by Joe Nelms
And here we are today.
I’m crying because I drank too much scotch before the ceremony and now it’s starting to hit me that the last five months of hell are over. The planning and arguing and screaming and worrying about the wedding are done and we can finally get on with the crying and arguing and screaming of being married. This is the point at which my perspective intersects with Lisa’s. This one day.
It’s not sadness I’m feeling. It’s relief.
I think I’m happy.
19
I wake again.
I’m still alive.
Still in the hospital.
Could have been an hour. Could have been two days.
There are fewer tubes and IVs. I’m able to sit up. The fat nurse with the great smile has been replaced by Harry who is not smiling. He’s waiting. I reacclimate myself to the idea of being alive for the foreseeable future. Hmm. This could be an awkward conversation.
I know Harry’s been picking up the slack for me at work. Covering for me with the other partners. Handling my bleating clients. Lying to them. Ordering underlings to do what I should have been doing and steaming about it the whole time. That’s what I would have done. I wonder how long it took him to figure out I wasn’t coming in. I doubt I was in any condition to ask the hospital to call him even if I could have remembered the number. Maybe they found my card in my wallet. Where’s my wallet?
Have I been in here an entire week? Maybe.
Filling in the blanks, I realize Harry must have been calling my apartment and my cell and finally, just in case, the same hospital I was brought to last time. At least, I think that’s where I am. Maybe he started with the hospital. He’s a smart guy.
Harry looks terrible. Was he here all night? Watching me? Waiting for me to wake up? Hoping he would get one more chance to tell me what an asshole I am? What a guy. Fucking love this guy.
I wonder if I can talk. There’s a feeding tube (a ‘nasogastric’ if I recall correctly the one malpractice suit I sat in on for kicks) running through my left nostril, down my throat, and into my stomach to feed me. My throat feels cramped and I want to rip the tube out but I know if I do that I’ll never talk again. It might be worth it. I have nothing left to say to anyone.
Must have been at least a week. Maybe more. If I could raise my arm I would feel the stubble on my face to get a better idea. I’m too tired. And I don’t really care. This must be costing someone a fortune.
Harry takes a deep breath and I know what’s coming. He isn’t here to shoot the shit or hold my hand or counsel me to put my faith in a higher power. He’s angry. But I have no one else. I’ll take angry.
Fuck it. I’ll start and see how he reacts.
—I saw my father. I saw his face and I remembered that night. I saw it.
My voice is a whisper from the grave.
Harry waits a moment to let my statement register before disregarding it as information that is not relevant to him, as I am no longer relevant to him.
—You’re fired. I thought I should tell you myself.
I’m not surprised nor do I feel a tinge of concern. I want him to know there are more important things to be dealt with. At the end of your life, you’re not going to look back and thank the lord that you crammed those extra cases into your workload, Harry. Probate. Estate taxes. Money. It’s all nothing. I saw my father last night. I was in the same room with him. Alive together. Listen to me for a second. Let’s talk as one human to another.
—Harry…
—Good luck, Christian.
Harry turns and walks out and I am alone as if no one had ever been there.
20
(What’s this?)
Our man has arrived back at his apartment upright and sober.
Having administered his own slightly premature dismissal from the hospital, he has bypassed countless liquor vendors along the way home, no doubt disappointing the local population of mixologists hoping for a despondent derelict to wile away an afternoon at the mercy of their skilled hands.
And to top that, our man initiated a grand total of zero unnecessary confrontations, arguments, or altercations in the six days he spent recovering in the private room his (now former) employer quietly paid for. None. Could he be saving up for something special? A prizefighter-esque banking of testosterone and rage for an upcoming title event?
What could be whirling about among the creaky gears of the old boy’s cognitive machinations? A plan grander than his previous suicide by disgrace scheme? A notion that he may be, as they say in the B movie business, ‘on to something’? Is that certain something in his eyes hope or defeat? Ambition or remorse? Acceptance or determination?
Let’s look a bit closer.
Our man enters holding a bag from an art supply store and heads for the table in the middle of what you would refer to as his dining area, although he might think of it as the place where he finally resigned himself to the idea that his marriage was over before signing his divorce papers.
The loft, when he and his (then) wife bought it three years ago, was regarded as the height of design consciousness and the ideal backdrop for the handsome cosmopolitan couple. Minimalist with an assertive exactitude. Wide open with rooms delineated by furniture arrangements that self-dictated their own imaginary boundaries.
The kitchen ended approximately four feet beyond the bar stools that lined the far side of the marble topped island which had separated our man and his wife when she informed him she ‘can’t fucking take it anymore.’
The living room had as its centerpiece the sofa on which they sat silently for an hour as Lisa cried into her husband’s loving embrace upon hearing the worst news of her life.
There was a magnificent view of SoHo at which our man gazed while contemplating the painful confrontation, bold honesty, and white-hot humiliation he would need to endure to repair the damage to his marriage (during the brief period when that option existed.)
