When Memory Fails

by D. W. Marchwell

  Outside of the bedroom, within the other walls of Rose’s house, Hank was as solid as a rock, there for his mother, comforting the woman who had just lost her husband. But inside the confines of those four walls that they had seen little of since Hank’s father passed away, Hank was inconsolable. He said little to Scott, said little to anyone, in fact, but then he didn’t have to, not to his husband. Scott had lost his own father, many years ago, but the doubts and regrets over the many missed opportunities to reconcile their strained relationship were as fresh as if it had happened only yesterday.

  Scott knew precisely what Hank was feeling: the regret, the disappointment, the sadness, the anger, the interminable questions. Scott had found very little comfort in anything except for the quiet strength of his brother. And so that was what he tried to be for Hank. Scott was there when the doctor made the announcement, he was there when Hank turned to him, the look of pain and shock making Scott’s heart break, and he would be there while Hank tried to sort it all out in his mind.

  He’d left his husband sleeping the morning of the funeral, not wanting to take away what little rest Hank had received since his father’s passing. He’d gone down to the kitchen to make coffee and a sandwich for Hank and would be sure it was ready, there on the bedside table, in case Hank finally felt like he could eat something. While he had been preparing the sandwich, Rose had come down, unable to sleep herself, her grief-stricken heart not allowing her to rest any more than her son.

  As she sat at the table and accepted the mug of coffee that Scott offered, she smiled for him and motioned for him to sit with her. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, and he recognized this, after spending the last week in this house with Rose, as this wonderful woman’s way of collecting her thoughts before she spoke.

  “Rose?” Scott said after the silence stretched on a bit too long for his comfort. “Hank and I have a cabin, just north of Toronto, near Bracebridge, in the Muskokas,” he explained, mentioning the name of the nearest town, then wondering why, since Rose would probably have never heard of it. “Will you let me take you there for a couple of weeks? Get you away for a while? You and Hank, I mean.”

  “A couple of weeks?” Rose asked, leaning forward, reaching out to pat Scott’s hand. “What would I do with myself for a couple of weeks?” She leaned back in her chair and shook her head slowly. “I’d drive you both crazy. I wouldn’t have anything to do but pester you both.”

  “Please, Rose?” Scott was caught between wanting to hear her say yes and not wanting to push. “There are lots of things to do. We could go see all of the waterfalls, there are plenty of craft stores, and you enjoy knitting and sewing. You could teach me how to knit, and I could teach you how to fish.”

  “How to fish?” Rose echoed as she raised her eyebrows. “I’ll have you know that there is a blue ribbon somewhere in this house, in my high school yearbook, I think. I was the fly fishing champion of Glenmore High School.” Scott laughed at the look on Rose’s tired face. “I could teach you how to knit and how to fish.” Rose laughed and then sighed. “I think you and Henry should go, though. I used to worry about him so. But now that he has you, I don’t worry so much.”

  “I worry too.” Scott’s fingers played with the handle of the mug, picking at a little lump of glaze near the base. “I’ve never seen him so quiet, so withdrawn. It’s like someone flipped an off button.”

  Rose looked speculative for a moment and then leaned forward again, taking Scott’s right hand in between hers. “Henry will never admit this, thinks it’s a sign of weakness, but he is an incredibly sensitive boy… man, I mean.” Rose shook her head and let go of a snort of laughter, the non-humorous kind of snort that meant disbelief more than amusement. “He’ll be fifty, and I’ll still be thinking of him as my little boy.” Rose sighed quietly, her hands squeezing Scott’s again. “He would come home from school some days, fit to be tied because some of the other boys were making fun of one of the other students or were being rude to one of the teachers he liked or….”

  Scott saw her gaze shift away to some spot behind his head, and for a moment, he wanted to turn around, hoping to see whatever memories she was reliving.

  Then she shook her head and continued, “This was always my greatest fear, what happened between the two men I loved most in the world.” Scott knew she meant the rift between Hank and his father. “But it happened gradually, and I was so caught up with Kathy’s and Sandra’s dramas that I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten until it was too late. Henry moved away and….”

  “Rose.” Scott squeezed her hands, feeling the sting behind his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who had a perfect childhood or would say they came from a perfect family. But I do know that I love your son more than I ever thought I could. He is absolutely perfect in my eyes, and you should see how he is with Matthew. That little boy loves him so much, smiles and giggles whenever he sees Hank.” Scott’s throat tightened as he said these last words. “I hope one day Hank can see how perfect he really is, and I hope one day that you’ll be able to stop worrying over him, but until then, please let me do this for the two of you.” Scott couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, his heart breaking. He’d finally found the family he’d never had growing up, and it was all falling apart on him. “Please?”

  “I can’t leave my girls, sweetheart,” Rose said finally. “Perhaps in the summer, when we’ve all had a chance to recover a little bit more.” She squeezed his hand one final time and then squared her shoulders, took up her mug, and pushed herself to her feet. “Your cabin sounds like it would be much more fun in the summer.”

