by Renee Dyer
Beneath His Darkness
Copyright © 2015 Renee Dyer
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To my siblings—Tony, Jeff, Desiree, and Scott—although we wanted to beat the crap out of each other
many times over the years, we’ve also been there for each other through the tough times.
There’s nothing more important than family and I’m grateful everyday for
the laughs, good times, and knowing you’ll always be here for me.
Chapter One
Grant—Sixteen Years Old
“Mrs. Andrews, we have your son’s test results. We asked you to come down here without Mr. Andrews because we thought there may have been an error in the testing and we didn’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”
“There is no error.”
I watch as my mother cuts the doctor off. She clasps her hands in her lap as she looks at the floor, her face pale, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“I don’t understand, Mrs. Andrews. You don’t even know what it is we’re going to tell you.”
My mom looks up and the sadness in her face scares me. The entire time my dad has been sick, a sadness has overwhelmed her, but this is different. She looks like her world has crumbled around her. Like all the sunshine has been sucked out of her life. What the hell is going on?
“I know exactly what you’re going to tell me,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
The doctor looks at her, his face a mask of confusion. I want to tell him I’m also confused. They’re talking, but no one is saying what has happened and it has something to do with my bloodwork. I wish someone would tell me what the hell is going on. I just want to know whether I’m a match. Can I save my dad’s life?
The silent battle between my mom and the doctor continues. He shuffles the papers in his hands while she stares him down. It’s more than I can take.
“Will someone please tell me what is going on? Am I a match? Can I save my dad?”
My mom flinches at my words, as if I physically hurt her. This only adds to my confusion. She shakes her head, another tear rolling down her cheek. What does she know that she isn’t saying?
“Go out in the hall while I talk to the doctor, Grant.” She’s trying to be forceful. I can hear it in her tone. But she lacks conviction.
“I’m sorry, Mom. But I’m not going anywhere until I know what my blood tests say.”
Fear. It’s the only word I can use to describe the look that crosses her face. My blood runs cold seeing it. Why is my mom afraid of what my lab results are? And why did she say she already knows?
I stop looking at her. She’s distracting me from getting the answers I desperately need. I wipe my sweaty palms onto my pants and blow out a breath through my lips. Planting my feet firmly against the floor, an attempt to still the shaking in my legs, I look directly at the doctor. It’s only now that I notice just how gleamingly white his lab coat is. It must take a lot of bleach to keep it so clean. How stupid the thought is at a time like this, but hospitals are always so sterile. I’m done with sterile.
Things are about to get messy, I can feel it. And I always trust my gut.
“Grant, please.” Again, her voice is barely above a whisper.
I wish I could give her what she wants, but this involves me and saving my dad’s life—the man who has been my best friend since I was a little boy. He coached my little league team. He taught me how to ride a bike. He never missed any big moment in my life. Now, he needs something from me and I damn well need to know if I can give it to him.
I’m not waiting in the hall. I want to know what is on those papers—good or bad.
“Dr. Laskey, please tell me what my results are. Am I a match for my dad?”
I don’t look at my mother, but I hear her sniffling. Whatever she already knows is tearing her apart.
I’m not a match.
“Grant, I’m sorry, but you’re not a match. But, what’s more concerning is that…” he stops and looks at my mother before looking back to me. I look at her, too. Tears are flowing down her cheeks. She is no longer looking at the doctor; she doesn’t appear to be looking at anything. She seems lost within herself.
“What’s concerning, Dr. Laskey?” More fear runs through me. Is there something wrong with me? Does my mom know I have a medical condition that she never told me about? Why wouldn’t she tell me? My mind swirls with possibilities.
“It’s more than just not being a match, Grant. There are no DNA markers relating you to your father at all.”
My head snaps back to the doctor and my spine stiffens. What the hell does that mean? No DNA markers? I’m his son. The tests have to be wrong.
“Th-the tests…they h-have to be wrong. I’m his son. Tell him, Mom. Tell him the tests are wrong. Redo the tests. Maybe I can save my dad after all.” I can hear my voice rising, hear the panic and shrillness to my tone, but I can’t stop it. And my mom’s crying only adds to the feelings of alarm ringing through my body.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I can’t,” she says between sobs.
“What do you mean you can’t?” I need her to tell me this is all a bad dream. I need my mom to comfort me like she always has, but she’s sitting here telling me that these tests speak the truth.
“You aren’t his son, Grant. I’m so sorry.”
My world goes into a free fall as her words roll through my head. You aren’t his son. It can’t be true. I have dark hair like him. I have brown eyes like him. My skin is golden like his, too. I’m close to his height. She can’t mean what she’s saying. He has to be my dad.
