Peace

Originally published in the Ghost Hunt Zine "Familiar Keepsakes", where the overarching prompt was, "Family". Be sure to visit GhostHuntHQ on Tumblr for more GH fandom events!

Oliver pulled at his shirt collar as he followed the nurse. Nursing homes were always too warm, and he should have mentioned that to Mai when she was picking out an outfit—or, better yet, dress himself occasionally. The long hallway was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs overhead on their last leg without anyone who cared to change them. It made the pale green walls sickly. Disinfectant permeated the place, and he knew he would smell artificially clean when he left.

Despite the shortcomings of the place, the nurses were kind and had been awaiting his arrival. The nurse stopped in front of him and let him into a room. She nodded to the woman sitting in the corner and to the propped up figure in one of the beds, and closed the door behind her. The far bed was empty. Judging by the energy of the room, Oliver assumed it had not been that way for long.

He nodded to the woman. She was black haired and in her late forties or early fifties. She inclined her head, and Oliver approached the figure in the bed.

The man there had his arms crossed, his thin lips set in an even thinner line. He stared at the far wall, resolute.

"Hello," Oliver said, "Mr. Griffith."

The man sniffed. Or scoffed. Whatever the sound was, it had no polite connotations.

"If you're trying to sell me something," Mr. Griffith said, "I ain't got no money. And I'm not interested in converting to any religion, if that's what you're after."

"I am not here for either of those things," Oliver said. "Thank you Alice," he added as he took a chair the woman offered, and sat down next to the bed. Mr. Griffith pulled back slightly, as if he wanted to put more distance between them.

"How do you know each other?" Mr Griffith said in a demanding tone.

"My wife met Alice on an online message board," Oliver said. "She was doing some unrelated research, and came across this board meant for families seeking information on adopted out children."

Alice had told Mai she was the youngest sister of the family, and very interested in her family tree, especially the gaps in her brother Jeffrey's family.

This information dawned over Mr. Griffith's face. "Busybody," he muttered. "What you'd say your name was again?"

The man in front of him wasn't exactly old, by today's standards—early sixties, perhaps. But he was torn up inside by disease and guilt and anger. It was intriguing how often illness and emotions seemed to coincide.

The man's hair was graying, but there was remnants of a rich brown. When Oliver approached Mr. Griffith's appearance from a researcher's eye, it wasn't hard to see the resemblance in the line of the jaw, the shape of the eyes, the assured frame and stature—if he wasn't slumped in a bed.

Oliver hadn't given his name, but he let it slide. "Oliver Davis. I'm not sure what you called me before my adoption."

So many years had passed, it shouldn't have been so easy to recall the man who had walked out on them multiple times. Oliver remembered how he had assumed his father would return that one last time, how he wouldn't really just leave them with their mother's body, would he?

Behind Oliver, Alice sniffed, and it was a sound of compassion, of someone holding back tears when she would have had no ability to help them at the time. She had barely been in her teens. And she hadn't known, she had sobbed to Mai over the phone. Jeffrey had told his parents and siblings that his wife had ran away with the kids. It had been after his diagnosis last year he had confessed to his wife's sudden death and him leaving two children behind. In today's media, someone would have found him. Back then, it was easy to just disappear.

Alice had posted on the internet in both English and Japanese. She wasn't fluent in the latter but did her best, wanting another angle because of her mother's heritage, as well as Jeffrey's late wife. She had a strained relationship with her brother, she had told Oliver. She hadn't really known why she was seeking the information—to comfort, or to hurt?

Oliver had always assumed his birth father was dead. It had been a pleasant thought, devoid of emotional complications.

"So you're here for an apology, is that it?" Mr. Griffith turned towards him. His eyes were clear, and hard. Oliver wondered if his own eyes looked like that.

"What good would that do me?" Oliver said. "I'm not the one on my death bed."

Mr. Griffith went back to staring at the wall. "Your brother wasn't interested in meeting me too before I die?"

