Frank

by Fred Petrovsky

  I clutched the CD tightly to my hip as I pressed myself against the wall there. How can I express my horror properly? I simply cannot. I felt as if I were in one of those cheesy Hollywood black-and-white monster flicks that show on late-night television. It would be called The Brain or The Man with Another Man’s Brain or Revenge of the Brain. Any minute Vincent Price would come running in with a harried look on his face, his hair electric, and he’d start pushing buttons and say, “More power! I need more power!”

  As if testing thin ice on a pond, I took a step toward the middle of the room and stopped. I expected a trap door to drop out beneath me. I waited for my dad to sit up with a start.

  But he did not, so I took another tentative step. Then another. Nothing happened, unfortunately. Secretly, I would have preferred to have been whisked away or have something act upon me or a dramatic situation arise.

  As I neared his bed, I could hear sound coming from his earphones. It was distant and muffled, and I couldn’t make out what he was listening to other than it was definitely some music.

  What struck me immediately was that his new body was not much different from my own. Actually, his new body was in exceptional shape. He’d be tough in a wrestling match.

  As I looked at him I was wondering how a person is supposed to feel when his father dies. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. Are my feelings detached and disorganized because, in a way, he’s not really dead?

  I could neither mourn nor rejoice. I was, instead, stuck in a limbo that felt like hell.

  I’m told that the only thing that has survived of my father is his intellect. Just his thoughts and the judgments they create. There’s nothing really physical left of the human being that was my father, of the man who created and molded me.

  I don’t feel weak by admitting how sad and despondent I have been, and I know that my behavior and detachment from everything are causing much turmoil in my life. I feel small and have a sense that everything is so large around me.

  I can be judged as being egocentric, thinking that all of this is about me. But I know I’m only one of many people who have been affected. I’m aware that people are worried about me, and that even complicates it more. My family doctor has provided some pills to relax me, but I don’t like taking them.

  And it’s even worse because, as I’ve admitted, I was the one who pushed him off the boat.

  With clear conscience I know that I did not really intend to make him fall. And only I know that during our brief, somewhat playful pushing match, it crossed my mind what would happen if one of us were to fall off. I was even considering purposely losing my step so I could play the martyr. But shit, he was the one who slipped. What I sometimes wonder about was whether he had the same thoughts and was considering falling himself to gain the upper hand in a strange sort of way. And in a manner he’s succeeded.

  I relive the moment like a movie so many times in my head.

  Dad invited me out on his twenty-foot Pro-Line Walkaround boat for one of those bonding, beer drinking, and fishing things, and it was okay with me because, well, I mostly liked hanging with him, and being out on the boat, and easing out to a quiet corner of Piper Lake. It’s something we’ve done dozens of times since I was a kid.

  But, as I came to understand it, he really wanted to get me alone so he could put the squeeze on me once again about joining him in business.

  This is a topic we’ve been through before I don’t know how many times. I don’t think he’s ever really lost hope that I would learn the business and eventually take over the art gallery. The Lavery Gallery. It carried his name, and it might as well have been the sibling I never had. The gallery was everything to him. He started it from scratch. But he knows I’m not interested in that. I’ve told him enough times. Not for any reason I can articulate very well. I mean, I grew up around the gallery. Worked a few summers there. I know pretty much what goes on. And I know just about all the main artists because they have come through our home many times over the years. If only he’d spent as much time with me as he did with his beloved gallery.

  He was steering the boat toward a favorite spot when he cleared his throat and said nonchalantly, “I’ve had another offer on the gallery.”

  What he really meant was for me to reconsider and join him in business. Reading between the lines and his voice inflection I could tell he wanted me to rescue the family business because he knew he couldn’t go on forever, and pretty soon someone would come in and buy the place and there’d be nothing tangible left to show for his labor.

  His declaration that he’d had an offer on the art gallery was really a threat. At least I took it that way. A threat that he’d sell the gallery, and it would be gone forever. It would be my fault. It was an ultimatum. Either I would join him and save the business for the family ... or I would turn my back and be solely responsible for losing the gallery. The guilt would be mine.

  I thought it was sad and unfair that the situation had been aimed at me. Turned into my problem. After all, it was his business, not mine. I was pissed because I thought it wrong that the burden was placed upon my shoulders.

  In as offhanded a manner as I could muster, and pretending only to have half-heard him, I took a mouthful of beer, swallowed and said, “Oh. Is it a good offer?”

  “About the same as the others.”

  “I see.”

  “They want an answer tomorrow.”

  “Kinda sudden,” I said.

  “Neil,” he said and, in using my name, upped the ante. “I don’t know how many more offers will come along.”

  I refused to look at him, but said sternly, “Then you ought to take it.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant,” I barked, losing my cool and throwing my pole on the deck behind the wheel. “Why is it my responsibility to solve this thing?”

  “Don’t get upset,” he said. “I never said it was your responsibility.”

  “Of course you never said it in those words. But everything you do, every look on your face, every hint, does.”