He’s my best friend.
I look at her, at the tears flowing down her face, and I know she means the words she spoke. I just can’t understand why she said them. “Mom,” I croak out, “please tell me this is a mistake.” I’m begging her with all that I am to stop the pain that has taken over my heart.
She tries to reach for my hands, but I pull them back. I can’t have her touching me right now. I may shatter into a million pieces on this all too clean carpet. They may never be able to vacuum all the pieces of me. The pain in her eyes slays me, but I can’t give in. I just need her to say it isn’t true.
“I’m sorry, Grant. I should have told you and your fat
her…” she says, choking on the word ‘father’, “I should have told you both sooner. I never should have let you go through the testing, but you don’t have to be blood relation to be a match. I was hoping you would still be a match. I was hoping with all my heart because I knew, with how much you love him, you would save him.”
I’m listening to her, but I can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. She just decimated my entire existence, tore me completely apart, yet she sits here trying to justify it.
In place of my pain, I feel a rage building. A rage so strong, I’m afraid I’ll strike her and my da… the man who raised me, taught me never to strike a woman. Without saying a word, I stand up and walk out of the room. I hear her screaming my name, hear the panic in her voice, but I don’t know whether she’s afraid I’ll tell the secret she’s kept for so long or afraid she’s lost me. Honestly, I don’t care. At this moment, I’ve lost all respect for my mother.
I don’t know that I even love her anymore.
Chapter Two
Grant—Sixteen Years Old
I walk down the corridor, trying not to think about what I’m here to do. My feet barely lift with each step I take, like there’s lead in my sneakers. People walk by me, but I’m not really aware of them. I couldn’t tell you the color of their clothes, their hair, whether they’re doctors or nurses, or here to see loved ones like I am. My reason for being here has all my attention.
Yesterday, Dr. Laskey told Mom it was time to say our goodbyes. When she came home and told me, I wasn’t sure why she had even bothered. He hasn’t spoken more than a few words to me since finding out I’m not his. The few words he has said made it clear he detests me. The sight of me makes his suffering worse. Dying is hard enough, but having to see me, to be reminded the last sixteen years of his life were a lie, disgusts him.
Still, I find myself inching down the hospital corridor, feeling sick to my stomach. The only thing I focus on is how bland it is. The white tile floors. The tan walls. The flower pictures that I’m sure are supposed to be considered some kind of pick me up for the people walking by. To me, it all blends in. Nothing here comforts or brings me peace.
They’re all just more reminders of why I hate being here.
This place is sterile and bland—two things I’ve come to loathe.
After I say my goodbye today, I swear I’m going to roll down a hill somewhere. Find a nice, green hill. Someplace where there’s color all around and I can get filthy. Where I don’t have to worry about bringing germs back to him. Maybe I’ll just lock myself in my room with a couple bags of Doritos and a six-pack of Coke. I can get just as dirty wiping that cheesy deliciousness all over my pants and t-shirt while I immerse myself in some serious video game time. I just need some time for me and I need not to feel guilty that he won’t have these simple pleasures anymore. I need to remember what it feels like to be a teenager.
The smile I have on my face from thinking of finger aches, chomping chips, and caffeine highs, drops as I realize I’m outside his door. Room 128 looms before me. I stand there, hand on the knob, trying to muster the will to open it and walk through, but fear has me lodged in place. Fear of him rejecting me again and us never finding a happy balance before he passes on.
I just want my dad to love me like he used to.
I rest my head against the door, needing a minute to calm my heart and my mind. Both are racing at the thought of walking in that room and hearing him say he can’t love me. Or worse, what if he says nothing at all?
“Can I help you with something?”
A woman’s voice sounds from behind me. I turn around to find a nurse smiling at me. I instantly recognize her as one of the regulars and I want to lash out at her. Tell her she can’t help me because my dad is dying. I want to scream at her. Tell her she already failed at helping. But, I can’t find any words. I just shake my head and she walks on by, the smile never leaving her face.
Why do they always smile?
Don’t they know we know they’re faking it? Don’t they realize that we know they know we’re going through hell? Their smiles are infuriating. Who the hell told them smiling at us all the time is comforting? It’s not. I’m not smiling. I feel like wiping all the smiles off their damn faces and telling them how angry they make me.
Angry.
I’ve been feeling that way toward a lot of people. My mom. The doctors. The nurses. I haven’t wanted to admit it, but I’m angry with him, too. I’m angry that he was able to throw me away, like sixteen years of loving me never mattered. Didn’t he ever think about what that would do to me? How that would hurt me?
