Finding the Pure Note

Going to Be Alright

Let's cut past the awkward crap, shall we? The part where I hesitate before the door and doubts riddle my mind. Of course, some of that still lingers on, but you get the picture by now.

Dad's eyes hold a world of their own. At once they look as if they fear me, and despise me. And yet there's something more. I hate it, but I swallow down my butterflies and clear my throat, knowing the longer I hold this off, the worse it's going to get. For both of us.

"Clay," he croaks.

"Dad," I respond plainly, my voice cracking at the edges.

And the dreaded silence. And then together, as if we had timed it perfectly.

"I'm sorry."

We both freeze, not willing to believe the other person said what we think they just said.

"I—" I begin, and dad stutters himself. "You don't hate me?"

With glistening eyes, dad shakes his head and it's as if all the potent feelings wash out of the room.

"By all rights, you should hate my guts. I don't even believe the tosspot who..." He sighs. "I could blame the agitation, pent up stress being in this room, alone, strange faces, for god knows how long... But I won't. You don't deserve that. So, so... just, please know whatever I said then, that's not how I truly feel. You should feel safe with me. Always. And I... What I did to you, that I..." He beams. "We both said some pretty stupid things, huh?"

The words almost don't come out.

"Pretty stupid? Like, dad, come on... You were bang out of line."

"Oh definitely. But that's exactly why we mess up. So we see the power of our words. Our actions. We're fragile beings. Too caught up in our own lives—our own prejudices.

"I considered myself a lucky man, Clay. It certainly felt that way. I had a perfect life. You know, minus the cancer." His smile is faint, subtle even. I feel my lips twitch a little. "I had it all. Why lose that over something so small... so petty?"

"Why indeed?" I mutter darkly. Again the painful silence. But dad seems optimistic as ever.

"Music, clay, is the purest form of expression. At least, that's how I see it."

"Dad, I'm not here to talk mu—"

"No, no I know that. Just hear me out. I had a lot of time to picture what kind of apology I'd give you, and this is the most natural way for me. I'm going somewhere with this." His smile takes away the edge. I let out an exaggerated sigh and fold my arms. "Life, for all its complications, its scars, and blemishes, is pretty damn amazing when you stop and think about it. I couldn't be certain you would see that. The way I see things. It's kind of a gift."

He looks all too bashful, and I feel like someone needs to give him a good clipping around the ears. He sees my mischievous smirk and returns with one of his own.

"I didn't want to force you into music," he continues, shifting in the bed. Even that simple action seems more than he can bear. For once, the light outside isn't a soul-sucking grey, but the glare starts to make him squint. I move to shut the blinds, but he stops me, giving his hand a curt wave, wincing still.

"Are you okay, dad?" I mutter, with full sincerity. We may still be working things out, but through all the heated words, he's still my dad. That never changes. Thankfully.

"Yeah, yeah." Still, he struggles to find any glimpse of comfort, any moment of ease. Through gritted teeth, he grins at me, and I move over, adjusting his pillow and holding his head steady. It's habit by now, the number of times I've done this same routine whether dad is asleep or not. When he is unconscious, he still shows signs of discomfort, and I do what I can to lessen the pain.