Ultimatum

by K. M. Walton

  Bill stops patting Vance’s back and nods. “You two were the best part about him, and he knew it.”

  He loved me? I was the best part about him? These statements are surprising to hear. Are they true?

  Joey gives my hand one more squeeze and then lets me go. “On the days when you guys weren’t working, he’d tell customers about his boys, that he liked how different the two of you were. Such strong personalities. You, Vance, with your ball-busting and your lacrosse, and you, Oscar, with your music and art stuff. You both made him proud. I know it. Got to where everyone felt like they were a part of your lives.”

  “We’re family at the Blue Mountain,” Bill says.

  I don’t want the Blue Mountain family. I want impossible things. My parents to be happily married again and alive and—

  My thoughts stop abruptly as piercing new questions form. Why would my father only talk about us when we weren’t there? Why couldn’t he tell us we were “the best part about him” to our faces? Why are we hearing this from Joey and Bill, the bartenders?

  I look at my father’s mouth, wide open in a silent scream. Talk, Dad. Please. Tell me everything. Were you ever proud of me? My father discussed my art? What did he say?

  I’ll never be able to ask him these questions. That reality is incredibly jagged. The cut will never be clean; it will never heal properly.

  There will always be a scar.

  I want to scream.

  Vance

  One year ago

  Even though Dad’s drinking was still intense, we hadn’t had a blowout since the night of the concert. But he never did apologize for the hell he put me, Growler, and Oscar through last summer. He had just woken up and started making this huge breakfast, acting like everything was normal. That woman he’d brought home failed to resurface. Thank God. Instead of confronting him about his aggressiveness, I let it go. He probably wouldn’t have remembered anyway.

  However, I remember Oscar being pretty pissed off at Dad after that, not talking to him and stuff, but they never had it out or anything. Like everything else, it just faded away after some time passed.

  “Let’s go, Dad,” I shouted upstairs. We were visiting Rutgers University today, and if we didn’t get in the car, we’d miss their lacrosse team’s practice, which was the whole point of the visit.

  He took his time walking down the steps. “I’m moving slow today, Vance.” He rubbed his forehead. I knew that translated to: I’m wickedly hungover.

  Oscar and I locked eyes, and he shook his head. This had turned into Dad’s daily routine. We didn’t have time for what came next—coffee, sitting and staring out the window, popping ibuprofen, asking us not to talk so loud. “We can stop for coffee on the way.” I grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen and shook it. “You can take these in the car.”

  Dad fumbled in his wallet and laid a twenty on the counter. He told Oscar to order up a pizza for lunch.

  After he was caffeinated and ibuprofened, and since I knew he wanted silence, once we hit the highway I put in my earbuds and jammed to Yellowman for the rest of the drive. We arrived just as the team ran onto the field. Dad definitely rallied because he was cool when we talked to the coach and a few players. I was really impressed. The team looked solid, like, way better than WCHS. One guy pulled me aside and said I’d be a fool not to apply if I was that good.

  Dad and I eventually snuck out of the academic part of the tour. We were both starving so we drove into New Brunswick and found an Irish pub. By the time we left, Dad was on a first-name basis with half the bar and I had to drive us home.

  As I crossed the bridge back into Pennsylvania, he asked, “Any idea what Oscar wantsto dowithhislife?” His words ran together into a blob.

  My whole face scrunched up. I clarified, “What Oscar wants to do with his life?”

  He nodded. “Yesssss.”

  “How would I know that?”

  “You’re his brother, y-you s-smart-ass. That’s how. I’m not asking the m-mailman,” he slurred.

  Was he that drunk? Did my father temporarily lose touch with reality? Did he not live in the same house as the two of us? Did I look like I’d suddenly started having meaningful conversations with Oscar? And why didn’t he know? He was Oscar’s father. “Yeah, well, I don’t know. He probably wants to listen to violin music and draw all day. Is there a job for that?” I snorted.

  “Nothing wrong with art.”

