And goodbye, me

As the car stops, I step out and my only leg sinks in the snow, my foot fully covered. I thank Father Mark and watch as he goes away. Then, fighting against the white layers accumulated through the day, my only leg and my crutches bring me to the door of the cottage and then to my bedroom.

Then, when I enter it I can’t help but feel something off.

No, not off, but rather…

Different.

It seems more vivid than ever, as if painted in a burst of nostalgia and youthful joy. I don’t know why, but this caught me really off guard.

After all, it's not like meeting my father will be a good experience. He’s the guy who mistreated us so much, isn’t he?

Despite that though, as that short surprise and wonder fades away, I remind myself of what I need to do.

The telephone.

I need to call Cole back or maybe even my father. I have to tell them I’m coming.

My hand reaches for it, but as I take hold of it and the machine touches my ears, I realize something: I never actually paid any attention to remembering and noting the number which called me.

And, what that means is that I have no way of contacting them back.

None.

In a last attempt I try to call my father using the old number of our house in Los Angeles, but as expected the person who answers it is a completely unrelated stranger.

And so, there goes my last chance.

I sigh and, with some caution, let myself fall on the chair. I hope my father can at least stay in the hospital until I get there—it won’t be pretty if he ends up out of the hospital for being, or maybe even just seeming, unable to pay.

But just as much as that, what also weighs in my mind is that if only I had made that decision earlier, I wouldn’t have to worry about this.

…

No, there’s something else.

Something much more important.

More than anything else, if I want to do something I need money—my mere presence won’t pay my father’s bill after all.

I take a small notebook I always keep on the corner of my desk and start flipping through it. This is where all the household expenses and incomes are kept. Every recurrent expense, how much we— I paid in taxes, and any extra big spending I do.

It’s in this notebook that what matters the most is right now.

Gradually, I start to turn it’s pages not in random chunks, but page by page, slower and slower as I near the end. Then, at one point I stop myself before turning the page once more—my hand is trembling. Trembling because what lies right next is, once again, numbers. Numbers that notate how much money I have in my bank account. Numbers, numbers that can decide my father’s fate.

I gulp, and then turn the page.

…

I don’t have enough.

…And if on top of this, I add my recently received paycheck, I’ll have…

…Still not enough.

Maybe if I cut expenses this month. Let’s see, I can live without expending pretty much any electricity for some time, I guess. I just need to use candles and take colder showers—even if it's snowing outside.

But it’s till not enough.

Then …what if I don’t pay the tithe?

After all, the Bible kind of tells me to help him and Father Mark always told me to stop paying it. So there’s no problem, right mum?

Well, it…

Still wouldn’t be enough.

Well, maybe I can try selling a few things, right? Like… like…

…My camera.

…I can live without taking photos, right?

In the end, it’s not like I have anything of importance to register—I can’t really go around traveling after all, and I doubt there’s still much I can do only with this small town’s scenery.

Then, considering this…

…It’s still not enough money.

“You’re not obliged to do what you can’t, you know?”

It takes but a look at that drawer and these words are silenced.

I think it would be better to sleep right now.

***

“Train station, right?”

I nod to Father Mark with a murmur from the passenger's seat. At my left, he drives cautiously across the snowy streets, a careful look in his eyes—he usually says that it’s easier than ever to get in a car accident in this period of the year.

“Couldn’t you get a bus or something?” he asks me. “Why a train?”

“Cheaper. If I were to get there by bus I would spend an extra few hundred dollars.”

At least that’s what Mr Harrinson told me after I said I’d changed my mind about not going to Los Angeles. Thank God he didn’t object to letting me stay away from work for some time.

“Oh, it must be because of the oil crisis…” Father Mark murmured to himself. “Well, so you’re getting a train to Seattle, right Viktor? Then you’ll get another one to Los Angeles?”

“I hope so.”

“You don’t know anyone over there, do you?” he asks me rhetorically and, after receiving a negative reply, continues. “As far as I know the train gets there in the morning. If you’re lucky you won’t have to worry about staying there overnight.”

Luck…

I will certainly need it. I don’t want to get lost in the big city looking for a cheap motel, and I have no idea when the next train from Seattle to Los Angeles leaves.

Of course, whenever I get to Los Angeles I will also need an accomodation, but when that happens I’ll probably be able to just stay at my father’s house, so I don’t have to worry much.

But in the end, the biggest problem isn’t either of these two.

“My father asked me for help, but I don’t have enough to pay for the surgery either. If the two of us together aren’t enough to pay for it, then…”

Then I don’t know what I would do.

Yet, I’m relying on the slim chance that we will. Relying on that chance that everything will work out better for me. After all, what other option do I have?

That’s why I need to save every cent possible.

“You could get a loan if you really need to.”

“I don’t think banks are very nice with low class, physically deficient people.”

He changes topics.

“Here, we got to the station.”

Looking around, beyond the condensed car windows I see that the houses surrounding us have disappeared as we now stand a little outside the city, where the train line passes and a small, empty station is located at.

Father Mark helps me get out of the car and, in a cumbersome manner I get to the ticket office. But, there I see no man. Instead, I’m met with a sign.

There, it reads:

STATION CLOSED

LINE OBSTRUCTED DUE TO ACCIDENT

…

Closed.

I can feel my shoulders drop, and together with it, my gaze. For a moment, I stand there, still, facing the ground below me and staring at my only foot.

I can‘t even muster a sigh.

And so, in my mind these words ring.

“You don’t have to do what you can’t.”

I can’t get myself to muster a rebuttal to them, but even then, I do not listen to them at all, not this time.

Soon, I raise my head again.

I walk back to the car and, now, with each step I can feel my foot sinking into the cold and wet snow, as if it’s going to freeze and I’m going to fall—yet I don’t even take long to get there.

