Phantom

I’m happy you came. I couldn’t have done this on my own. I mean another Christmas dinner, and he hasn’t even touched his plate. Miso soup, shrimp shumai, fried pork dumplings, white rice, Yaki-Shabu beef. What an ingrate. At the very least he could repay me with some conversation, but lately he’s been clamming up. It’s probably the medication.

Did you hear what Mary said yesterday, Dad? I think she really likes me. You saw the way she looks at me, right?

Of course, he won’t respond. He’s always saying I should be married by now. Things might be different if he didn’t call me as a sissy all the time. I was thirty-two when I kissed a girl for the first time, and God knows that didn’t go over well. Now I’m thirty-seven but I still have time. The one thing that gives me solace is knowing that when he’s gone, I’ll finally be able to focus on myself. I had to abandon everything to look after him when things got bad.

It started with the buzz of cicadas, thick humidity and an atmosphere of indolence. School was out and I didn’t have to be back until late August. Although we both lived in Fairview, I only went up Lafayette three times a year, mainly in December. He was self-sufficient back then. He’d chase me out of the house if I came more often, so I hadn’t seen him for quite some time. As I settled into summer break, he was the last thing on my mind. But then the phone rang.

“Hi, is this Sean Harrison?”

“Yes, speaking,” I said.

“This is Doctor Lovelace. I’m at the hospital with your father. I know you’re aware of his condition, but…”

“What condition?”

Dad groaned the background. “I told you not to call that sissy. Now he’s gonna get all worked up.”

“What’s wrong? Is it serious?”

“Let me get you up to speed,” said Lovelace.

I knew it was a matter of life and death. He failed to mention the severity before proceeding, which made me wonder what kind of cancer it was, or if it was an autoimmune disorder, gnashing away at his final few years. Concisely but conscientiously, he “got me up to speed.” I was ready for a grim prognosis.

“It started two months ago. He came to the ER because one of his fingers fell off,” said Lovelace.

“What?”

“He said it was itchy and became weak before eventually shriveling up and falling off.”

“But how?”

“I’ll get to that. So, the finger fell off and we began running tests: tests on the finger; blood tests; cat scans; pet scans. It was the first time I’d seen anything like it, and I’ve been practicing medicine for a long time. By the time he entered the hospital, it was completely healed like it came off several years ago. In fact, there was virtually no blood loss. Some of my colleagues doubted his story and believed he cut it off himself quite some time ago. We would’ve assumed that was the case had he not brought it with him in an icebox.

“We flew him to the University where he was seen by specialists from all over the country. They kept him under observation for about a month, and one by one the rest of his fingers fell off, each quicker than the last, indicating an accelerating progression. An infectious disease specialist said he’d seen a similar case in Somalia, about a decade ago. It’s an auto degenerative disease called Corporismadesis. After cases began cropping up in other countries, an experimental drug was developed. Your father has good insurance, so he can get it for little-to-no cost. It’s administered intravenously over a series of two-hour sessions. He’ll need to come by every week for treatment, but if we can slow it down he may make it another two years.”

“Are you still there, Sean?”

“Yes.” I was still trying to process what he’d said.

“He can’t drive. He’ll need you to take him to treatment.”

Dad screamed in the background: “No! Absolutely not. I won’t rely on that little sissy.”

“There’s more,” said Lovelace. “You’ll either have to move in with him or check in on him multiple times per day. As the disease progresses, he’ll continue losing limbs and won’t be able to do much by himself. We’ve suggested a live-in nurse, but for cases like this it’s best to have family around as much as possible. We find it to be easier on the patient and it often leads to better outcomes.”

“Are you listening, Lovelace?” asked Dad, in the background. “I don’t want him around. If I have to see him every day, I’ll off myself!”

“I’ll take care of him,” I said.

“He already received his first treatment and can be discharged today. Would you mind coming to pick him up? I have a few more things to discuss with you.”