  “Don’t get upset,” he said again.

  “I’m not upset!” I yelled, but I was. I felt the blood rushing to my head. “I have absolutely zero interest in the gallery. It means nothing to me!”

  “I haven’t asked it to mean anything to you.”

  “Yes you have.”

  “Calm down.”

  “For one goddamn minute can’t you see that I have my own life and my own family and my own responsibilities? Can’t you see that I’ve succeeded as an adult?”

  “I can see that,” he said.

  “No you don’t!” That’s when I felt so frustrated that I leaned over and pushed his shoulder hard and immediately regretted it.

  Why did I do it? I don’t know. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was that, deep down, I really was interested in the gallery but that I had to fight against it to prove my independence. Mostly, though, it was my temper.

  I didn’t hit him hard. It was the kind of shove you give to a college roommate who won’t let you cheat off him. It was more of a statement than anything. It was a way of saying, “leave me alone.”

  But my shove made him fall from the raised helm. He grabbed my shirt to keep his balance and we both fell to the deck.

  It happened quickly. We wrestled around then got to our knees and fell again and our muscles turned taut and it became a sort of serious macho thing. Then he got up, and I rushed against him. That’s when he fell against the wheel, which turned the boat. I pushed him again and he lost his footing. Suddenly he was overboard and taken under the boat and into the blades of the motor.

  I screamed and quickly moved to pull him out of the water that was turning red. He was cut up pretty good, especially his legs and right side. His shoulder had a deep gouge in it and he was bleeding a lot. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”

  He was shivering. I got towels to drape around him, then tried to stop the
bleeding by wrapping his wounds and applying pressure.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sorry, too. Don’t worry about it. The gallery’s not that important.”

  My father began to close his eyes and go into shock, and I cried out before I regained my composure. I wrapped him up tighter, laid him down gently and put a life preserver under his head. Then I jumped to the controls and sped back to the dock.

  * * * *

  I thought about the accident again as I approached my father in his hospital room. I didn’t want to disturb him. How was I to do it? Pull the headphones off and say hi? What if he was sleeping?

  I pulled a chair up close, sat down, and just stared at him.

  How could he not feel trapped and confined? How could he not go crazy? In those few seconds by his bed I came to the conclusion that this brain switch was the biggest mistake ever.

  Until those quiet minutes beside my father’s bed I had always thought that a person was, well, a person. A physical presence. The expression of a person’s face. The tone of a voice. The grooming and odors. A person, any person, was a clenched fist, an extended middle finger, a cluster of acne, clothes that were too tight. People existed—and now I’m speaking only for myself—as external representations. They were something that you saw, that you thought about. That you could touch. They were always visual. I mean when you think about it, when you’re not with someone all you have are memories usually attached to some incident. In a way, people are nothing more than photographs.

  But all of that has vanished for me now. People are none of those things. A person is what’s inside his brain.

  Emily says that my father is still alive in the truest sense of the word, and she sent me off to the hospital this afternoon with those words. “He’s still your father,” she said. “Nothing’s changed about that. Every memory he has of you is still being remembered. He’s thinking about you all the time. Loving you all the time. That hasn’t died. And whatever feelings you have about him shouldn’t change either.”

  She’s right, I know, but such words are easy for her to say because she didn’t grow up with him and she didn’t have a hand in his falling from the boat.

  I sat there and allowed myself to become even more pitiful. I hung my head and let the tears fall to the floor in soft little splats and could not stop myself for a long time. I was flooded with guilt and loss and love as I raked my hands through my hair.

  I told myself to try to think of a positive memory, an exercise several people have urged upon me. I tried to move my thoughts away from self-pity and to something else.

  What came was an image of me and my father inside his narrow tool room in a house so many years ago. I must have been nine or so. He was helping me with a racecar that I would be entering in the Cub Scouts’ annual Pinewood Derby. With his assistance I had created the Purple Marvel, a fantastic, aerodynamic, triangle-shaped car that we had carved and painted a glossy wine color.

  This memory has us huddled under a bright light, holding the car together and him whispering, “The whole trick to a fast car is making sure that you have the right weight inside its nose. Then it will zip down that ramp and be gone.” He helped me hollow out the tip of the car and insert three small pieces of lead. Then we filled it in with putty and sanded it down.

  That’s what stays with me, my father and me working shoulder to shoulder, him teaching, me learning, the images and lighting of our cramped workplace, the smell of wood and glue and paint, the secrets we shared.

  What a fine father he had been, really still was, but one who held so much hope for me, so many standards to meet, such large shoes to fill. He was always teaching me. How complicated things eventually became.

  I wiped my face with my palms, leaned forward, and gently pulled his earphones off and said, “Hi, Dad.” My voice came out so shaky.

  The creepy digitized computer voice said, “Hi.” Then more words came one at a time. Slowly. Haltingly. “I’m glad you are here.”