“Did you buy the ticket?” Father Mark asks me.

I shake my head in return. “The ticket office was empty. It seems like there was some kind of accident down the railroad.”

I watch as he mutters a quiet “ah” and, with a sigh, maneuvers the car out of the station.

“So, what will you do now?” he asks me.

I…

“…I don’t know, but I know I will do something. I have to.”

From my point of view, I can see my face reflecting on the rearview mirror. My deep black eyes matching my mother’s, and my long, thin head reminding me of my body's weakness.

“You’re weirdly determined now, aren’t you?”

“I’m… I’m only being a good christian.”

As I say that, I’m unable to continue looking at the reflection of my own face. Instead, I just avoid it by observing the increasingly near houses of the approaching town.

“...Fine. I’ll let you continue saying that for now, if that’s really what you want.”

I don’t reply to him—actually, I pretend I didn’t hear that.

He sighs.

“So, in the end are you taking a bus or what?”
“I guess that’s my only option,” I also sigh. “But I really wish there was another way.”

I can’t help but look down at my only leg. If I just weren’t born like that, maybe I could just drive a car there. Maybe I would have a better job, and money wouldn’t be so much of a problem right now. Maybe I would’ve grown up having friends from school.

…If only I weren’t born like that, life would be so much easier.

“You want to save as much money as possible, right?” he asks me and I nod in agreement. “Well, there’s maybe a way to do that, but I don’t know if it would work out or really be the best choice for you…”

“...Tell me.”

“Mr Johnson is going to visit a relative in Nampa, Utah. I can try to convince him to get you a ride in his car, and from there you might be able to get rides until Los Angeles.”

…

This seems rather…

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I told you I’m not sure.”

“There’s no way I would be able to get there in a day. Where would I sleep?”

“Motels.”

“Motels cost money.”

“It would still cost a lot less than a bus ticket. And with Johnson’s help you might be able to sleep at Nampa for free.”

Before saying anything, I stop myself. Pondering the possibilities.

“So, what do you think Viktor?”

“…Alright.”

I hope this ends well.

***

With a creaky noise, the door slowly opens and behind it the dark interior of that cottage is revealed.

Entering it, I head for my room. After Father Mark explained my situation to Mr Johnson, he readily accepted the request, and now I have to organize my baggage.

And what that means is that, in my room, I take a backpack I’ve kept from my school days and put whatever I need in there. A few clothes, a banknote, the notebook where I keep my finances, and many other things.

And so, in the end I’m left there, still in my room, standing in its middle. I should go already—I’ve taken everything I need. For some reason though I can’t move. Not yet.

I catch myself staring at the drawer with my father’s photos and letters, but with a sigh, I instead take a picture from the top of the desk. A picture of just another scenery I’ve never been, a scenery I’ve never seen with my eyes. In my mind, it paints the image of its beautiful deserts, canyons and mountains, of its dry, but beautiful landscapes.

It makes me wonder: will I see anything like this on my way to Los Angeles?

If so, I better register it.

I pick up my camera inside the second drawer in the desk. It’s an old Sears model from the 60s. It was first my father’s, but with time he gradually lost interest in his photography hobby and gave it to me. Now that I think of it, it was really irresponsible of him to forget one of these in a small kid’s hands, but I’m thankful for this, as it was mine for so long that when my parents divorced, mum didn’t throw it away.

When I’m going to close the drawer though, I notice there’s something else there.

Below the camera, there is a notebook covered in dust.

I take it and wipe it with my hand, but there’s nothing indicating its contents on the cover, so I open it.

09/016/1969

Why does mum hate dad? She says bad things about him all day, but—

I shut the notebook.

“There is no ‘but’” I hear a whisper in my ear.

September 16th 1969… A few months after my parents divorced and we moved to this cottage.

At that moment, I was still only ten.

“Of course I would still be ignorant,” I say out loud as if trying to prove something to someone, though I’m in nothing more than an empty room.

I sigh. I’m already done with this, am I not?

I turn to the door and step forward, but suddenly stop myself. That’s when I notice it—taking a glance back, I see my hand is still holding the diary.

…

Well, bringing it with me will do no harm, right?

With a short look at the Virgin Mary I beg for protection on this trip and leave the room. Then, once I step out of the cottage carrying in my backpack everything I need, I’m met with Father Mark, who waited for me in his car while I gathered my stuff.

“Ready to go?” he asks me, turning the car on.

I nod silently and we start to move. Trees pass by, then houses and stores. At one point, we go past a few farms and that’s when we finally get there.

The cemetery.

Before taking the long road to Los Angeles, that’s one last place I need to go.

There are no gates or fences or anything of the type. Instead, we’re greeted with just a big wooden sign with the name “Old Leavenworth North Road Cemetery” written on it and a dirt path.

“Can we stop here? I want to walk to the grave by myself,” I ask Father Mark.

“Alright,” he answers and the car stops.

I open the door and, alone, leave the car—I feel like I need a moment for myself right now.

No, a moment for me and mum.

Supporting myself on my crutches I walk on the thick snow, against the freezing and strong wind. In the third row, the last grave from right to left, at the very corner of the cemetery—this is where she’s located.

Awkwardly, I support my armpit on my left crutch, extending my arm to the grave and wiping the snow out of the written part with my bare hand.

Anna Wright, born in 1930 and dead in 1982—that is my mum.

She lived a short life.

…

“Hey mum,” I call her, as if she is still alive to answer me, but my words are lost in the wind.

“I will go see father again.”

I stand still, looking at her name, as if waiting for something.

“Sorry.”

Nothing happens though.

In the end, right now she’s nothing more than a decaying corpse lying below my foot.

“But I still love you. I hope you still can love your son too.”

As I say this, the wind calms down, and all that is left is silence.

“Goodbye mum.”