Story of A Lonely Guy

Chapter 28: Storms of Every Kind

Christmas morning. The day of genial words and loving hugs yet I've not felt compassion in my blood for a long time and I wonder when I'll have it back. I wonder when days will feel sparkling like the water in cold springs and when the wind will whisper me songs like a harmonizing duo and serenade me back to the home I had before. Stepping into the hall filled with the sounds of a creaking floor and a ticking clock, I walk downstairs where I see my dad standing where the tree should be, looking down like he's seen something remarkable. I halt my steps; he hasn't heard me yet.

From where I stand near the kitchen in front of the stairs, his words aren't audible enough to be clearly understood, but I know that he's mumbling to himself. He must be confused.

"Dad?" I call to him. His head turns slightly, his hands clenching into balls of fury as it does.

"Where's the tree?" he says, anger rising in his voice.

"I didn't think to put it up. I didn't even know you knew it was Christmas." He looks at me then, his body still facing the corner of the room. His eyes are rimmed with red, his body growing thinner every hour it seems.

"Of course I knew it was. Go out to the garage and get the tree. Call Jade. Call Angela. We're celebrating Christmas. With or without your mother." At the sound of his own voice speaking of Mom he shuts his eyes, his voice breaking at the word. I only nod and walk to the back door, looking back at him as I do, just to see if he means what he's said.

"Go," he tells me in a stern voice. And so I do.

~

My hands fumble through torn cardboard boxes, scanning for family made ornaments, photos of earlier family. Finally at the back of all the mess, I see the tree in a tall box, leaning up against the boards supporting the garage. I make my way towards it, creating a path for myself as I go. I grasp it quickly, feeling the cold, stale air seep into the sewing of my sweater.

When its morning and I find my father awake at the same time as me, I'm thrown off guard. He's drowned himself at the bottom of a bottle and somehow resurfaced within a matter of days. I know he hasn't eaten anything large the past few months, as the kitchen has stayed deserted yet he's found the strength to walk his wiry bones down the stairs. He can hardly uphold his own body weight and his voice is barely above a whisper, disregarding the times he's angry. I know that it's imperative he see a doctor, but he'd never agree to unless I willed myself to carry him there when he's in his dreamlike state. I go back into the garage, navigating my way past unimportant junk until I find the box of ornaments and family photos. I carry it all through the back door, throwing it down as I reach the tiled floor. I slam the door behind me, stopping cold wind from protruding into the kitchen. I look to my dad.

"Well? What are you looking at? Put it up," he demands. His legs rest on the glass of the coffee table, his hands holding a mug. A magazine lay on his lap. When did he check the mail? His dirty blonde hair is matted to his head with grease, his face oily.

"Aren't you going to help?" I ask, bringing it all into the living room where he reclines on the couch.

"I didn't think I needed to," he says, staring into the magazine as though it holds the secret to life and he's much too busy for anything, or anyone, else. He's going too far and he knows it. "I'm going to shower," he blatantly tells me. I nod for the third time as I hear the couch shift and he slinks up the stairs. I wait for the door to close... the shower to click on... and him to step in. I punch the floor indignantly, furious at him for being so acrid, so bipolar. One moment he's breaking and the next he feels fine, only more of an ass.

I can comprehend his recent attempts to grieve, but going so far as to treat your child like the muck in the streets? He's taking it to the extreme. There's enough going on without him being a narcissistic, split-personality of a man. I start on the tree before my blood boils so much blisters begin to erupt over my skin.