  Scott nodded, knowing that it was useless to try to change her mind. He stood as well and wrapped his arms around her, feeling so foolish for having let himself think, when he’d first met her, that she was… not weak. Weak wasn’t the right word. He’d thought she was fragile, incapacitated by the many uncertainties of her life, but now he realized he couldn’t have been more wrong. John had not been the strength that had held this family together, such as it was. It had been Rose, whose quiet strength and unquestionable devotion to her family had somehow ensured that the small fractures and petty squabbles that plagued most families had never become irreparable. As he released her and kissed her on the cheek, Scott imagined that Rose was somehow still working to ensure that Kathy became a nicer human being, that Sandra would absorb some of the loyalty and kindness displayed by her husband, Jeff, and that Hank would finally see that his father’s approval had never really been absent but merely dormant.

  As he finished preparing the sandwich, tomatoes and cream cheese on whole wheat bread, Hank’s favorite, Scott found himself wondering again about his own childhood, his brother, and his new nephew. He thought about the beautiful little boy and how he would grow up surrounded by love and acceptance, about how Matthew would never have to doubt for one moment that there were so many people in his life who would love him unconditionally. Matthew would grow up happy, healthy, and safe because Brian and Kari, and Scott and Hank, would make sure of it. And even if Matthew turns out to be less than perfect, he will never be able to blame it on a lack of people who loved and adored him.

  Perhaps that’s all being a parent boils down to, Scott finally realized as he trudged back upstairs to see to his husband. Perhaps parenting is nothing more than standing beside a child and showing them that, no matter how or when they fall, getting back up is as easy as reaching out a hand to the people who love you. Like Brian had done with Scott. Brian was his brother, not a parent, but he’d accepted the responsibility of ensuring that his hands, no matter how full, were there to hold on tight to Scott’s hand whenever his younger brother had needed it. I can do that, Scott said to himself as he pushed gently on the door to the bedroom.

  Scott put the plate and the mug on the bedside table and returned to his side of the bed, climbing in and snuggling up to Hank’s warm body, peering down at the handsome face. When they returned to Duncan, Scott would have to a
rrange a play date between Hank and Matthew, knowing that Hank could never remain sad for too long whenever he had the little boy in his arms.

  And if the subject of their own children came up again, Scott promised himself that he wouldn’t dismiss it so quickly this time. Perhaps he would discuss it, discuss his fears and his apprehensions with his husband, before letting them lead him to his usual knee-jerk reaction.

  He wanted to reach out and touch Hank in the worst way but did not want to wake him. So, as the gray light began to filter through the little slats of the blinds, Scott propped himself up on one elbow and studied Hank’s face, so familiar to him now. He waited patiently for the eyes to open, to see the deep green of the eyes of the man he fell in love with over and over again each day.

  THE funeral had been just as Scott expected: there were mourners and then there were those who had come to pay their final respects. He wasn’t sure if he truly belonged in either category, since he had not thought much of John. He was there for Hank and Rose.

  The service had been brief. Scott had been especially moved by the eulogy, delivered by a longtime friend and coworker of Hank’s father. He’d spoken of a man unknown to Scott, a man who had been a devoted husband and father. This man he spoke of had always encouraged his children to do their best, had stood by them throughout their ordeals and triumphs, both as children and as adults. Scott had no way of knowing whether it was the truth or not, his only experience with John having been negative and oppressive. But Hank must have had glimpses of this man, the one in the eulogy who used to take his son fishing and had taught him how to drive. Was Hank thinking about the father that used to take him to basketball games and hockey matches? The father who attended the basketball games and hockey matches that his son had played in?

  As he listened, Scott felt the guilt creeping up on him like the vines on the brick walls of an old English estate. Perhaps Scott had arrived too late in John’s life to truly appreciate the man who was being described in such loving and thoughtful terms. The hymns that the assembled mourners sang during the service did what music always did to Scott’s mind and settled it. Despite what he may have thought about John, Scott made the decision to forgive and to focus on helping Hank and Rose through their loss.

  It was the graveside service that affected Scott the most. He stood beside his husband at the foot of the coffin that contained the father whose approval Hank would never now receive. His eyes shifted to the right of the grave, seeing the plot where Rose would someday lie beside her husband, and his mind began to make connections he’d never before made. His mind was filling with questions that he’d never considered before. He was only thirty-six years old. Why would he ever have given any thought to his own death, his own wishes for what should be done with his body once it no longer contained any sign of life?

  The question of what would become of his money and his other belongings was not a difficult one to answer: it would all go to Brian and Kari and their children. But what did he want done with his body? What did he want as a service? A memorial? A wake? There would probably be some mention of him in the media: Composer and musician Scott Alan dies. Nothing too fancy, nothing as extravagant as those who’d spent their careers in front of the camera or the microphone. A small blurb, probably near the end of the program, listing his accomplishments, his contributions to music, and then the smiling face of the anchorperson would move on to the story about the children who’d raised money by washing cars at the local high school. Or perhaps it would be just before the weather, just before the meteorologist announced that the rest of the week was looking gorgeous. Don’t forget the suntan lotion!

