Faith by Thomas D. Demus

by Will Searcy

mountains and rivers are too far and I do not yet have the strength to reach them. I do have the strength to feast, though. I am hungrier than I have been in a long time, but I am torn between eating breakfast and lunch. I could have pancakes with strawberries, blueberries, chocolate chips, whipped cream, and syrup. There would be scrambled eggs, whole-wheat toast, bacon, and sausages. Or, I could have pepperoni pizza and French fries with a bacon cheeseburger and then an ice cream Sundae for dessert. If I were still hungry, there would be raspberry sherbet and oatmeal raisin cookies sprinkled with brown sugar. Before long, I find I am driving in aimless circles through town, no closer to my decision, and it strikes me that I am searching in the wrong place. My memory had tricked me into thinking my past had answers, that those times were easier, happier, better in some way, but hope is about the future. Hope is about change. I must move forward into that uncertainty.

  When I pull into my driveway, I see my wife’s car there. It is time to make a decision. I must decide if I will fight.

  The noisy door gives away my entry. Pop does not watch his recording. He must be taking a nap. My wife is nowhere to be seen, and the house is quiet. I have a moment. I sense I have had a similar moment in the silence of my house before, as if my entire universe hangs in the balance just down the hall. I walk to the bedroom and find my wife lying in bed. Her face looks like mine has for five months.

  “Donald if he’s a boy. Daffney if she’s a girl, but let’s hope it’s a boy, because Daffney is a sad duck,” I say.

  My wife is confused and also still angry. “Okay,” she snorts.

  “Are you hungry? Do you need me to go get anything? I think we’re out of pickles,” I say, because when she was pregnant with Sam, she craved pickles.

  She shakes her head. I nod and walk towards the kitchen.

  It has been an emotional morning, and I find I am still hungry. Not sleeping requires more energy than I typically use. I need to replenish. I want my feast.

  Our cupboards are mostly bare. We have three boxes of Cheerios and little else. I do not want Cheerios right now. They seem bland and stale, like I have eaten them too much. Instead, I reach past it for the pancake mix and chocolate chips.

  I open the refrigerator and am relieved my wife has kept up with the shopping. There are strawberries and blueberries. I find whipped cream, maple syrup, and chocolate milk. I grab them all, close the refrigerator, and open the cabinet to retrieve our skillet.

  After a few minutes of work, I have chosen breakfast. I sit at the table with my pancakes and tall glass of chocolate milk and feel thankful to have this feast before me.

  When I finish my meal, I think of Sam. I remember our breakfast together the morning we learned his diagnosis. I remember our laughter and ignorance. I remember wishing that moment could last forever.

  Suddenly, I feel the inspiration slipping like sand through the fingers of my mind. My dark depression looms in the shadows, so I jump out of my seat and rush to the bedroom before it catches me.

  “Wanna go to the movies?” I ask my wife.

  She does not say anything. Instead, she shakes her head and rolls over with the covers. The sight is depressing, and I know I cannot handle it. So, I leave.

  A movie will reinvigorate me, I tell myself. Pop’s game was a recording, and combined with his commentary, it was like a movie of sorts. That was why movies existed – to give inspiration. I would pick out the perfect movie to give me everlasting hope.

  To my chagrin, most of the movies at the theater have too much ugliness in them. There are action movies that glorify violence and the dog-eat-dog world in which we live. There are dramas that dwell on human hatred, on darkness, and refuse to recognize the light in humanity. Even the comedies seem to be nothing more than a competition to see which one can display the most human debauchery. None of these movies will do. I am sure they are all good in their own respects, but they are not what I need. All I want is to get lost in a movie, to escape. I want to be transported to another world that is devoid of the problems I see every day, devoid of the anger, the pain, the death. I want to see the hope for a brighter future.

  I think of what Sam would want, and so I choose an animated children’s movie. It is uncomfortable for a single man to walk into a children’s movie in the middle of the day. Mothers cast a suspicious eye and gather their children closer to them, but I try to disregard their judgment. When the movie begins, I will float away to a land of unicorns and rainbows.