  I stared at him like he was from Mars.

  “Music. Yeahhhh. Music is art. Isn’t it?” He coughed and put his head back. “Reggae reminds me of your mom. She loved dancing to it, to all of it.”

  I kept my eyes on the road. I used to think guys were incapable of staying faithful, that we were wired to cheat. Not that I’d had a really serious relationship, but after Mom died, I decided that way of thinking was pretty much bullshit. Cheating was a choice. Why couldn’t Dad have loved Mom the way she deserved? Why did he have to rip her heart out all the time?

  Dad turned to me. “Wha ’bout you?”

  Wow. He sounded like his martinis had really caught up to him. I shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  Dad blinked slowly. “Yesss! It matterrrrs!”

  I was glad I could continue keeping my eyes on the road. “Okay. I hear you. But I wanna see how far I can go with lacrosse. Maybe go pro.”

  He smacked my shoulder. “You stupid? Those guys have other jobs.”

  I’d heard they didn’t make millions, but I’ve always assumed they made enough to live on. Great. Now I needed a new plan. I went for a different tactic, one I thought Dad would like. “Why couldn’t I work at the Blue Mountain?” I liked the lounge. The people. The music. The free drinks.

  “The fuck you will! You’re not waisssin’ over a hunder grand worth of education just so you can pour b-beer for drunks!” He punched the dash and ran his hand through his hair. He was fired up.

  I didn’t want him flipping out on me again like before, especially not while I was driving sixty miles an hour on I-95. “Dad, chill out. Isn’t the Blue Mountain your pride and joy? You always tell me you’re living your dream. Why are you losing your mind? I’ve got over a year to figure it out. And Growler’s older brother went into college not knowing. He didn’t decide on a major until this year. I’m sure lots of kids have no idea what they want to focus on when they go away.”

  “You need to take this ssseriousssly and stop fucking around!” he yelled.

  The way Dad felt about me and Oscar going to college wasn’t a secret in our house. He told us all the time. He wanted the college experience and degrees for both of us. I knew it was important to him—that it was something he wished he’d done—but we were driving home from a college visit. How was that considered “fucking around?”

  He cranked the radio, and we didn’t say another word for the rest of the drive.

  Oscar

  Joey and Bill say good-bye, their eyes glassy. I still think we should call Aunt Renee. I grab Dad’s phone off the nightstand. “What about names of beer?” I say.

  Vance looks up. “The hell you talking about now?”

  “His password. Did you try beer names?” I type in “budw” and “guin” and “mill.” Denied. “I just tried Budweiser, Guinness, and Miller.”

  “Try Red Stripe.”

  Red Stripe is Jamaica’s national brew. “Good one.” I click “reds” and shake my head.

  “We’re never going to figure it out. Forget it.” He sounds so tired.

  I can’t argue with him because I agree. We will have to wait until Dad’s gone. My hand shakes as I put the cell back down.

  “Tonight’s gonna suck. I can’t keep my eyes open. How will I count his breaths?” Vance says.

  I should be thinking, Good. Serves you right, jerk. Instead, I see so much of my mother in Vance that it often feels like I’m looking into her eyes. Right no
w, his are red and worn out. “I’ll do it. You can sleep.” There’s an unrecognizable flicker on his face. Is it gratitude?

  Without looking at me, he mutters, “Thanks,” and shuffles to the sofa bed I made up.

  It was gratitude.

  Vance is snoring in under five minutes.

  There’s a humming going on beneath my skin, making me energized. I could probably run around and around WCHS’s track across the street.

  Jacque Beaufort spoke to me.

  That phrase has been auto-repeating in my brain ever since she disappeared from behind the piano.

  How could I not remember seeing her at Mrs. Gramble’s? I thought the first time I’d ever laid eyes on her was when she walked into sculpture. She definitely didn’t go to my elementary school—I’d remember that. But our paths have crossed before I knew she existed. That’s mildly exhilarating.

  And she remembered me.

