The Void (11 page)

"He
does
still look good." Brian.

I like hearing him, now daily, it seems.

"It's beautiful today," Jenny, now across the room, clearly
looking out the window. I wonder if it's sunny today... "The snow
is finally melting."

Melting?

"Everything should be greening up soon."

"I can't wait for the flowers to sprout."

Is it spring? How did I miss winter?

It feels just yesterday that Jenny was discussing a fresh blanket of
snow and the impending winter cold. Where is time going? How is it
slipping so quickly away from me, seemingly faster as it goes along?

"Pitchers and catchers report to spring training next week. I was
thinking about heading down there to watch a few games this month."
The sound of a chair moving, scraping across the floor. "Dad would
have liked to have gone."

"I'm sure he would have."

I would have...

I never did get to see a Super Bowl...

"Mom, we should probably talk."

"What about?"

Jenny sounds concerned...

Have they been fighting?

"The funeral."

"No," Jenny squeaks. "I don't want to talk about that right
now, Brian."

"Mom, we have to talk about it!"

"No, we don't!"

"Mom-"

"Brian, enough!"

"Mom, please, please listen to me, this is very important," and
his voice is suddenly soft, almost condescending, like he was talking
to a child and about to discuss something very unpleasant.

Jenny audibly, forcefully sighs. "Okay," she finally acquiesces.
"What about the funeral?"

"We need to decide if we want to make a request for a military
funeral."

"I don't think Max would like that."

"He doesn't have a life insurance policy. If we don't make the
request, we'll be paying for everything ourselves. I don't think
that's fair, and besides, dad deserves to be acknowledged for his
service."

"Max hated the military."

"He did not
hate
the military."

"Of course he did. It ruined him."

"Mom-"

"No, Brian, that's enough. No military funeral, we will pay for
his burial."

Burial...

Oh, my, I hadn't even considered the burial...

Intellectually, I know that when they put me in a casket, lower me
into the earth and cover me with dirt, I will be quite dead, and be
quite incapable of understanding what is happening. But yet the idea
of being buried, of my body being encased in wood and put away, out
of sight, to decompose and disappear as the world continues on
without me... It's such an odd, slightly terrifying concept.

Soon enough, I will be nothing but dust.

"Mom, we don't have the money."

"We have enough."

"No, we don't, mom. You had to take a second mortgage just to keep
paying dad's medical bills, and I don't have anything in savings.
Funerals are expensive and I don't think we'll be able to afford it."

"Max, stop it." She is calm, detached.

"Mom, we need to be pragmatic."

"No, we don't, not now."

"When, if not now?"

"Brian," she starts, in her sharpest, motherly voice, a voice I
hadn't heard in years. "You listen to me... I know I need to think
of these things, okay? I'm not stupid, okay?"

"I never said-"

"But I'm not thinking about it now, you hear me? I'm just not. My
husband is lying in front me, and he's not dead yet, and I refuse to
think of him as dead until he's dead. Right now he doesn't need a
funeral, he just needs new sheets. Okay?"

And Brian takes a deep breath.

"Let's go get some coffee."

"Okay," and then footsteps, softening, and then silence. It was
only me, once again...

"Want a coffee?"

"Sure, thanks, dad," and my father emerges from the kitchen,
onto the patio, where I was standing, enjoying the sunshine, trying
not to think of the pain in my leg that was slowly emanating up into
my stomach.

"Cream?"

"Black is fine," and he hands me the mug.

It was blue. I don't know why I notice that...

"You watch the game the other night?"

"No," I admit. "It seems they can't manage a win without me,"
I chuckle.

"I don't know that you would have made much of a difference," he
answers with a laugh.

"You never know."

"So," my dad starts with a deep exhale, cupping his mug close to
his chin, "how are you doing, Max?"

"Fine," is all I ever answer.

"You don't look fine," he admits.

"Thanks, dad. Tell me how you really feel," and I laugh, gently,
trying to redirect the conversation.

"You know what I mean."

"Really, dad, I'm okay."