  He found himself hanging on to Hank’s hand for dear life, felt Hank squeeze his hand, but that did little to quell the fear that seemed to have gripped Scott. Since the accident that almost took Hank from his life, Scott had not consciously thought of their life together coming to an end. Perhaps he’d done it deliberately; perhaps he’d just been younger and naïve, preferring instead to continue on as if he were still single and carefree. But now, as he watched the mourners pay their final respects and head back to their cars, Scott was rooted to the same spot he’d occupied for the past twenty minutes.

  Hank probably thought he was standing there because Hank had not moved either. Scott looked over at the sad face and those piercing emerald eyes. He was just staring at the mahogany casket, not even blinking. Scott stood still and watched Hank move to stand beside the casket, his hand reaching out tentatively until finally it made contact with the scattering of flowers on top of the coffin. The coffin that held his father.

  Scott heard Hank begin to say something, his voice so quiet that he could not make out any of the words. And perhaps he was not meant to. Backing away a few paces, he let Hank say goodbye to his father. He could only imagine how painful this must be for Hank. Did he really believe that he’d killed his father? Did he really believe that his father did not love him?

  Hank came back to stand beside Scott, reaching down to grasp his hand. Hank turned very slowly, his eyes still fixed on the casket. Scott tried to imagine what Hank could be thinking. Perhaps he was saying his final piece to his father? Or was he trying to find answers to his own questions? Or was there only one question, being played over and over again, like a song on repeat?

  As they walked, pulled close to each other, Scott’s thoughts turned once again to his own questions. He wasn’t very good at dealing with uncertainties, his logical brain preferring instead to consider only those issues that were solved by a mathematical equation or through a more precise tuning of one’s mind. When he was composing, Scott had a specific set of rules to observe: major chords, minor chords, dominant and tonic notes. There was a certain safety in knowing that there would eventually be a disharmony if you disobeyed the rules at some point. But what seemed to be happening to Hank? Scott had no clue what to say, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have known when he should say it.

  When they arrived back at Rose’s home, the home she would now live in all alone, Hank went immediately to the bedroom he was sharing with his husband. Not knowing what else to do, Scott followed him. There had been no talk of a reception or gathering of any kind at anyone’s home. Kathy had left after the service, and Sandra had pulled Jeff and their children away from the graveside before the last words had left the minister’s mouth. Everyone else was left to their own needs, to meet wherever they chose to remember Mr. John Ballam.

  Scott closed the door to the bedroom and waited, watching Hank remove his suit jacket and then his tie. He watched as Hank sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, a deep, heavy sigh swallowed up by the silence in the room. Scott removed his shoes, his own suit jacket, and climbed on the bed, behind his husband. He leaned against Hank’s solid back, his arms reaching around to pull Hank into a tight hug. He said nothing, wanting Hank to be the first to speak, to say whatever he needed to. Once Hank spoke, Scott was sure that the healing Hank wished for would not be too far behind.

  “Thank you.”

  It was a whisper in the unlit room, and then Hank’s hands were caressing his, his tired body leaning back against Scott. Scott didn’t need to ask for what? It was for coming with him, staying with him while he said goodbye to his father. Hank wanted to be the strength that his mother would need, but Hank had been so lost in his own grief and disappointment that he’d not yet realized that his mother was strong enough to handle this loss. So Scott was there to provide the strength to Hank in order for Hank to feel that he was somehow helping his mother.

  “I love you, Scrappy.”

  Scott closed his eyes when he felt his husband’s head fall back on his shoulder, a small smile crossing his lips. He hadn’t realized until this moment that Hank had not called him Scrappy since they’d arrived at this house. Odd, Scott thought to himself, that this one word, this one nickname, should put Scott’s churning mind to rest so quickly, so permanently.

  Hank would recover from this. It wasn’t that Scott had ev
er questioned it, but he’d wondered—many times throughout this week—whether Hank would ever be the same. Scott had seen far too many people changed, ruined even, by this kind of upheaval in their lives. His mind recalled what Rose had said about Hank always being her little boy, and he thought that this must also apply to children. Would Hank always think of himself as John’s little boy? Or would there come a time when Hank would see himself as a man? As the man who made Scott so happy and the man who had worked hard to earn the respect of his boss and his coworkers?

  “‘A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart—’” Scott started, but then he felt Hank’s arms pull him close and his lips taken in a gentle kiss. Scott felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. It had been exactly six days since he and Hank had done anything more than hold each other at night. And Scott would never have expected anything more, but the sheer joy of kissing this man again, of feeling the warmth of his lips and the strength in his hands, was overwhelmingly intoxicating. “I missed you, Hank.”

  Epilogue

  AS THEY stood out in the bright May sunshine, Brian’s hand landed on his new partner’s shoulder. Hank’s pulse was racing, his mind a flurry of activity and possibility. He would be a partner, working alongside his brother-in-law. It had taken some doing on Hank’s part, but he’d managed to get the money together without any help from Scott’s bank account. He still wasn’t convinced that Scott wasn’t hurt by it, but Hank had needed to do this all by himself. He needed to prove it to himself, be proud of himself. And he was.