Oliver Ausman Lives Again

three

I can't sleep. Everything is a distraction-- the distant sound of the highway, the soft pattering of rain hitting the roof, the bright letters of my alarm clock that mock me with the knowledge that it's already one in the morning-- and every distraction forces me to face the reason my stomach is in knots and I've been close to catatonic for the past five hours.

I could barely force myself to go back to the party after Uncle Morris enlightened me to the truth of my conception. But I did, barely holding conversations and drifting off into my thoughts every other minute while I quietly lingered around Peter, waiting for the moment when he'd pull me aside and tell me himself.

It never came.

Eventually the party ended, but I was too distracted to feel grateful, even as I finally got to say my goodbyes. Soon after, Peter and Mom headed off to bed, giving me one last happy birthday before ascending the staircase. 

At first I wondered if he forgot, which would be offensive enough. But of course he didn't forget-- I doubt he can forget. It would be stupid to think I'm not a constant reminder of how Mom and Isaac betrayed him, that it doesn't pop into his brain every time he looks at me. 

I know what the truth is: he doesn't think I'm ready. He doesn't think I can handle it. Sure, I'm eighteen now, but rewind to the end of last month and I'm seventeen, lying in the back of an ambulance with my wrists slashed open. I know what he's thinking-- I can't take this; it's too heavy. He probably thinks if he tells me, I'll try again.

I guess in his defense, I'm not taking it well. 

I roll over for the millionth time, now facing the stack of presents sitting a few feet away in the corner of my room. I miss being Charlie's age, when gifts and birthdays were still exciting-- I appreciate all this, and I know it was a nice gesture on everyone's part, but it just seems so pointless. All that pile contains is a bunch of stuff to fill up my time and keep me occupied until I die. Is that what life is? Just doing stuff until we die? Distracting ourselves from the inevitable? Is anyone out there really having a good time?

The thought of dying brings my mind right back to the fact that if I had died last month-- and I mean permanently died, not died for forty-seven seconds like the doctors told me I had-- I would've died without knowing my father. I could die tonight or tomorrow and even though I know the truth now, I still wouldn't know the guy. And according to Morris, Isaac wouldn't even know he lost a son-- if word got around to him, he'd think his nephew died.

It isn't fair to either of us. The more I think about it, the faster my sick feeling turns into anger. The angrier I get, the more I want to do something about it.

I sit up, thoughts racing. 

Manhattan. Janitor at the Hilton. The Millennium.

I could go. I could get out of bed right now, pack a bag, and grab my car keys.

I should go. I should say fuck what Mom or Peter thinks about it, fuck them for not telling me or Isaac the truth, and just leave without a word.

But I can't go. I can't take off in the middle of the night and go searching for Isaac, I can't just show up at his job and interrupt his life with the truth.

Can I?

I let my upper body flop back down onto the mattress, sighing as my head hits the pillow. This is ridiculous. Of course I can't. For one thing, who knows if Isaac even still works there? And it isn't like I haven't gotten myself into trouble before, but this? This would be next level. Leaving without telling anyone, without asking, without caring how they'd react. 

I can't deny that it's sort of perfect. Righteousness topped off with well-deserved payback. But the idea renders me paralyzed, too scared of the consequences to do anything but lay there and think about them.

My phone lights up on the table beside my bed, letting me know it's done charging. I reach over and unplug it, picking it up to look at the plain blue lock-screen, which is unsurprisingly void of any notifications. 

I swipe up and enter my passcode. Before I can stop myself I'm clicking on the search bar widget and typing in the name of the hotel that's been circling my brain for hours.

Located in lower Manhattan, the luxurious Millennium Hilton... My eyes skim over the short paragraph boasting about beautiful rooms and skyline views, quickly falling on a tempting word: DIRECTIONS. I click it and my phone pulls up Google Maps, automatically filling in my location. From my house in Arlington, Virginia, it would take nearly five hours to get there.

I sit up again, having another debate with myself. I can't just run off to New York and drop a bombshell like this on a stranger. But then again, he deserves to know, and I deserve to meet him. And who cares if Mom and Peter get mad? Don't they deserve that? After keeping me in the dark for eighteen years?

Finally, I push my blanket to the side and maneuver halfway out of bed. I sit at the edge, my hands gripping the mattress as if I'm trying to anchor myself down. This is crazy, insane, and I'll probably be in more trouble than I can even imagine. But out of two people who should know the truth, only one of us does, and it isn't fair. 

I stand, mind made up. I have to do this-- not just for me, but for my father.