  Two-thirds of the way through the movie, the boy’s magic unicorn dies. The boy prostrates himself over the unicorn’s lifeless body and sobs. My old friend returns to me, and I force myself not to cry out. It is too much to bear, so I leave the movie theater.

  As I walk out and wipe at the tears in my eyes, I hear a voice. “He comes back to life, you know.”

  I turn to see an elderly janitor sweeping up garbage in the hallway. “There’s always someone that leaves when the unicorn dies, but he comes back.”

  I freeze, embarrassed and unable to talk.

  “Usually it’s a mom with her kid, spoutin’ off how it’s not appropriate,” the elderly janitor says. “But I guess yours is doin’ just fine.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and respond. “Uh, yeah,” I lie, “They’re still in there. I just … I gotta work tonight.”

  The elderly janitor observes me, and then shrugs and returns his attention to his task.

  As I walk to my car, I cast my embarrassment out of my mind and reflect on the movie. It makes me happy to know that the boy and the unicorn end up together, but another part of me refuses that ending because it knows happiness is a lie. It is not a lie in the fantasy world of unicorns and rainbows, but here on Earth, people do not come back from death. We can wish for it all we want, but all it does is prolong our suffering. I wish I had chosen a different movie.

  When I arrive to work, I anticipate a grand welcoming. Visions of cakes and candles, cards and decorations, smiling coworkers and bosses fill my head. I receive no such reception. Chuck does not realize I had been gone. He exchanges his gruff pleasantries typical of every shift change before escaping to his Harley to roar down the road.

  When I finally am alone again, I feel empty. The reception for which I had hoped, the reception that could have changed me, never happened, and as a result, I return to the same place as before. I return to the same cold, empty cave where I had taken refuge only a month ago. I go to the thermostat and increase the heat in the hopes it will change this place. I sit at my desk and hope to feel relief. I do not. I look out my window and see the green and copper burn mark like a giant weathered penny on the bridge. A pedestrian sees me, and I remember.

  I slouch in the back of my chair and stare at nothing. It is dark outside, and my office is not well lit. The yellow bulb is burning out its fake light. It flickers and buzzes. I do not like it. I do not want to be here. I want to go somewhere that will heal me. I want to go somewhere that will help me to move on. I want to go somewhere without so many memories. But, we spend our lives creating our own worlds, whittling away options and opportunities, thinking we are liberating ourselves from the strain of the infinite choice we face every day, when in reality, we are creating caves in which we lock ourselves and shackle our spirits. I am in my cave, the one I made for myself, and I have no way out.

  I pull out my phone, because it has been too long. The more recent photos are too painful to view. He has no hair and he looks so sick in those. I scroll through the pictures on my phone to the older ones. To older times. Sam is happy, smiling. I miss his smile. I feel my old friend in the form of a lump in my throat return accompanied by the misting in my eyes. It has been a while since I cried. I feel the streak coming to an end.

  The tears stream warm down my face, leaving streaks of cold as they dry. I wish Sam were alive. I wish I could see him. I wish I could hold his sweet little hand and look into
his smiling eyes. I want to run my fingers through his silky blonde hair just one more time. One time so I know he is alive. That is all I want – to know. But, death is a mystery life leaves unsolved. Sam knows. He knows too well.

  I wake up to the purple glow on the horizon and realize the exertion of my crying must have put me to sleep. It is fine. I do not like being alone in the dark. I find it haunting and endless, like the loneliness of outer space. I am ready for my relief to come.

  At home, my wife still does not speak to me. I check on her in the morning, but she moves slowly through her routine. She goes back to work today, so she can attribute her cold shoulder to being preoccupied. I hear the door close but do not see her leave.

  Pop wakes up late, around 9:30 a.m. He looks as he always does. Hopeful. His eyes are warm, and his mouth hangs open in a smile.

  After we exchange greetings, my pop asks, “What do you have on tap for today?”

  I shrug. “Nothing, I guess. Except I have to be at work tonight.”

  “You’re not going to sleep?”

  “I slept a little last night. I could probably get by on a nap.”

  My father smiles in surprise. I am willing to forsake sleep to spend time with someone. I am trying.

  “Well,” Pop says, “I was going to watch the game …”

  “The