For some reason, Oliver had expected Mr. Griffith to be better informed. Mai had told Alice about Eugene. But clearly, Alice had withheld the information of even his visit—perhaps she had been concerned the old man would try to escape than face his son. The overly familiar irritation of having to tell yet another stranger that his twin was dead returned. Despite the fact that Eugene had been dead longer than he had lived at this point, it didn't get easier. Oliver didn't want that look of pity and horror.

Which was worst for the old man? To think his other son didn't care to see him? To know the truth? Oliver didn't want to be directly responsible for a heart attack.

"Well?" Mr. Griffith pressed.

"Eugene was quick to anger—and quick to forgive," Oliver said slowly. "He would have wanted to be here, but he left this world before you."

Mr. Griffith went stiff, and Oliver found himself saying, "It was an accident, when he was sixteen—it didn't happen when—"

"When I abandoned you two." He grabbed Oliver's hand, clasping both hands around it. Oliver flinched, but the man's grip was strong.

"There hasn't been a day," Mr. Griffith said, 'There hasn't been an alcohol strong enough, a drug potent enough, or an activity numbing enough to drown it out. The memory. The guilt. Even if I had simply dropped you off at the orphanage myself, it would be have been better than that." His voice was becoming hoarse, the exertion of emotion thickening his throat. "The guilt weighs on me, always." His eyes shown with tears.

Mr. Griffith—his father—whispered, "I'm sorry."

And Oliver knew. There was no lie, no attempt to alleviate his own conscience. His father meant it. Was I accept your apology too cold? You're forgiven too haughty?

Mr. Griffith wasn't looking for confirmation. He repeated, even softer, "I'm sorry," as he released Oliver and pulled back his hands.

Oliver's hand was left cold and numb.

"You mentioned a wife," Mr. Griffith said, wiping his eyes. "You're married then?"

Oliver sat there a moment to bring himself back to the present. As a child, he had believed you just quit being scared when you become an adult. As time went on, he had come to understand fear had probably caused his father to act in such a way. It wasn't an excuse for the behavior. But it was a reason, something that no one had addressed, no one could address when issues were kept behind locked doors.

"Yes," Oliver said. "With two kids."

"Can you send Alice a picture?" Mr. Griffith attempted a smile. "I'd like…to see them. If that's all right with you."

"Would you prefer to meet them?"

"I don't have much time left. There won't be any traveling for me. It's a nice thought though."

"That's not what I asked. I asked—" Oliver leaned in, "—if you wanted to meet them."

Mr. Griffith raised his eyebrows, and nodded.

Oliver heard Alice stand up and open the door. Oliver turned as Mai entered, flanked by their two young boys. They were not twins, but the couple of years between them was close enough that they were often mistaken for such.

They gazed around the room, eyes wide. Mai gave Oliver a soft smile.

Oliver turned back to his father, whose cheeks had become wet.

"Meet Mai, Noboru, and Katashi," Oliver said. "Boys, this is your grandfather."

"I'm the oldest," Noboru announced as he bounced forward. His jet black hair and intense eyes made everyone say how much he looked like his father. But Oliver only saw Eugene when he looked at him.

Katashi clung to his mother's jeans, his hair brown like Mai. Or his grandfather, Oliver had come to realize. With a little coaxing, Katashi released his grip and moved towards to the bed, staring at Mr. Griffith with a solemn gaze.

Noboru grabbed his brother's arm and pulled him even closer, and started chatting with his grandfather about his trip to the United States, which was here, and how he had a house in both Japan and England, and he could speak both languages, and could Mr. Griffith speak Japanese still?

Oliver vacated his chair for Katashi and stood next to Mai, who slipped her hand into his.

"I was starting to think it wasn't going well," she whispered to him as she squeezed his hand. "And you weren't going to let us in."

"I honestly didn't know what to expect," he said softly. "He's a broken man."

Holding his father's hand had drained him, but he could feel the energy returning as Mai's hand warmed his. He watched a real smile come over his father's face at something the boys said. "But I've made my peace. Thank you."

She leaned into him with a smile. "If I can stop one lonely man from becoming a lonely ghost, then I've done my job."