  That put me over the edge again. Happy I had come? Why had I waited so long to be near him?

  He heard me cry and said, “Don’t.”

  I couldn’t help it. I was in another world. The walls were closing in on me. I felt dizzy.

  “Dad, I’m sorry,” was all I could manage to say. “I’m sorry.”

  He said that he was sorry, too, and that seemed so profound to me. I closed my eyes and played piano on my forehead to settle myself down. This was about him, not me.

  “I’ve brought you a present. Hoagy Sings Carmichael. It just came out on CD. Right from the master tapes. I thought you’d like it. It has the original album’s liner notes. Want me to read them to you?”

  He said thanks, but not now. Then there was a long uncomfortable pause. How I wished I knew what he was thinking. There was no body language to read. No facial expressions to consider.

  Then he asked about his grandchildren. “How are the kids?”

  “They’re fine. Getting big. Jacob’s been asking about you. Joshua, well, he doesn’t know to ask. But he’s taken a great aversion to diapers.” I forced a laugh.

  He must have had enough of the small talk because he said, “I’ve been missing you for a long time. I love you. I couldn’t care less about the gallery.”

  I’m sure he had been practicing that for a long time, and that sent me swimming again. This time because my father was indeed alive. Ever ready to dole out compassion.

  Then he took a long time to tell me something he felt was important. He said that through all of this I was important. He wanted me to “be him.” Needed me to be strong for the family and that things might turn bad soon. “I’m sorry for everything that happened,” he said. “Sorry for what is to come. Sorry for having put you in the middle of it. You need to be strong for Mom and be the spokesperson for the family if necessary.”

  He grew tired and his words came slower and somewhat labored. “I need you now more than ever,” he said. “Hold my hand.”

  Which I did. I held his hand. It was surprisingly warm.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  I sat there for a little while more.

  Before I left, I put in the Carmichael CD and replaced his headphones. I stood there for a few minutes and considered my father. Considered myself. Considered where this whole thing would take us.

  He wasn’t through teaching me yet.

  5: Howard Lavery

  Why?

  Even now, after having come this far, I often ask myself that question. But now the answer is colored by my experience.

  In the beginning, though, it was a surprisingly easy decision because I was simply not ready to die.

  Some people might think I’ve been selfish. I suppose there’s some truth to that. But it really was a simple decision. Death and darkness and an end to everything as I knew it, an entry into that terrifying abyss, was something I was unwilling to accept.

  When you pass fifty, death’s horizon gets visibly closer every day. You start to take stock of yourself in the world, what you’ve accomplished and the judgments you have made. The successes. The failures. All the opportunities missed. The wasted fervor. The small victories.

  I make no apologies. My life is what it has been, blemishes and all. I’ve lived a good life. Been blessed with a beautiful family. And I wouldn’t be modest by saying that my gallery has contributed to our community’s arts and culture in a significant way. We’ve nurtured some of the region’s most accomplished artists.

  But life is, well, just that. I have always enjoyed playing in it even though I’ve not been one to take the risks that have been available. Risk is something I’ve always admired in other people, but not something I’ve demonstrated myself very often. At least until now.

  But my consent has more to do with not wanting to be gone from this world and face the great unknown, to have my brain suddenly stop thinking and the blackness and nothingness ensue. To have my body lowered into the ground.

  Yes, I wanted to live. To conti
nue making demands on the world and being conscious. Is that so bad?

  A contributing factor to agreeing to the brain transplant was to escape the hellish experience that was mine in those last days as my disease spread and worsened.

  I remember lying there, sedated, my arms and legs strapped to the bed to prevent me from injuring myself. My body had turned against itself. It’s ironic that my current situation is almost exactly how I felt then, just a brain thinking of something, cut off from its limbs and bodily functions. Only now I don’t feel the constant pain, the endless sharp knives dancing through my limbs.

  Now I experience all sensation through my inner pondering and the sounds I hear, most prominently my breathing. It’s not something I ever thought of when I was a whole person, but a body makes a lot of noise. Breathing is incredibly loud. Lie in bed at night and block out all external sound sources. No clocks ticking. No car noises. Then you can hear your breathing. It starts out very soft, but it grows and becomes dominant. Over and over. Never ending. Always in the background.

  And my breathing is so much louder because of the ventilator. True, it’s state-of-the-art and doesn’t make that annoying clamping sound. But it’s still obvious and artificial. And it’s still me.

  I think about death a lot and wonder if I’ve made the wrong decision. Quality of life is at the top of my mind. You hear about people who have been declared brain dead and about how the family is notified that while it’s possible to keep the body artificially alive, the brain has ceased any function. That’s when the ethics experts get involved and meet with the family and advise them about what they might do.

  But is my life any better? I’ve got a brain, but no functioning body. If I were an author, I could make a strong case for doing what I did because I would still mostly be capable of my craft. I would be able to dictate a book. True, it would take a long time, but I would still be able to do what I do best. But I’m not a writer. Running an art gallery is all I know.