hissed the voice from the bed.
But Sid did not obey this voice, and he took Mom out the door, his arm over her shoulders.
Chandler turned to face the bed.
"Get out," his father growled.
Chandler didn't answer right away. Instead he just stood, looking down at the emaciated figure before him. There was a smell in the room, that of antiseptic and urine in battle, and the quiet sounds of machines, and the tubes and needles and bags of solution. But at the center of this was the man, or the thing that had once been a man.
Wasn't he bigger? Chandler thought. Isn't your father supposed to be bigger than you are?
His answer came then.
"I can't do that, Dad."
"You little bastard," Dad said, and his hand moved for the box that would page the nurse.
Chandler beat him to it, moved it out of reach.
"No," he said. "No nurses, no orderlies. Just you and me."
His father looked up at him with venom in his eyes.
"You here to gloat? Is that it? You just here to see me die? Go to hell, boy."
Chandler ignored the barbs, pulled up a chair.
"You know," he said, "I think this is the first time in my life that you've ever had to listen to me. It's the first time you couldn't walk away."
"And you think I'll really listen now? You're even lower than Sid. He at least got rehab for his habit. Well, all right, boy. You want to save my soul or do some other preacher crap? Go ahead and waste your time."
Chandler shook his head sadly, looking down at the dying man.
"You think I care about your goddamn soul, Dad?"
His father looked at him, his eyes suddenly wide. Chandler spoke again.
"I couldn't care less, actually. You think I'm here to waste my time trying to make you a decent father? You aren't. You never were. Being a good father means loving your kids more than you love yourself, and you never could do that."
"I gave you everything ...." the man began.
"You gave me life and then you tried to take it away. Well, Dad, I got it back, you know? Almost all of it. And I'm going to take the rest of it back today."
Dad glared, his eyes like a cornered animal now.
"But before I do," Chandler said, "I thought you might like to know some things."
"Go to hell," the old man said now, but his voice had weakened.
Chandler chuckled. It was a natural thing, a sudden moment of humor in the room that reeked of death. Then he spoke, his voice clear.
"First, you need to know that I've met a woman. Her name is Roxanne, and yeah, she's crazy just like you are, but I think I love her, Dad. I think I might just marry her, and I might just have some kids with her. And I'm going to love those kids. No matter who they are or what they do, I'm going to love them. And when it's me lying there instead of you, the last thing I'm ever going to think is how much I love them."
His father's expression did not change, but the old man was silent now.
"Second, I want you to know that you aren't the only asshole in the world. I work with a guy now who has spent the last several months trying to run me out of town because he's so damn miserable about his own pathetic life. But you taught me something, Dad, that I don't think I quite realized until now. It's not my problem. Maybe Grandpa treated you like hell. Maybe he took your life away, and you hated him the way I hated you. Maybe the only way you could ever face the world was by beating down every inch of it that didn't do what you told it to. I don't know, and surprisingly, I don't actually care. Because that's your problem, Dad, not mine."
It was very quiet now, in the death room. Chandler felt the heat in his face, heard the roaring of the blood in his veins, the pounding in his head, and as he spoke again it almost seemed like it was someone else with his voice. But it was him.
"Third," he said. "Listen now. Part of me will always hate you. You know that, I'm sure. Neither of us can make this a happy ending. But there is more, and before you die you are going to hear it from me, and you can do with it what you like. You are my father and more than I have ever hated you I have loved you. So this is my gift to you, Dad, right now. I give you your freedom. I release you, unconditionally. You are forgiven."
#
Chandler sat with his father for a long time. And in that time his mother and brother returned, stepping quietly into the darkened room, where they each found a chair and sat around the bed and the machines and the tubes and the bags of liquid, dripping into and out of the small body that lay at their center. And in time there were more words spoken, and then none, and this final silence was broken only by a hushed weeping accompanied by the sounds of three people as they held each other close.
THE END