A choice under the shadow of the past

“Your father is hospitalized for lung cancer in Los Angeles right now.”

 As these words come out of the machine, my interlocutor falls silent, his words substituted by the distant cries of cicadas and of the wind.

“W-wait… My father? Lung cancer?”

“Yes,” he repeats.

Lung cancer. That doesn’t surprise me.

But, that said…

As I throw myself on an adjacent chair, I ask myself why he called me. After divorcing and stopping to send all the letters and postcards, I thought my father was done with us. He has no right to contact me back now, even if by someone else. You would need a really bad character to do this…

…Right?
I ask Cole why he called me.

“W-what? I mean, he’s your father, isn’t he?” he says after hesitating for a moment.

“He… he indeed is.”

“So, that’s it, isn’t it?” says Cole. “He’s your father and he wanted to see his son, that’s why,” he says as I reminisce about the pictures my father used to send me, of all the places he’s been to. Beyond this small, lonely cottage and this countryside city, beyond anything I can see across the small holes in these wooden walls. All these beautiful scenarios I’ve never seen.

Yet… even then…

“Still, I…”

My words are held back as I feel something sting in my heart. Probably curious, or maybe confused, from the other end of the line with a simple “hm?” Cole inquires me about what I want to say.

“I… I don’t…”

I try to get it out, but even after everything my father did, I can’t. Even if mum suffered so much, even if he abandoned us, I’m unable to say anything. But as my gaze wanders, at one point I encounter myself facing my mum’s stare across the room—that’s when I finally feel able to do it.

“...I don’t have anything to do with him, not anymore.”

“...”

“...Is that it? Do you… do you have anything more to say?” I ask, as I notice my grip on the telephone getting tighter and tighter.

“...You know, he needs your help. You should at least pay him a visit, help pay for his surgery… Or do you want him to die? He needs a lot of money and doesn’t have nearly enough.”

“I’m not going,” I say, my own voice trembling. “Nor paying anything either.”

Just after, I feel a gentle, invisible touch to my lips, as if closing my mouth, and as I’m about to say “sorry,” I don’t utter a word. Then, as I blink, I can almost see a smile on my mum’s face in the picture.

“Now he wants our money, after how he treated us, after what he did to us. What a great father, isn’t he?”

These words weren’t said by me, and neither by Cole, and as I shake my head, the smile on my mum’s face disappears. But… this doesn’t change the fact that these words are right, does it?—I wonder as I hear incomprehensible murmurs across the line, as if Cole was at a loss of words, until he finally manages to say something I can understand.

“So… what do you mean is that you are really going to let your father die like this?” he asks.

“It’s— It’s not like that… It’s not like he will definitely die is it?”

“Oh yeah you are right, he won’t definitely die, just suffer with cancer and probably end up dying after some time. Looks great doesn’t it?”

“N-no…” I murmur in a barely audible way. “That’s… that’s not it…”

“Then, what is it? Tell me, what is it?”

I bite my lips and stay silent, unable to answer. Quickly, I notice my hands are trembling, but even then, I still maintain my mouth shut—I can’t change my mind, I can’t disappoint mum.

“You know, I never really liked you,” Cole suddenly spoke up. “When we were in school, you were always distant, always acting weirdly, and whenever someone did something, you would tell your mother and cause trouble for everyone. All of the time, it seemed like you hated everyone else, and now I can see why. I got to know your father after moving to Los Angeles; he’s a pretty nice guy and tells me it’s not your fault, but he’s wrong: you are really just an asshole.”

At a loss for words, I stand there, seated and stunned as I listen to him telling me the exact address and name of the hospital before giving me a cold “bye” and hanging up.

…

Now that his voice has gone away, all that is left is the lonely silence of someone living surrounded by lifeless trees.

I sigh and, with the help of the crutches, get up from the chair and go have my shower, hoping it helps to calm my mind. I turn the water on and as I wait for it to get warmer, I have to stand there, seated on a plastic seat in the bathroom, waiting.

Why didn’t my father call me himself? Is he in such a state that he can’t do that? Or… he just didn’t have the courage to tell me directly?—I ask myself, my own blurry reflex on the shower cabin staring right into my eyes.

I’m sure mum would say it’s the second. She always warned me he’s a useless coward after all.

But even if he is… he might die if I don’t do anything.

…

No, he’s a terrible person deserving of nothing, so it shouldn’t matter. Even now I can picture in my mind how he would sometimes get back home drunk and beat my mum—certainly someone like this doesn’t deserve my help.

I stretch my only leg, confirming that the water is now already warm enough. I should get my shower done before thinking about this.

Still seated, I start to wash myself, starting from my legs—the easiest part—and then up the rest of my body, but as I do this though, I can’t help but have a difficult time.

Of course, not being able to properly stand up as I shower, this has always been a somewhat difficult process, but this time, it’s even harder than usual. All the time, the soap falls off my hand and the shampoo nearly gets into my eyes—I simply can’t properly concentrate. Maybe, you could say that I’m feeling restless.