Down the hall from Dad’s room, Lovelace told me I would need to be there for him until the end. As the disease progressed it would become more and more cumbersome, leaving no time for my social life. I could tell he was sizing me up, seeing if I was up to the task, with that smug, judgmental look, thinking he’s superior just because he’s a doctor. I told Lovelace, despite my father’s animosity, I felt a moral obligation toward him because he was my father and he had no one else. He’d raised me all alone after Mom died, and the least I could do was return the favor.

They met in high school at a time when protests permeated through college campuses, and Timothy Leary was getting people to turn on, tune in and drop out. Bob and Michelle Harrison—conceived on principles of the silent generation, cultivated on desires for security and stability: a yearning for white picket fences to protect gardens of artificial roses—were archetypical of everything their parents had hoped. He was a wrestling letterman, and she was a cheerleader, but he wasn’t the strongest wrestler, and she wasn’t the prettiest cheerleader. Still, he had a full head of hair and decent posture. He wasn’t yet the monster I came to know through childhood. Despite the rigid ugliness he would come to adopt, he was handsome in his teenage years. I’ve seen pictures of them at prom; he was a little over six foot with a buzz cut, a stern brow, a wide smile and prominent cheek bones; she was a foot smaller with plump, pale cheeks, contemplative black eyes and a distinct beauty mark above the lip. Blotches of eczema hadn’t yet overtaken her skin, as it did shortly after I was born. Not long before she became pregnant, they married at an old church with many friends and family in attendance, but it wasn’t just the wedding or the baby they were celebrating. It was also a going away party. He’d been drafted to Vietnam, and many considered it a final goodbye. The war had been going on for a few years, and everyone was aware of the high mortality rate for young draftees. Somehow, he made it out unscathed, except for a viral infection that left him with partial paralysis of the face. For the rest of his life, whether smiling or pouting, the left corner of his mouth refused to follow.

“You know Doc, a lot of my war buddies came down with all sorts of weird stuff. I bet it’s agent orange,” he told Lovelace, as we re-entered the room. “I came back with problems too. That must be it.”

“I’m not sure about that, Bob. All I know is you’ll have to come in once a week for treatment. We have to slow the progression. Sean will take you home. The nurse should already be there.”

Dad glanced up at me with a helpless look on his face. It was the first time I’d seen him tear up like that. He didn’t even cry when Mom died.

Having been back in the States for a few years, he spent most of his time at the auto shop he owned with a war buddy and was hardly around. But Mom was always there, doing housework and taking care of me. She was trapped in a never-ending cycle of cooking and cleaning, using the time between to bribe me with fresh baked cookies. That was her way of pacifying my tantrums. She’d grin menacingly, lean over me and ask, “Does my little Sean want a cookie?” Although I did, my eyes would water from her breath, which scorched my face like radiation carried by a dank wind. She drank metallic fluid every morning, a homeopathic remedy for her eczema. It got so bad that she would swell up like she was going into anaphylactic shock. Then eventually, turning dry and flakey, the pustules would fall off and accumulate in the dusty corners of our home.

The first night she left me by myself, which also turned out to be the last, was because she ran out of her medication. It was seven, dinner was still on the stove and Dad wasn’t home yet. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said, before vanishing into the stormy night. She was only driving to the pharmacy five minutes away. I don’t remember hearing the car start or drive off, but I know I must have been about nine years old because I was still terrified of thunderstorms. Thunder shook the windows like an explosion rattling the souls of unexpecting bystanders. I ran to the frayed couch in the center of our living room and buried my head in the cushions. The stiff fibers scratched my face as I burrowed deep into the crevice. Forcing my eyes shut, I tried to stop thinking about the apocalyptic thrashing outside. For quite some time I remained still, as muffled thunder penetrated the cushions and howling wind pierced through the rumble. I don’t recall how long I stayed there, but Dad came home soaking wet. Rain rolled off his face as he shook me and screamed, “Hurry Sean! We’ve got to get to the hospital.”