  Dad releases another long and weary moan. Thoughts of Jacque Beaufort pop like a bubble. I spring from the chair. His head rolls off the pillow, and my heart pounds. Before readjusting him, I blow into my cupped hands to warm them up. His skin is cool to the touch. Oh my God. Did he just die right in front of me? I hover my hand over his mouth and feel his warm breath.

  Is that relief I feel? Or disappointment? My insides are twisted.

  With a careful touch I reposition his head. He sighs again. “It’s me, Dad. Do you know I’m here?” My face crumples and I blink back tears. How can this shell of a man be my father? He looks like he’s seventy years old. Another strenuous breath rattles from his mouth, more raspy this time. This is the most noise he’s made since we got here. Maybe something’s wrong.

  I jog to the nurse’s station and tell Marnie. On the walk down the hall, she thanks me again for playing the piano. My head bounces and I mumble, “Sure, you’re welcome.” Just before we’re at the door, I tell her that Vance is sleeping.

  She shushes herself with her pointer finger and nods.

  We enter the room like ninjas and flank Dad’s bed. Marnie lays the back of her hand on his cheek and then lifts the sheet from his legs. With a flick of her head, she motions for me to follow her back into the hall. She takes a huge breath before speaking. I know what she’s about to say will be bad.

  “It feels like his temp has dropped, and his feet looked a little swollen, honey.”

  My stomach has sunk to my feet.

  “Do you want to sit down?” she asks. “You just went pale as a marshmallow.” Marnie takes my arm and leads me to the Common Room. I drop my head into my hands as soon as I sit.

  “Should I go wake your brother?”

  My head snaps up. “Is Dad about to die, like, right now?”

  “He could. Death doesn’t follow the rules, but I think he’s got some time. Maybe till morning?”

  I drop my gaze and stare at the piano. “Then let Vance sleep. He needs it.”

  “You know those sighs he was releasing when you were talking to him? Well, some unconscious patients make those noises when a loved one is close. It’s like their subconscious knows that someone they love is standing near them. So, your dad may have been letting you know that he knows you’re here with him.”

  A rush of emotion floods me, and I can’t stop the sob that escapes. I cover my face to hide the guilt. How can I want him to die? What the hell is wrong with me? Did I really do everything I could to help him heal from Mom’s death, or did I allow him to self-destruct? I admit that I went deeper into my shell after we lost her. It felt like my only option.

  My opportunities to work on our relationship are over. They will die with my father.

  I will be completely alone in this world.

  The sofa dips as Marnie sits next to me. “You gotta let this out. It’s not good to keep grief locked away.”

  Without removing my hands, I choke out my guilt and fear. I could sit here and cry all night, but I have to pull myself together. No one is with Dad right now. Not that all our needs haven’t been thought of here, but the one need a hospice is really good at fulfilling is tissues. They’re everywhere. I reach forward and grab a wad. I’m a mess.

  Marnie squeezes my shoulder and leaves me be.

  Even though I say I like being by myself, the thought of living as an orphan inflates an enormous balloon of terror in my chest. I stand so I can catch my breath, deflate the balloon. I walk toward Dad’s room. Vance will head off to college soon and never look back. There’s no doubt about that. He is annoyed by my very being.

  Where will I go?

  Maybe Growler’s family will let me stay with them. It would only be for a year. At least until I graduate.

  Then I’ll go to college and never look back.

  Vance

  One year ago

  In the next few months after Rutgers, Dad and I visited Villanova, Saint Joe’s, and Drexel. I had to drive us home from all three.

  Whatever. Dad drank martinis. At least he was interested in my future.

  After meeting the four teams, talking to the coaches, and touring the campuses, I made Drexel my first choice. I could really picture myself there. It felt right. I could tell Dad was so proud when he’d tell people it was my top choice. That school had its shit together. The tour they ran was unbelievable, and they even gave us these cards with enough money loaded on them for Dad and me to get lunch at one of the restaurants around campus.