For better or for worse though, I manage to finish my shower. Checking the clock, I realize it’s already time for me to sleep. Thankfully I have a very regular and healthy sleep schedule, otherwise I don’t think I would stand walking to the city every morning.

As I enter my room, I once more find myself alone, and in front of me, the Virgin Mary. A scene that has already happened over a thousand times, but never like this.

It never felt like this.

I can almost see her mouth moving, as if asking “will you really do this? Ignore him?” and for the first time in a long time, I avoid looking at the statue—she’s making me uncomfortable.

I lie on my bed and close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. I roll from one side and to the other, trying every position possible, but still, in this silence, far from any distracting noise, I can’t sleep.

Maybe it’s because all the noise is mine, located in my mind. It reminds me that whatever I said on that phone call—to someone who now lives far from this small city, about someone whose existence to most has been omitted—was heard by no one, as if I’m free from repercussions, and the choice of what to do is all mine.

But oh well—whatever it is that is the wrong choice, at least God won’t let me go without being punished for it.

Right?

In the end, as I lie on the bed I stare at the roof, it’s many spider webs, holes and insects in my sight. It makes me wonder… What did my father think of this same cottage?

For a moment, I feel a need to open the drawer and take that photo, paying close attention to it, consuming every detail, to mark it in my mind with iron—as if it already isn’t. But in the end, I stand still, as my mum has long established that opening it would be one of the worst of the sins.

A part of me feels as if, if I took that measure, it would be over, and I’m sure she would agree with that.

Luckily though, even if it takes a long time, at some point, I finally sleep.

***

When I wake up, something feels odd.

My eyes are heavy, and my back hurts slightly, but it’s not that—even though they are also quite odd. First, I have difficulty in exactly pinpointing it, but it’s when I finally stand up and look at the window that I realize what’s wrong. Beyond this little isolated place where mum and I have lived for decades, the Sun already shines over the mountains, cut in a million pieces by the leaveless winter trees—I overslept. By nearly an hour.

Looking back at my room, I see the blanket all over the place, as much as half of it touching the ground—It seems like I didn’t sleep very well, and when I notice the static, yet penetrating stare of the always observing Virgin Mary I’m quickly reminded of why.

I try to get changed fast and leave quickly for work, but my body feels heavy, and every step I make in the direction of the city seems unsure of itself. Until the moment when I close the door, I probably already spent almost as much time as I normally would take to get ready.

Going downhill the path to the city now seems tortuous, harder than usual under my unsteady steps, and I get tired faster and faster trying to get there. It almost makes me pray for strength, but I feel like I don’t have the right to ask anything from God today.

As I finally find myself in front of the store, it’s already open, and I can even see a client present as I enter it. Then, I greet and give an ashamed “sorry for being late” to Mr. Harrinson—my boss and the store owner, who is here today instead of his son.

He looks at me, his eyes locked into mine as all I can do is gulp down and divert my gaze, waiting for a bomb.

“Late, huh? I hope you can explain it.”

Hesitantly, I raise my eyes, and at a loss for words, my mouth restlessly moves without anything coming out. Then, as I finally gather my strength to explain, he makes a signal of silence and points to my left. As I turn my head to the cashier, beyond it I see the only customer in the store, holding a LP vinyl record in his hand.

“A little bit of Beatles for me,” he says as he takes out his wallet and pays the dictated price. “Thanks.”

As he leaves the store, I gaze at the title of the album he bought—Please Please Me—reminding myself of the image mum always pictured when talking about the Beatles: one of hippies who couldn’t care less for anything but the pleasure of sex and drugs, and one she always associated with my father, who used to listen to them frequently. He used to get me to listen to them too, but since the two divorced I never touched their music again.

As I sigh, my eyes fall on the towering shadow of the man behind me. It’s time to explain myself.

“My father was hospitalized from lung cancer,” I say. “He lives on the other side of the West Coast, in Los Angeles, and now wants my help. But I’m not sure what to do.”

It takes a few moments before I hear anything. My only guess is that Mr Harrinson didn’t expect an answer as heavy as this.

“I can’t blame you then. I don’t think I would be working properly either,” he sighs and I thank him. Then, he goes on to continue his work like normal, maybe giving me a little more leeway with any mistakes I might commit, but not much more than that, not prying any further in the topic, as if it’s as simple as that—as if there was nothing more to it than this.

Like a machine—though probably a very defectuous one—I attend to the unknown clients, and with each one of them, the clock moves. At one point, it finally marks 6 pm, and once again, my workload for today comes to an end.

But yet, even then, in every second of it a lingering frustration is there, and a certain restlessness never leaves me.

“Here” Mr Harrinson calls me after work is finished, handing me an envelope. “Your paycheck. You’ll need it, won’t you?”

I take it, and even though it’s not a lot of money, it feels heavy in my hand. As if the money had a life of its own, I can almost picture it asking me how I will spend it.