When we arrived, they told us to wait in a white room with tranquil paintings of the sea. Like a father-to-be, anxiously pacing outside the delivery room, Dad refused to stay seated. Eventually an old doctor with a white mustache and thick glasses pulled him aside. In a gentle tone, he said, “I’m sorry, but we’ve done everything we can. Her heart stopped in the ambulance, and we haven’t been able to resuscitate her.” Mom’s car was t-boned by an eighteen-wheeler after the latter ran a stoplight just ten blocks from home. An ambulance came, they dragged her out of the bloodied car, loaded her into the back and sped off. They tried to resuscitate her, but she was irretrievable; she’d wandered too far to the other side and was unable to find her way back. She was only twenty-seven. “We’ve done everything we can.”

“Arghhhhhh!” Neolithic grunts rolled out of Dad’s mouth. Throughout the funeral, as well as the subsequent mourning, then after the loss of his parents and all his brothers sometime afterward, I never again saw him look as distraught as when Doctor Lovelace said I’d be taking him home. We left the hospital and searched for my car in the parking lot.

“I just have a few errands to run first,” I said. He looked at me scornfully, tears travelling down his face.

I thought Dazai’s Goods would be a good place to start. We’d walk through the aisles, and he could tell me what to buy for the nurse who’d be preparing his meals. As Lovelace warned, things became worse over time, and with time, Dad could no longer accompany me to the grocery store. Six months passed when Mr. Dazai, having become familiar with Dad’s condition, asked how he was doing.

“His left leg recently came off, so he’s currently getting used to that. But he’s as stubborn as ever and hasn’t lost his sense of humor, which is good I guess.”

“Didn’t he lose the right one a few weeks ago?”

“He did. This one wasn’t ready yet, but he kept tugging at it despite the doctor telling him not to and it came off prematurely. Unfortunately, the bleeding didn’t stop so quickly this time. He spent a few days in the hospital, where he received a blood transfusion, and they had to stitch him up.”

With a furrowed brow, Dazai looked down at his own leg. He was a short, staunch, Japanese man, about ten years older than Dad. He moved here from Hokkaido thirty years ago, after his wife passed away and there was nothing left for him in Japan. His body was failing him too, but not from a rare disease. Crippling arthritis left him bent forty-five degrees from the waist. Nevertheless, he was strong for his age, stocking shelves and manning the checkout counter all by himself. He looked up at me with bloodshot eyes and suddenly, hyperaware of his own mortality, asked, “How long do you think he has left?

“The treatment has slowed the progression dramatically, but the prognosis is still grim. Doctor Lovelace says he can live another year if he stops pulling them off prematurely, which puts him at risk of bleeding out.” I was surprised at my cold, emotionless delivery. As I explained it to Dazai, it all seemed so distant.

I felt guilty for the rest of the day and contemplated if others, in similar situations, ever displayed the same kind of frigidness, or felt exhausted and welcomed the end of the struggle. I don’t mean the struggle of the terminally ill, but the struggle of the caretaker. Yes, I was tired. But so what? Dad went for nearly a decade without rest, raising me as a single father, and besides, the nurse did most of the heavy lifting. She was young, pretty and full of altruism. She was the type who thrived off helping others. I was confused as to how she could change Dad’s colostomy bag and enthusiastically give him sponge baths when I could barely handle his grocery shopping. When I would deliver them, Sarah would come to the door and greet me, smiling excitedly, with her fiery hair and emerald eyes.

“Hi Sean, we’ve been waiting for you! Bob is so happy you came. Isn’t that right, Bob?” She was looking over her shoulder, waiting for Dad to respond.

From a torn-up recliner, he spat on the carpet and said, “I wasn’t waiting for nobody. In fact, I think Sean should leave.”

From the elbows down, both arms were gone; they’d been gone for a few weeks. I remember thinking it was for the best because he could no longer yank anything off.

“I brought you some food from Dazai’s,” I said, forcing a smile. “I even managed to get a few of those steaks you like so much.”

“Thanks, Sean,” said Sarah. “He’s very grateful. It’s just that he’s a little tired. He normally takes his nap around this time.”

“Shut up, Sarah. I’m a grown man. I’ll sleep when I feel like it,” said Dad.

