“Your dad has already made all the arrangements for his death. We both have; we did it a few years back, all I need to do is contact the company that we organized it through. They’ll take care of the rest.”
I know she’s talking to me, but it’s like she’s on autopilot: her face is completely blank, bereft of emotion and her voice is low and monotone. I wonder if this is how I looked when he was beating me? Switched off.
“That’s one less thing for you to worry about then, I suppose. Do you want to go in and see him before me? I think I’d rather I speak to him alone if that’s okay by you.”
“Of course.” She walks behind my chair and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze as she leaves. It's meant as a show of affection, but it’s the shoulder I messed up in the accident and it sends searing hot pain down my torso. I have to clench my teeth to control my reaction. I watch her as she crosses the hall into Dad’s room before the door closes and blocks my view. I pull out my phone and attach my headphones, then flick through my music until I find something to lose myself in. I’d do just about anything at the moment to escape the voices running wild in my head. They’re arguing to say goodbye and be the bigger man with the ones screaming to get answers —to hell with whether or not it’s an appropriate time to demand them. I’m so tired of the noise, I’m tired of the confusion, and I’m tired of life.
Black Label Society is not a good band to listen to when you’re half asleep. My music is on shuffle and I almost jump out of my skin when the track changes and Stillborn bursts out of my headphones. My heart’s slamming against my chest and I’m panting in shock. I need to get a grip. I sink back into the chair and check my watch; it’s been over a half an hour since mom went into his room. I’m contemplating going and knocking on the door when she walks back into the family room with two bottles of water and hands me one.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, honey. Your dad is a little out of it; he’s asking for you, but I’m not sure how long he’ll be able to stay awake. He was drifting in and out as I was talking to him.”
I feel the icy fingers of dread grasp at me. Suddenly the reality that I need to walk back into his room and talk to him is no longer a notion, and it scares the shit out of me. I twist the cap off of my water bottle and take a long pull as Mom watches me intently. I don’t think she believes that I’ll go through with at, hell; I’m not sure if I do.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in there with you?”
I almost laugh. The concept of her wanting to help me now seems utterly futile. He can't get out of his bed and beat me, so for once, I don’t need any help. Where were the offers when I was locked in the garage with him?
I can feel my temper begin to rise, and I tighten my fists a couple of times to try and shake it.
“No, I’m good,” I tell her as I get up and make my way towards his room. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I need to stand and take a few deep breaths before I finally push the door open and step inside.
“Dad?”
I walk around the bed and hesitate. I don’t know if I should sit down or not. He doesn’t look like himself. There’s a thick layer of scruff on his face, and his hair is greasy and limp, laying flat against his forehead. He’s always been clean-shaven and immaculately presented, even on days when he’s not working or we’ve been on vacation. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look anything other than entirely put together. There are tubes and wires running all over his bed, and the position he’s propped up in looks awkwardly unnatural. His eyes are closed and I spin on my heel and head for the door just when his gravelly voice cuts through the din of the machines breathing for him.
“Son?”
I stiffen at the use of the word; it denotes a certain amount of closeness that we don’t share, and it’s not what I’m accustomed to him calling me. Prick, Ungrateful Little Shit, Waste of Space have generally been his preferred terms of endearment toward me when there’s been nobody else around to hear.
I turn slowly and meet his gaze. It’s like looking at your worst nightmare and yet you’re completely awake, rooted to the spot. You want to scream and run, but nothing happens. The compassion that a son should be feeling isn’t there. I’m not even sure that the hate is. I’m hollow, an empty vessel that’s going through the motions as we stare at each other hard.
“You’ve been asking for me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I ask as I walk around to the chair at the end of his bed. I hold onto the back, rather than sit. It looks like I’m hiding behind a giant blue cushioned shield. Maybe that’s how I’m using it; the subconscious does funny things, and I feel better knowing there’s a barrier between us even though I know he can’t move.