I could stand outside this door for days asking myself all kinds of what ifs, but the only one who has the answers is lying in a bed on the other side and he isn’t going to be around much longer. Pain hammers through me, almost dropping me to the colorless floor.
He’s not going to be around much longer.
I swallow loudly, turn the knob, and step into his room. I expect the shades to be up and light to filter through. If he only has minimal time left, it should be spent with the sun shining on him. That’s what I expected. Instead, it’s dark and depressing in here. The shades are drawn and the lights are off. The man I always knew to be larger than life lies in the middle of the bed with his arms crossed over his stomach, staring at the ceiling. I know he’s awake because I see him blink every so often as I stand just inside his room, where I’ve closed the door behind me to give us privacy.
The lights from the machines illuminate the room enough for me to see all the tubes and wires. His face is drawn from the weight he’s lost and he looks so tired. He is no longer the strong man I looked up to all these years. My heart breaks for that man. I don’t recognize the one lying in the bed before me.
The man who threw me away like yesterday’s trash.
I close my eyes and breathe for a second. I try to tell myself that the man in that bed is the same man I’ve loved my whole life. I need to walk over there and make him see he still loves me, before it’s too late. I need to tell him I love him. Because I do. Even if we aren’t blood, he’s my dad.
I reluctantly step from where my back is pressed against the closed door and slowly inch my way toward his bed. My anxiety rises with each step I take. I know he knows I’m here. I saw his eyes shift to my face and then back to the ceiling. I’d be lying if I said that the dismissal in his eyes didn’t hurt. It cut straight to my already damaged heart.
I stop about a foot from his bed, afraid to get too close to him. “Hey, Dad. It’s me, Grant.”
I don’t know why I tell him it’s me. He knows who I am. At least, I think he does. Mom said they have him on a lot of pain meds to keep him comfortable until… I can’t think about that. Even with how he’s been treating me, my world without him in it doesn’t make sense.
“Dad, can you hear me?”
He turns his head so he’s facing away from me and stares at the drawn shades. I don’t know whether I want to cry at his rejection or scream. Soon, it will be too late to fix this brokenness between us. I can’t have him die thinking I feel any hatred in my heart for him. I may be angry, but I’m angry because of how much I love him.
I guess I’m the one who’s going to have to act like a man. It’s clear he isn’t going to. I put my hands in my pockets to stop myself from reaching out to him, although I want nothing more than to hold his hand and show him I’m here for him. I stiffen my spine, preparing to say the last words I may ever get to say to the man who has meant more to me than any other person in my life.
“I know you’re angry and hurt, Dad.” I stop because I need a second to breathe. Saying this is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I had it all planned out in my head, but thinking it and saying it are very different. I look up to the ceiling and send a silent prayer to the skies, asking for the strength I need to get through this.
“I know this because I’m angry and hurt, too.” I think I see him flinch, but I’m not sure. “I didn’t ask
for any of this, just like you didn’t. We were both betrayed. But, losing you is…it’s…” I have to fight back the tears threatening to fall.
“Losing you is the hardest thing that’s ever happened to me, Dad. I love you more than anyone else in my life. How could I not? You’re my best friend.” My voice cracks and I need another second to compose myself.
He still hasn’t turned his head to look at me. I have no idea whether I’m getting through to him. I don’t know if he’s too drugged up to understand what I’m saying, but I need to take the chance.
“You have always been everything to me. I can’t think of a time in my life when you haven’t been there for me. I don’t just mean the dad stuff. Yeah, you taught me to ride a bike and throw a ball. It’s because of you I’m a great pitcher. But, Dad, you taught me to be a better man. I watched the man you are and it made me want to be great like you.”
Watching him lie there, staring off into nothingness, is making me lose hope.
“Dad, please. Please look at me. Please stop shutting me out. I didn’t ask for any of this. All I want is to be your son. I just want you to love me like you always have. I love you. Please, love me again,” I beg.
“You’re not my son,” he says, turning his whole body away from me.
My world falls down around me. I know there’s nothing left to say. A single tear falls down my cheek before I can stop it. It’s the only one I allow in mourning of the relationship that just died in this room. I turn my back to his bed and walk away as I whisper, “Goodbye, Dad.”
Chapter Three
Grant—Seventeen Years Old
All I have to do is walk through those doors and I’ll be in the same building as my brother. Two simple steps and we’ll be sharing the same air. Tucker. His name filters through my mind and I can’t stop the rage that consumes me. I’ve had a few months to prepare myself to see him, but still, I stand here, mentally beating myself into submission in order to walk through a set of doors.