“Now Bob, I thought we talked about being more considerate. You’ll never feel good if you always make others feel bad.”

Seeing Dad treated like a child was kind of funny and oddly satisfying. Although I was happy someone was calling him out for being an asshole, I also felt bad that he could no longer stand on his own two feet, both figuratively and literally; he could no longer do what he wanted, treat people how he wanted or be alone like he wanted. A man who had fought in a war, raised a child and lived on his own for many decades had been reduced to a burdensome, dying, paraplegic with no hope of regaining his autonomy. At the time, I felt a little more than melancholic empathy. It was deeper and more depressing, seeing my father, who I thought was untouchable, reduced to a burden.

“Get him out of here!” he screamed.

Many visits were similar, so you can imagine they weren’t easy. Between working at the elementary school library, running errands for Dad, and—last but not least—those dreadful visits, I did things to maintain my sanity. For dinner every Wednesday, I went to the diner in the center of town. I always ordered the same thing: chicken club sandwich, no mayo, with fries and a coke. Then I’d have a slice of key lime pie. Most of the time I was the only customer in one of their cruddy leather booths, and my waitress was always Sabrina Larter. I knew her from high school, back when she was a lonely outcast. She was skinny like a corpse and wore all black with goth makeup; however, over the years, she filled out and became prettier; yet somehow, she still managed to look ghoulish, with her blinding white skin, long maple hair and bottomless black pupils, sunken eyes overflowing with darkness. Even though she’d put on some weight, her body remained featureless, her nose protruded like a fin, and she wore excessive amounts of bright red lipstick. Nevertheless, she was friendly and asked about Dad whenever I came in.

“Hi, Sean,” she said. “How’s Bob been?” She was heading toward my table in her uniform, which was white but not as white as her skin.

“He’s okay. Nothing’s fallen off for a few months, but his nose and ears are beginning to shrivel. The doctor thinks those will be next. He seems to be handling it all right though. He’s keeping his spirits up.”

“That’s good. If he can stick it out a little longer, I’m sure they’ll come up with a cure.” For some reason when people speak to a relative of the terminally ill, they always fall back on false reassurances. “Same as usual?” She grabbed a notepad from her breast pocket.

“Thanks, Sabrina.”

Her husband left a few years ago, so she relies on the meager income from her waitress job to feed her kids. After finishing my pie, I tipped her a fifty. While it may not mean much in the grand scheme of things, I felt I was doing the right thing. And besides, I still had a twenty for the local cinema. Wednesdays were my day to look after myself. Dillinger’s is the only movie theater in town, and it has been for the past forty years, thanks to Jed Dillinger, who decided we were lacking something all those years ago. That night I was going to see Big Fish, which I must say, I was very excited for. The film was about a dying father and his strained relationship with his son. When I got there, Ned greeted me with a great, big smile.

“Hi-a Sean. What will you be seeing today?” he asked.

“One ticket for Big Fish.”

“Of course, I’ll fix you right up.”

He walked to the ticket counter. The lobby was eerily empty as it always is on Wednesday nights. You could hear the faint rumble of explosions echoing from empty showing rooms. Ned’s twin, Ted, called me over from the snack counter.

“Hi-a Sean. Have a popcorn on the house. You deserve it. You know you’re one of our favorite customers?”

One of the only customers, I thought to myself, looking around the vacant room. “Thanks Ted.”

Ned and Ted had taken over from their father, Jed, when he passed away five years ago. They both went to high school with me, but back then they weren’t as friendly as they are now. They didn’t depend on my money to keep their family business running. When I was a freshman and they were seniors, they would call me “Smelly Sean”. They’d push me down stairs and knock my books out of my hands in between classes. As hockey lettermen, they were exceptional at physical abuse. They were also jerks to Sabrina, calling her things like “anorexic” and “skeleton”. But all the girls loved them, and a legion of lackeys followed them everywhere.

“How’s your dad?” asked Ted.

“He’s managing.” I took the popcorn and darted for the movie to avoid further conversation.

