a piece of my writing for school that i am allowing myself to say i like.
At birth I arrived in this world by virtue of a construction worker and his wife, and fourteen years later my mother arrived in the next, leaving behind only a single note for my father that read “you killed me.”
My father was always a courageous man. He always smiled during the most difficult times. He had his own business. It was a construction firm that did house renovations, and he employed about a dozen guys from 18 to 53 years old to work for him. My father was always proud. He was not always successful, but he was always proud.
My mother, on the other hand, was as delicate as a flower. She was grass in the wind, a dune in the desert being constantly recreated against the ferocity of a sand storm. Her physical wellness and mental state wavered so constantly and erratically that at one moment she would be quoting Becket and the next she could be screaming at her pet to stop “being so damn judgmental.” Because of this, or because of a stressful home life, or because her grandmother was insane, my mother made her final voyage, hand raised to her brow and with her goodbye note as a last middle finger to my father.
Now, naturally, I didn’t believe that my father had killed my mother. The police had found her in a car two cities over, surrounded by pill bottles and with Vladimir (her pet poodle) barking wildly in the back seat. My father and I had gone out for steaks that night. He was with me the whole time. Nevertheless, the note spoke for itself, and I think it was what initially planted the seed of doubt in my head about my father.
As I said, I was fourteen when my mother died, and my father was 43. For my eighteenth birthday my father brought me home a ’97 Chevy with A/C, stereo and power windows. I spent the first five minutes in the car opening and closing the windows. This, for me, was a huge success. My father had his business, but our budget at home was tight, as my father was overly generous with his employees’ salaries and benefits. His main electrician ate filet twice a month. We eat potatoes and eggs on Sunday morning, and we get excited about it. When my father drove that car into the driveway, I assumed he had finally gotten sick of car pooling, or that it was on rental and he had to drive out a ways for a new project. But it was for me. My father, the philanthropist, handed me the keys with the largest smile I’d ever seen from him on his face, and told me it was mine as long as I didn’t drink until I was 21. I promised him I wouldn’t. He told me I was a man now. I thanked him. He asked if I would like my favorite food for dinner. I said, yes sir, I would. He smiled, and patted me on my back.
Six weeks later and it was raining while I looked out my bedroom window. I could feel my mother’s eyes boring into the back of my skull. I could feel her glare and I knew her picture was directly behind me, facing me, watching me. I watched the water run down the window pane. It reminded me of a time when I was little, my mother had taken me to the zoo in the rain. We hadn’t had umbrellas, and at the lion’s cage, my mother turned and spoke to me.
“Son,” she said, “Son, I want you to know, your mother loves you very much.”
“Thank you mommy.”
“I want you to know, no matter what happens, no matter what happens that I love you.”
“Are you ok mommy? You’re hurting my hand!”
My mother, there, in front of the lion’s cage, was squeezing the life from my hand, her eyes had grown wild, I remember being frightened, I remember being confused, and I remember my mother turned to me, looked me directly in the eye, and said, “Your father hates me. Your father hates me. Your father hates me. I… son I love you so much but I feel… I feel as if I am becoming thin, like I am losing contrast, like my body, my mind, are drifting off with a light summer breeze. It’s slow but… but… so persistent, and… I… I love you, that’s all you need worry about, ok? That’s all you need care for.”
And, without reluctance, I assured my mother that I understood. But from that day forth the words “Your father hates me” forever resonated in my mind, always a close companion to my mother’s wild, red, rain burnt eyes.
Back against the window pane, and slowly, still not facing my mother’s picture, I got up and walked downstairs to the kitchen. My father was at a doctor, a head doctor, because he was having difficulties at work. I was waiting for him to come home, and I decided that, in the meantime, I would cook him a nice spaghetti dinner. In the kitchen I took out a large pan and a smaller sauce pan. I boiled water. I cracked the dry noodles in half, hearing their muffled, parched snap, and dropped them into the boiling water. In the sauce pan, I mixed up some tomato paste, a bit of cooked beef, a dash of spices labeled “Italian Medley” and one or two personal touches. The front door opened.
My father was looking especially downcast when he came through the front door. I asked him how did it go, and he replied with a weak smile and a gorgeous oration on the benefits of the visit, though I guessed them to be exaggerated. I showed him his dinner on the table, and this brightened his mood greatly. He sat down and began immediately, languishing over the quality of the sauce the whole time.
I stared my father down. His brow was wrinkled, and his eyes looked a thousand years old, weary and defeated. I sat down across from him, I said, “You know, Mother and I have a lot in common.” He didn’t reply, but stared at his plate. “We have so much in common,” I said, and he continued to stare, his eyes looking even more tired, more lost, and then he spoke, “I loved her more than life, you know.”
I said, “I don’t know that you did,” his head slowly lifted, almost meeting my eyes, “Mother told me you didn’t. We have so much in common. So much in common.”
My father’s face erupted in surprise, he cried out in pain, holding his stomach. Still seated at the table, he turned his stare, blank, but his expression tormented, to look directly into my eyes. I spoke to him, “She knew she could trust me more, Dad.”
“My wife…” His eyes began to lose their focus, he screamed, but stifled it immediately, “My wife…” he said, and his large frame slipped from the chair, hitting the floor hard, “My wife…”
I got up and stood over him, my Father. Over my right shoulder, I felt another of my Mother’s photographs, in this one she smiled, and as I turned to sit down again at the table, my mind ruptured. I was a vast dune in the desert. I was the bright blue sky, cursed for its clearness in the dry land. My sanity was the sand in the sandstorm, and I raged throughout the kitchen, then, with my father’s bright eyes fading before me.