  My guidance counselor and lacrosse coach were convinced I’d be getting a lacrosse scholarship of some kind, which was good, because including room and board, Drexel was over sixty grand a year. I didn’t want Dad to worry about money. I mean, I knew Oscar and I had college funds, but still. Money was money, and the loss of Mom’s salary took a chunk out of our lifestyle. Obviously though, the loss of Mom took a chunk out of our lives.

  When I was home alone, I’d do something I was ashamed of, something I’d probably go to my grave with. I would stand in her closet, pull clothes out piece by piece, bring them to my face, and inhale. I just wanted to smell her.

  She never wore perfume, and she wasn’t into fancy beauty products. She used the same soap and shampoo that we did. But Mom smelled like Mom. It wasn’t flowery or powdery or spicy. It was just her. It was home.

  In the weeks after she died, the closet burst with her scent. It was overwhelming and comforting. It had been three years since then, and the last time I went in there, it took me twenty or so pulls of clothing to even catch a slight whiff.

  No one knew that I’d taken one of her work blouses and put it in a plastic ziplock bag. I’d shoved it in the back of my jeans drawer and haven’t touched it since. I didn’t know if I’d ever open it. Her smell would be released. Gone. I couldn’t handle that.

  I had to be strong for Dad. I had to make him believe I was okay so he wouldn’t worry about me. He had his own stuff to work through. Oscar probably thought I had bounced back too quickly. His judgment of me was kind of hard to miss. I didn’t care what he thought. I cared about helping Dad get back to normal.

  Oscar had his music and drawings, and no matter how stupid I thought they were, they were a place for him to retreat. To escape. Sure, I used lacrosse, but Dad had nothing. He had booze, but nothing positive. I wanted my strength to be his “something positive.”

  I felt like me acting like I was totally fine helped Dad, in the beginning at least. Right after she died was the worst time. He appreciated me trying to bounce back… At least I hope so. Actually, really, I have no friggin’ idea, because we never talked about shit like that.

  Oscar

  I swear Dad looks more yellow than when I left ten minutes ago.

  “Vance. Wake up,” I say.

  His eyes pop open. “Is he dead?”

  I toss my head back and forth. “No, but Marnie said he’s shutting down.”

  Vance swings his legs over the side and
stands. We are eye to eye. “Marnie was in here, and you didn’t wake me up?” He pushes me aside and stomps to Dad’s bedside. He lifts the sheet. “Does she know that his feet are swollen?”

  “She does.”

  He glares at me, his face red. “You’re an asshole, Oscar! Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  The fact that we continue to argue over our comatose father’s body suddenly feels obscene. Dad is right here, right underneath us. My voice is barely a whisper, “I thought I’d let you sleep. You seemed wiped out. I’m sorry.”

  Vance attacks me every day, every single day. He enjoys upsetting me. This anger is different. He’s scared. I can see it in his eyes.

  “Can we not fight, please?” I say. “Not…now.”

  Vance gives the arm of the recliner a few fresh punches, and then we both take our seats. I take his silence as a “yes” to my question. I’m okay with this.

  After some time passes, he says, “Still three breaths.”

  I haven’t been counting. Why haven’t I been counting? What is my problem?

  “He’s not going to see me graduate, is he?” Vance says.

  Graduation is in five weeks. Our father probably has five hours to live. He will absolutely not see Vance graduate from high school. I swallow hard. He won’t see me do it either. “No.”

  He won’t meet our future wives or children. Won’t cut down another Christmas tree or roast another chicken. Won’t curse like a maniac when trying to parallel park. Won’t dance around the Blue Mountain when his favorite reggae song comes on. I’ll never hear him call me to dinner or tell Vance to play harder on the field or ask me if my homework is done.

  This is it.

  This is the end.

  Vance says, “Do you think he knows we’re here?”

  “Marnie said when he sighs it could be Dad’s subconscious, and that it’s his way of telling us he knows we’re here.”