By Louis Fiset
My childhood bedroom faced south. As summer sun poured through the morning window, a moment always came when pinpoints of light reflecting off the neighbor’s holly tree shot diamonds across the yellow walls surrounding my bed. Such a moment promised a long day on my Roadmaster with its many prized accessories: odometer; hand brake; streamers; playing cards pinned to the sprockets snapping against spokes to sound like a motorcycle.
It is now two decades later. Again, summer. I’m sitting by the foot of my old bed looking over at my father who lies propped up against the headboard, gaunt, motionless. The partially drawn shades filter drab morning light onto the yellow walls, a reminder of childhood rainy days that kept me indoors at the mercy of my older brother.
After a long silence, my father speaks: My life has been a failure.
Words of remorse; a father unable to rescue his eldest son from lifelong demons that eventually destroyed him. His own torment consumes him as fast as the cancer eating away his insides.
Although not surprised by his words, I don’t know how to respond. Instead, I move onto the bed and place my hand firmly into his. His weak squeeze has me wondering if he finally acknowledges his other son suffered too.
With our two hands held fast, I’m struck by their similarities. Long-boned fingers perfectly manicured; tortuous veins coursing from knuckle to wrist beneath imperfect skin, his designed to form a perfect bridge over the keyboard. Mine, trained to guide a high-speed handpiece through hard tooth structure as effortlessly as a warmed knife through butter.
United in the moment, I look over at an unopened bottle of Librium on the nightstand. I shudder. Days earlier, he’d told my mother that one morning she would awaken and find her husband gone.
I gently pull my hand away; lean over, promise I’ll return on the weekend to spend a full day.
But a predawn call brings me back the next morning. His semi-prone position remains unchanged from yesterday. I hold his stone-cold hand. Then, reaching up, I remove a black-and-green capsule from the dry tongue atop my father’s slackened jaw.