"You know," he starts, putting his mug down onto the deck table,
looking out toward his yard. "It's not a weakness to admit when
you're struggling."

"I'm
not
struggling, dad," I muster with a little more
forcefulness, upset at the inclination. He coughs, takes another sip
of his mug and wipes his lips, still not looking at me.

"When you were seven years old, I took you down to Crow Hill to
teach you how to swim. Do you remember that?"

"I suppose so," not knowing why.

"You were so excited," and he laughs, shaking his head, thinking
of that moment, so long past. "I remember, the whole drive you were
bouncing up and down on the front seat, asking me how much longer,
generally driving me crazy. It wasn't even that long of a drive,
maybe twenty minutes."

"Yeah, I never had much patience," I laugh.

"No, you didn't. But it didn't bother me much. When we got there
and parked, you jumped out of the car and ran toward the woods. You
didn't even know where you were going, but you found your way to the
beach and the water just fine. You always had a good sense of
direction."

"I suppose." Why was he telling me this?

"When I got you in the water, you were so happy, you immediately
starting heading toward the deep end. I had to physically grab you
and keep you in the wading area so I could teach you."

"I never liked waiting to learn."

"No, you like to barrel ahead, learn by doing."

"Probably not my best quality."

"No," he shouts. "It is absolutely your
best
quality,
Max. It's how you learn so quickly and so well. It's the only way to
learn, as far as I'm concerned."

"It's dangerous."

"Life is dangerous." He shrugs, takes another sip of his coffee,
and shakes his head again. "Anyway, you spent about twenty minutes
with me, doggie paddling and learning to hold your breath underwater.
You were a natural," and he finally looks at me, puts his hand on
my shoulder and smiles. "I really enjoyed teaching you, you know?"

"I enjoyed learning," I smile.

"You asked me, can I jump off the rocks?"

"The rocks?"

"There was this group of older kids taking turns jumping off this
small jetty, doing cannon balls, trying to make waves. They were
laughing and pushing each other and just generally being kids. You
saw them and wanted to join them." He laughs again. "You always
wanted to join the big kids."

"I suppose so," not fully agreeing with him.

"I said no, you're not ready, the water is deep at the end of the
jetty and you needed more practice. You agreed with me, telling me
what I wanted to hear, and you kept practicing with me. Soon after,
you told me you had to go to the bathroom, and so I sent you into the
woods. I watched you leave the water, run across the beach, up the
hill and into the trees.

"While you were out of the water, I decided to do a few laps,
really get wet and enjoy the warm day. I went out to the far end of
the pond, to the left and up to the dam, and then back to the shallow
end. When I got there, I stood up, wiped the water out of my hair,
and looked around for you. But you weren't back yet.

"I remember thinking it was odd, it shouldn't take that long to
piss, but I didn't worry about it much until I looked over and saw
you on the rocks, lined up to jump. The kids were cheering you on."

"I don't remember this," I frown.

"Well, I do. I watched you run down the rocks and my heart skipped
a beat. You hit the water and just disappeared. I raced out to the
water as fast as I could swim, and by the time I got there you had
finally came to the surface and were wading."

"I was always a little... disobedient." I couldn't think of a
better word. It fit well enough.

"I tried to scoop you out of the water, in a panic, but you kept
thrashing, insisting you were fine, that you could do it, that you
could swim without me. So, I let you go, and you just stayed afloat,
kicking, keeping your head above the water.

"I was so impressed, after only one lesson! But you were spending
a lot of energy, kicking pretty hard, breathing heavy. I kept waiting
for you to get tired and ask me to bring you to shore. But you know,
you never asked. You just stayed there, kicking."

"What happened?"

He laughs. "After a few minutes, you went under, hands reaching
for air. I pulled you up, and you looked me square in the face and
told me that you didn't need my help, and to let you go. I let you
go, you kicked a few seconds more, and went under again."

"Yikes!"

"I finally pulled you up and dragged you to shore, you still
thrashing, telling me to let you go. When I got you to the shallow
end, you were pouting and asking if you could jump off the rocks
again."

