At the Seams

Chapter 21: Dad

Chapter 21: Dad

Before she can bring herself to open the door to Poppop’s office, Mary resumes her position at its surface, forehead on the flaking wood, hand resting at the ready on the brass knob. Still reeling from her encounter with a libidinous and imaginary Sam, Mary gathers herself, breathes, strives for serenity. Dad deserves more of her than a frazzled mess. She intends to offer what he deserves.

Gradually, as Mary focuses on her breath, it becomes slow and even. Her heart calms from a canter to a mere trot, the best she can expect when facing a meeting with her dead father. "Ready or not, here I come, Dad." Mary flings the door open. The old hinges scream and nearly give way under her force and the weight of the door. The inside doorknob buries into the decaying plaster of the wall and stops. Mary stands tensely in the doorway, scanning the huge, gray room. The only thing of note is the dust, which coats the walls and floors and meanders lazily in the lethargic breeze from the broken double doors. The bookshelves are bare (grief wrenches Mary’s guts at this nasty little discovery) and filthy, and the room's décor has long since disappeared. All that remains from Mary's memories with her father is the beautiful flagstone fireplace Poppop and her Great Uncle had put in by hand when they built the house for Nanna as a wedding present in 1945. In front of the impressive stonework stands the corpse of the red armchair from Mary's memory and, resting awkwardly on the sun- and time-faded cushions, the corpse of the father she dare not regard.

A rough, bitter sob escapes Mary, a demon climbing from her throat, before she can slap her hands to her mouth. She recognizes the crown of the head rising over the arched back of the armchair—the thin spot combed over with yet more thinning gray and black, the funny part that necessarily stops at the bald spot, the neatly trimmed line around the ear. The familiarity both cruel and brutal, Mary wonders if she might puke. She stands there, hands held firmly over her mouth, eyes streaming silent tears, watching the still head on the other side of the chair. Just as Mary gets her stomach under control, the head moves and utters a deep sigh. Mary's stomach revolts. She vomits hot bile between her splayed fingers, retching miserably for minutes afterward, hoping feverishly that this room does not come with its own version of the gunman downstairs. How wretched, to have come this far and faced so much, just to be mowed down while she loses her lunch. She cannot master her guts, however; they are overstrained and rebellious and in control. As she doubles over in pain and shame, Mary wonders what waits for her on the other side of the room's only furnishing.

When her nausea finally subsides, Mary straightens and begins the trek to face the most beloved man of her life. Her knees buckle and her legs shake stupidly, but she shambles, as she must. Her feet plod and, as Mary watches them carry her uncomfortably toward the next step of her journey, she recalls other long walks in her life. When Mary was eight, and Nanna died, walking up the aisle to her casket was torture. Getting married was another long walk and she nearly fainted three feet from the alter. She only married Sam because, at that moment, her own steel will conquered her fear of commitment.

Mary reflects on the tendency of life to open onto unavoidable long walks. Such are the miles men and women must cover, lest they end up stuck, die incomplete. Mary covers this, the mile before her, reluctantly and as gracefully as the puke drying on her jeans will allow. Dad waits patiently.

Mary halts when she reaches the chair. She begins to sob again, this time allowing it to go unchecked. I'm deaf from the blood in my ears, she thinks. My mouth tastes like vomit. I stink. I just tried to murder my husband. I'm supposed to see my Dad like this? The bitter unfairness angers and saddens her, and propels her the final steps around the chair.

Sill sobbing, Mary lifts her face, examines her father from between shuttered lids. Mary isn't sure what she expected—a zombie, some rotting body half devoured by insects, or even a campy skeleton in a hairpiece—but she doesn't find it. She finds Dad, gray-skinned and appearing unwell, just as he did in the days before his untimely death from cancer. He gazes mindlessly at the empty fireplace. His vacancy hurts Mary most. Nothing remains of the dry but lively humor, the fierce curiosity and motivation, the passion she loved and admired always; only a sick, tired old man remains. He still hasn't looked at her, so she speaks, her voice like breaking glass in this room of the dead. "Dad?" It's all she can manage.