The bedroom the once-happy couple shared was simply a king-sized bed at the west end of the loft surrounded by two night tables and artwork one would not be surprised to find in a master bedroom. Our man has slept on the couch since her departure.
But let us return to the business at hand, which appears to be illustration. Pads. Pencils. A hunch in the old boy’s back that connotes either enthusiasm or anger. Our man is rather busy sketching and erasing and crumpling and sighing. Relentless, even.
But, why?
Therapy? Too bold of a play for our self-absorbed friend. Fun? It’s hard to believe the old boy enjoys anything anymore. Artistic vision? Doubtful. Our man lacks the drive to tell stories to anyone other than the woman he is at any given moment attempting to bed and/or humiliate.
No, judging by the volume of discarded attempts he has already generated, this would seem to be an adventure in precision. A quest to generate a perfect vision known only to him for the purposes of preservation. A prophylactic endeavor to prevent his single newly recovered memory from dissolving into so many useless molecules.
What we are seeing is desperation.
21
I’m broke.
My credit cards are useless. My savings long ago carved up by New York’s finest divorce lawyers. My checking account should have recently accepted a direct deposit of the last paycheck I will ever receive. And that is all there is and all that will be.
From what I understand, it takes about six months to evict someone from a rented apartment. I am unclear on the timeline of bank foreclosures if you own.
I don’t even think about trying to find another job. I won’t. Bruised, bitter, drunk, unmotivated. It goes without saying that I am unhirable. I’m broken. But, my plans are not the type that need long-term funding. If I’m careful, this final paycheck will cover me for the rest of my life.
I start with the eyes. That’s the toughest part. You get that right and the rest is relatively easy. But you have to get the eyes right. The first sketches I draw are okay. But the eyes aren’t right. So
I start over again and again. I sketch ten and then twenty and then maybe a hundred pairs of eyes. My extra-wide bamboo flooring is covered in failed attempts.
I gave Lisa everything. Not at first. In the beginning, I fought like a cornered honey badger. I thought that’s what love was. A slash and burn strategy. Look how bad I’m bleeding for you. Self-flagellation by attorney bills. Hers. Mine. Ours. Gone. Gone. Gone. The stocks were sold. The investments liquidated. A lot of cash burned through. I don’t remember how much we had managed to save. Somewhere in the mid six figures, but that’s all been reduced to ash. There came a point where I understood that my plan would result in nothing beyond an upgrade of a perfect stranger’s car and a transfer of my wealth to someone who honestly didn’t deserve it. What wouldn’t happen was a reconciliation.
One day I asked them to send papers with whatever they wanted on them and I signed the documents and sent them back without question. She kept everything but the highly mortgaged loft. I wonder if I can sell my overpriced flooring or trade it for food.
Finally, I begin to see something. The eyes that had begged my forgiveness so long ago stare back at me from the page. Soulful without apology, tragic without regret. My father’s eyes.
Two hours later, using those eyes as a foundation, I have crafted an exact replica of one frame of the memory salvaged from my near-death lifeflash. Four hours after that, I am surrounded by complimentary sketches detailing the different components of the memory.
The stoop.
The neighbors pointing their nosy fucking fingers.
The cop wrapping a blanket around me while not shielding my eyes or distracting me or getting me out of the situation.
The blood splatter on my father’s shirt.
The gurney clunking down the stairs without so much as a ‘Pardon me.’
My father’s shoulders awkwardly accommodating the handcuffs.
All of these things I had no memory of until yesterday. Together, they are a horrific collage, but I am satisfied.
It’s after midnight.
I lay my worn pencil down on the table and stretch my back. I haven’t eaten in at least twenty-four hours but take the matter no further than acknowledgment. The exercise is almost complete. I find the original drawing of my father’s face and caption it with the words ‘Thank You.’
Three minutes later, I’m face down on my thousand-count sheets for the first time in a very long time. They no longer smell like Lisa. I wish they did. I sleep for eighteen hours.
22
April 8, 1989
Dear Christian,
I hope this finds you well. I don’t know if you’re getting my letters or if you’re reading them or if you hate me. I hope you’re reading them. I understand if visiting is too difficult, but a note in return would mean the world to me. Please consider writing. Tell me about your life. Tell me every detail. Tell me what happens every minute of your day. Or tell me one thing. Send me a blank piece of paper.
As usual, I have nothing good to say about my experience here, and the details of my daily life are nothing a thirteen-year-old should ever hear so I will forgo any descriptions and continue my practice of sharing whatever memories I have in the hopes that you will know me as a father and as a man and as a human. I won’t be alive forever and when I’m gone I hope that I can live on with you if only as the memories I have passed on through these letters.