I sigh and thank him for the payment. He replies saying it’s nothing and then falls silent, while I continue standing there, awkwardly staring at him.

“…I think I’m actually not helping pay for my father’s medical bill,” I say. “And not visiting him too.”

He raises an eyebrow at what I said, but doesn’t object to my decision. “I see” is all that he says, and with it, I can feel my heart sink a little bit.

“Do… do you think I should?”

“You do what you want. I’m not here to judge you,” he shrugs. “And besides that, I’m sure you have your reasons.”

“…So that means that there’s no problem with my decision?”

“I guess.”

…

All I can do is let out a discrete “ah” and say goodbye to him. With our short talk coming to an end, all that is left for me is to awkwardly walk away on my crutches to the church.

So that’s how it is.

I can’t help but sigh—I can’t accept this. Or maybe I don’t want to.

I don’t know anymore.

With a crucifix on top of it, as I get to the church my mind clears a little bit—if he won’t judge me, God will. “This is alright, right?” I’ll ask the Lord, and my question will be answered accordingly. So, I greet Father Mark, sit in the front rows and wait for mass to start. By my side, gradually other church regulars show up. They all greet me and I greet them, doing so because of a common frequency to the church, though barely remembering each other’s names, as we have little reason to, and indeed don’t, care for them, nor to whom they’re attributed to.

Mr Harrinson is just someone I know—even if he’s a kind one, who didn’t have a problem with hiring a handicap—but that’s it. Only a close stranger, just like these church regulars—nearly everyone I talk to.

Mum always told me that their word doesn’t matter—only hers, and the one of God. After all, we had nobody else other than each other and the caring and wise divine inspired words of Father Mark. So now that I’m thinking about it, it’s no surprise what Mr Harrinson did: this is none of his business. None of them can judge me.

Or in other words, what he said has no meaning. His acceptance amounts to nothing, and this wavering of my heart, it will come to an end now.

So…

Please forgive me God. For my sinful acts, or sinful thoughts. Those who so much grew during that night and this day. Show me the right path.

Soon, mass comes to an end at exactly 8 pm. Many just go away, some talk to each other, others talk to Father Mark, and I stand there, waiting, as if they’re leaving me behind, though I assume they’ve already long done that. I don’t know why they’re doing what they’re doing, but I guess they don’t know what I am either.

Once again, I assume that my conversation with Father Mark, simply put, will be heard by no one.

So once we’re alone, under the shadow of Christ himself from his cross, on my crutches I slowly approach him.

“So, let’s go?” he says, ready to go.

“Wait,” I interrupt and he turns towards me, confused. “There’s something I want to talk about.”

He narrows his eyes and “say” he tells me, his head under the shadow of Christ’s arm.

“My father…” I mumble, “he has lung cancer. He wants me to go there to help him. But…”

“But?”

I gulp down and recollect myself to say this.

“I’m not sure if I should help him. You… you know my relationship with him, and my mother’s.”

He lets out a sigh, and looks at me—at my eyes. Under the cross, the time is now.

“So, you don’t want to help him?”

I nod, but can’t refrain from adding “though I’m not sure if that’s the right thing to do.”

“If you think that’s what you want to do, then go for it,” he says. “The choice is yours.”

“…We are also free to sin, does that mean it’s the right decision though?”

He sighs once more—he doesn’t seem to have liked what I said. With a step bringing him closer to me, his face leaves the cross’ shadow and he’s now fully illuminated.

“Paul this, Paul that—knowing just a little bit of what you went through with your family, I can’t just tell you what you should do,” he tells me. “Listen to me, no one can. Not me, and not even God or your mother.”

“I… I can’t accept this.”

“Why?”

“You used to help me… You always were here for me and mum… But now, now you are just dismissing me? Why? Tell me.”

“I’m not dismissing you—I’m helping you,” he says. “Now: what will you do?”

Before saying anything, I have to take a moment to reflect. Ignoring my fathers pleas—did I make that choice?

I do not answer that question, of course. After all, I simply cannot—at least that’s what a certain part of me feels.

“…Alright, I have made up my mind. But at least tell me what the Bible says, for reference.”

Seeing my reply, he sighs.

“Well, you should honor your parents—interpret that as you wish. Oh, and also, we’re nearing Christmas, so it’s a time to be united with the family.”

“…”

“So, what will you do?”

In this dark church, on the window I can picture these two points in my mind. Honor your parents… Honoring mum would be to follow what she had long established and stay away from my father, but it goes both ways, doesn’t it? As for uniting with the family… that’s more objective.

My lips and limbs feel heavy, as if there were invisible hands holding me back from moving or saying anything, but nonetheless, I step out of the cross’ shadow onto the light and finally give my answer.

“I guess I’m going then.”

Sorry mum—I think as I see Father Mark smile, but this doesn’t refrain me from feeling a certain weight come out of my shoulders.