What made this day different from all the rest was that which awaited when I arrived home. I always enjoyed the walk home. It was never quite as cold and the promise of my mother’s affection was a mere 30 minute walk away. I would be given a generic biscuit to tide me over until dinner and then I would stand beneath the comfortable warmth of the shower until the water heater decided it was sick of heat and went cold. I was gearing up for this routine as I walked in the door. My father’s work van (he delivered pens that didn’t work to those who only liked pretending to write) sat in the driveway, dripping with sweat. I ran my fingers along its length and made my way toward the front door. It was slightly ajar, making my entry just that little bit easier.
As I walked toward the kitchen in pursuit of my daily biscuit, the muffled sound of my mother crying floated from the bedroom. I started running toward the sound, but collided with my father before I could offer help. I bounced off his legs and scrambled about on the floor. He was staring down at me, not offering to help me up, not offering any comfort. He was dressed in a tuxedo I’d never seen before. I wasn’t even aware we had clothes that one might call ‘fancy’. He brushed away the creases our collision had caused with firm hands. Our eyes were probably only locked for a few fleeting seconds, but in my memory, we stared at each other for lifetimes. It was while staring into his eyes that I intuitively saw the collapse of everything. In his eyes I saw my birth and my death. And as I stared, I just knew this was going to be the last time I ever saw my father. He knelt down until our eyes were level and placed a hand on my shoulder. The pressure of his hand was such that I was sure I would fall. Before I had a chance, he ushered me into my bedroom and shut the door.
I can only recall a few conversations with my father. Up until this point, the conversations seemed so inconsequential they were rendered useless. In light of the way everything turned out, I often find myself scouring these banal conversations trying to glean significance. My father didn’t talk much to my mother or about my mother — he just looked after her. Since the flu had started, he had been a vigilant caregiver, but nothing else. I don’t know what my father used to do before he delivered pens, but I get the impression at one point he was quite an important man. When he sat by my side in the bedroom and told me he wanted to talk about my mother, I didn’t know what to think. I just listened. He told me that my mother’s flu wasn’t really the flu at all. He said that my mother had something very serious and that she would always be sick. I wanted to hug my father, but something about his body language filled me with fear and I couldn’t bring myself to show him affection. He very calmly explained that my mother would only continue growing more sick and eventually she would be unable to move. Up until this point, I didn’t even know it was possible to get this sick. I figured being sick was a transient state and I was sure that this was the case with my mother. The tone of my father’s voice convinced me that I had been wrong. As he spoke, I knew he was right.
After detailing what he understood of my mother’s condition, my father then made of point of letting me know that she started getting sick on the day I was born. I didn’t know what to make of this information. Then he looked me in the eyes, draped and arm over my shoulder and with something resembling a smile, told me that I was responsible for my mother’s illness. With his free hand, he poked my forehead with a finger and repeated, “You made her sick. You made her sick.” While this occurred, my mother continued to cry from her room. I wanted to break down the wall that separated us and hold her. I couldn’t understand why she was crying or, more importantly, why my father wasn’t there to comfort her. He told me to stay on the bed and quickly left the room. I was only 9 years old, so rather than disobey, I sat frozen until he returned. He was holding a black, leather briefcase with gold clips. He sat beside me once more, unclipped the briefcase and foraged around inside. When he found what he was looking for, he removed it and closed the briefcase. I was told to hold out my hand, which I did. He placed an antique looking cigarette lighter onto my palm. It was bronze and engraved with a picture of a farting aristocrat with stink lines emanating from his backside. He told me to keep this lighter safe — to make sure I never lost it. I closed my hand as tightly as I could, feeling the cold of the bronze infiltrating my bones. My father stood up, planted a kiss atop my head, picked up the briefcase and said goodbye. I heard his footsteps leave my room and walk outside. I clamored toward the window and watched as my father stood at the curb, glancing every so often at his pocket watch. A short while later, a large falcon swooped down from sky and dug its talons into each of my father’s shoulders. The falcon began to flap its wings, kicking up refuse much like the blades of a helicopter. Soon after, the falcon had lifted my father from the ground and slowly flew away, until he was little more than a speck in the sky. The last thing I remember before he vanished from our life completely was him checking his watch, presumably not wanting to be late for wherever it was he was going.
With the antique lighter still in my hand, I ran toward my mother’s room and dived onto the bed. I threw my arms around her and held on until her crying subsided. My memory tells me this took days, but it’s hard to believe it was really that long. All I know is that I refused to let go until her tears were no more. I didn’t ask her to explain what had just happened, and she didn’t offer an explanation. It wasn’t important. All that mattered was looking after her — making sure she was okay. I now knew I was responsible for her illness, therefore I was responsible for her care. I fixed us both a horrendous dinner and sat with her until the sun came up.
With my father’s paltry income now gone, there was no money coming into the house. I took it upon myself to find a job in order to ensure we could continue eating. Although my brother was older, I couldn’t rely on him. He had recently discovered death metal and I didn’t want to disturb him. Besides, I was the cause of my mother’s illness. It needed to be me. Had my brother tried finding work, I would have actively sabotaged his efforts.
There weren’t many people out there willing to employ a nine year old child, therefore my options were limited. After managing to fool an interviewer into thinking I was older by donning a fake moustache, I landed myself an entry-level job as a lecturer of Occult Mime Studies at a local university. The pay was poor, but it allowed something resembling food to fill our stomachs. I had no idea what I was doing and most of my classes were nothing more than an amalgam of random words and doodles scrawled on the blackboard. In what one must consider an indictment on our educational system, this didn’t seem to matter.
My brother spoke to me very little after this. We never talked about dad’s absence and he started spending more and more time away from home. I was later informed that he had started a death metal band and was involved in some never ending tour of local train stations. It was really just my mother and I after that. I did absolutely everything I could to keep her comfortable and happy, even as her condition began to deteriorate in ways nobody could understand. The more she deteriorated, the more vital my care became. My mother went from resisting it to depending upon it. My father made no effort to re-enter our lives. It was probably for the best. Had he returned, he would have found his place occupied by his youngest son. The wife he once had was gone. She was now defined by her disease. Most of us wind up caring for our parents — some just start doing it sooner than others.