I like to think there is a shoe box full of envelopes I have addressed to you under your bed or in your closet. It must be getting full by now. I imagine they are worn and dog eared and are a secret cache known only to you. I write to your sister as well, but she was so young when I went away I might as well be a stranger. I know she doesn’t remember me and writes only as an obligation she feels for reasons I don’t understand but am grateful exist. She’s a wonderful child from what I can tell through letters and pictures. I hope that you are still taking care of her like you always did. I’ll continue to believe you are until I hear different.
There were almost three of you. I’m sure you didn’t know that. I planned to tell you later in life. But who knows what will happen and I don’t like the idea of going to the grave with stories that no one else on earth knows. Stories that someone else should know.
When you were five and Ella was one, your mother became pregnant again. We didn’t mean to have another baby just then. While your mother and I had always hoped to have a large family, money was tight at the time and another child in the home would have been very hard on us. The decision was a tough one, but I stood by your mother, and to be honest with you, I agreed with it. There are no records and no one knew but your mother, myself, and the gynecologist who performed the D&C so the reporters never found out about it, thankfully.
A year later, I had been promoted and we had made ourselves financially stable. But your mother was devastated by the abortion. I don’t think she ever recovered. We tried for another child after a while but could never become pregnant again. I always wondered how much of that was physical and how much was psychological.
Your mother spiraled downward and away from us all slowly for years and by the time you were eight, I could no longer reach her. From there things escalated quickly and here we are.
I tell you this because I want you to know that she wasn’t a bad person. She was a person who had bad things happen to her. As much as I tried to protect her, there are things that each of us must go through alone. I made my peace with our decision, but she could never get to the same place.
I sometimes wonder how life would have turned out different had we chosen to have that baby. People have done harder things. My partner came from a family of ten. Irish, of course. They made it work. What would that have meant for you to have a brother or another sister? What would it have meant for Ella? What if having the baby made your mother happy and none of this ever happened? What if the opposite happened and things got worse sooner? What if, what if, what if? Looking back I think we could have done it. I just don’t know if that would have been a good or a bad thing. When you’re young and everyone depends on you, you worry about everything. Later you look back and realize how ridiculous it all is. So much stress for nothing. Perspective is so often wasted on those of us who can do nothing with it. My point is that we made a decision based on what we thought was best for us as a family at the time.
This story might come as a shock or seem inappropriate, but as I have said, I don’t know what lies ahead and I want you to know these things that I know. More importantly, I hope these letters paint your mother in a more positive light in your mind. She deserves it.
I love you every day.
Dad
23
(Oh, the audacity.)
On a certain level, one can’t help but be impressed with the unabashed gall and gumption and ambition of our man as he enters the reception area of the good doctor he so recently abused. Consider the pluck of appearing without an appointment (or a shower, I might add) and expecting (demanding!) a receptive audience despite knowing very well that the schedule of a doctor of Arnold Rosen’s caliber is invariably full to capacity.
Our man understands that a typical appointment is only fifty minutes, and therefore the remaining ten minutes of the hour, where we currently are, is patient free, theoretically leaving the doctor unencumbered. Our man has planned accordingly.
Not surprisingly, the doctor has his own agenda for this private time and uninvited interruptions are frowned upon, but this is of no concern to our man as he strides purposefully toward the inner office door.
The doctor’s first line of defense does her part, attempting to slow the old boy’s progress with the bold, efficient courtesy of a career receptionist who has dealt with the mentally volatile for years.
—Sir, can I help you?
Naturally, she is ignored and our man proceeds without hesitation leaving her in the modern predicament of wondering when physical force is acceptable.
24
I can’t do this
alone.
But the only qualified professional I know is that panooch psychiatrist I saw last week or whenever. He seemed like a smart guy for a pompous ass, so I figure he can help. He mentioned repressed memories right before I left. He must know something about it. More than I do.
I’m still recovering so I move like a caveman. Social conventions are meaningless. What do I care how people think of how I look? I have no manners. I am bereft of tact. I am an amorphous id in jeans and a tee shirt moving quickly through structures of glass and marble with a single focus. That’s fine if you’d like to watch and point or perhaps take a video of me with your phone. Tell your kids about the weirdo you saw later when you sit at the dinner table. Laugh it up with the boys in accounting. I don’t belong to that world anymore.
His secretary is on my heels, even though I’m already opening the door to his office.
—Excuse me, sir!
I walk in to find him sitting behind his know-it-all desk looking at his next patient’s file. He’s wearing a neck brace. What a pussy.
—Sir, you’re going to have to make an appointment if you want—
The caveman ignores the worried little mosquito flitting behind him.
—We have to talk.
—I’m sorry, Doctor. I tried to stop him.
Arnold Fucking Rosen indicates it’s okay. He appears to think he has the situation in hand, despite his neck brace. Like he was waiting for me even though I know he wasn’t.
The secretary stands behind me for a second, I assume making wide-eyed faces at Arnold, encouraging him to get out of this situation. He’s so busy taking me in and translating that to opportunity he won’t look at her.
—We’re fine, Elise. Thank you.