"I was so stubborn."

"You still are! I told you then that you need to know your limits
and be smart. Always try to do your best, but know when to ask for
help. And you listened, but I'm sure you didn't agree, because you
still don't know your limit. You still don't know when to ask for
help. You think you can do everything on your own, no matter how deep
under the water you are."

I drop my coffee to my hip, my eyes now wide and my mouth agape.
"What?"

It was all I could think to say...

"Max," and he put his hand on my head. "I know you're strong.
You're one of the strongest men that I know, and I'm proud to be your
dad. But you need to know when you need help, and there is no shame
in saying so."

"Dad, I don't-"

"You need help, Max."

"I don't need help, dad. I'm clean."

"I don't mean the drugs."

"Then what? What do I need help for?"

"For your mind, Max. You need to get control of your mind, or else
you'll never be happy."

"There's nothing wrong with my mind."

"Max, I know all your faces. Your happy face, your sad face, your
frustrated face, your angry face, your stoned face, your drunk face,
your scared face... This face, the one you've had on since you got
home... that's a whole other face."

"And what face is that, dad?"

"Guilt."

I snap my head, blink hard, twice, shake my head. "Guilt? What am
I guilty over?"

"That you came home."

"Dad!" I shout. "What does that mean?"

"You feel guilty that you survived, that your friend died, and
that you came home safe, home to your family, home to tell Jason's
dad that his son wasn't coming home. You feel guilty that you're here
and they're not, and you don't know how to handle it."

"Dad," I mumble and turn away.

"Max, please talk with someone."

"I don't need to talk with anyone. I'm fine."

"Max," and he takes hold of both my shoulders and turns me,
forcing me to face him. My eyes are red and sallow, but there are no
tears. I wouldn't allow it. "You are not fine, and you know it, but
you won't admit it. Why won't you admit it?"

"Because," I shout, "if I do, then I'm admitting that I'm
broken, that my mind can't take what the world has given to me, and
that I'm not strong enough to find my own way! I'm not weak, I can
take anything thrown at me, and I
am fine!
" I am shouting,
almost furious, far more angry than is deserved. My hands are
shaking, I notice. Shaking almost uncontrollably.

I put my coffee mug onto the patio table.

"Max," my dad says softly, hands still firmly gripped onto my
shoulders. "The only weakness is in refusing to admit your limits.
That is not strength, that is cowardice, a lack of self-awareness. I
did not raise a coward, I raised a hero." He slaps my shoulders.
"Be that hero, Max. Get help, get healthy, and get back to being
you, to being a father and a husband."

"Dad, I-"

"Get help, Max. Just talk with someone."

"I don't-"

"You can handle anything, but with two sets of hands, you can lift
twice the weight. Talk with someone, and get healthy. Please."

I stare at him, moments ticking away, his eyes fixed to mine,
needing an answer. I finally, slowly, nod, agreeing to speak with
someone. He smiles, pats my shoulders, and grabs his coffee.

Not another word is spoken...

"I missed you yesterday," says Sarah.

I feel ill...

Brutally hungry, weak...

Weaker even than usual.

"You don't look so good tonight."

I don't feel so good.

"And you're sweating."

Am I?

"And very warm," suddenly very close to me.

Is she feeling my forehead?

"Go to sleep," I hear my mother say, her hand on my forehead.
"You're sick, you need rest."

"But mom, I don't want to sleep! I'm not tired!"

"You need to sleep, Max. It's the only way you can get better. You
want to get better, don't you?"

"No," and she smiles...

"I'll get you a wet cloth," Sarah says.

And I hear sheets ruffling.

"Did you miss me last night?"

Were you not here last night?

I can't differentiate between nights, even more so recently, my mind
seemingly slipping with each day that I slide closer to death.

Jesus, I hurt...

"You know, I wonder if we would really get along if you were
awake. I don't really know that much about you. I know that you're
married and have a son and that you've been here for a little over
six years."