“Wait, Sean! I wanna give you a drink on the house too. Coke?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” I cringed as I thought of the pain he caused.

“No problem. Tell Bob we hope he gets better.”

“He’s not gonna get better, you idiot. He’s dying!” I ran into the showing room.

When I left the theater, snow was lightly falling on the dark pavement; with the movie fresh in mind, all I could think about was the contrast between the main character’s father and Dad. Hollywood had done it again: the portrayal of a strained relationship between father and son in a way that garners sympathy for the former. Well, why wasn’t Dad worth any sympathy? I drove silently through the white night.

Lying on my back with the comforter pulled to my chin, I was lost in thought as bare branches tapped against the window and moonlight pooled at my bedside. My earlier interaction with Ned and Ted conjured another memory from high school. I was subjected to an even more barbaric form of bullying than I had at the hands of the Dillingers. His name was Adam Tracy. His words could chop one down like the axe of an angry lumberjack hacking away at innocent birches; however, it wasn’t so much his words as it was the broader context in which they were inflicted. I was sixteen at the time, going through a phase of writing letters to girls with no plan of ever delivering them. I don’t remember the exact contents of these letters, but one day I put them in a shoe box, which I then lit on fire in the woods. Dad asked what I was burning back there, and when I didn’t tell him he grabbed the belt and beat me for at least an hour. But I digress. Although this isn’t verbatim, one of them went like this:

Sheila,

Day after day, my heart aches knowing you sit directly in front of me—in not just one, not two, but three classes—three back-to-back classes. Although I yearn to confess my love as we sit side by side on some distant hilltop, under an oak tree doused in pale moonlight, surrounded by dark crimson roses, I don’t believe my feelings are reciprocated.

I only wish this letter could convince you that we’re meant to be together. I may not be attractive, funny, or pleasant to be around, but we belong together like two doves flying toward the red horizon. Try to see past my acne, the onionous odor, my dandruff, the blank stares and the awkward silences.

My love, I love you. And I hope that one day you’ll love me too.

Yours truly,
Sean

I wrote two dozen letters for ten different girls, who I fell in and out of love with throughout sophomore and junior year. Although they were never delivered, I held on to them even after the infatuation passed; they gathered idly in my locker waiting to be found. I wrote them on park benches near secluded streams when I was certain no one was around. But Adam, being the malicious douchebag he was, broke into my locker and found them. I was on my way there when I noticed a crowd of twenty students gathered in a circle. Like a tribal orator, he was in the middle of reciting one; I immediately knew which it was. In a vulgar mimicry, he added some flourish to the intro:

“Dear Cynthia, I hope this finds you well. One night when the world is asleep, I want to caress you under the spotlight of the moon, laying side by side between cool satin sheets.” He broke into laughter as did the crowd. “Do you think this can happen? That you can show up one night and surprise me?” During the recitation, he pouted and batted his eyelashes several times.

Cynthia was the only one not laughing. She covered her face, which was turning red, and took off down the hall, sobbing hysterically. Although she was running hastily with tear-filled eyes, she noticed me, stopped, cocked her arm back and slapped me across the ear so loud that when the ringing finally subsided, I noticed the crowd had turned their attention toward us.

“Look! There he is,” screamed Adam. “What a creep. You like making girls cry?”

The crowd berated me: “What an asshole”, “I always knew he had problems”, “Someone should tell the principal!”

I started sweating profusely. Why did he have to recite the letter in public? Cynthia would’ve been fine if she’d never found out. As I told you earlier, after school I took the letters into the woods, lit a match and incinerated the evidence. The only problem was that before I could do so, one of them fell into the wrong hands. Despite such a turgid day, that night I fell into a deep sleep as snow gathered at my frosted window.

The days became indistinguishable, except every few weeks Dad lost another body part: an ear, a nipple, his nose. Because of the treatment, each loss occurred in isolation and didn’t happen as rapidly as it should have. But eventually his torso became a fleshy podium for his head, devoid of arms and legs. He could no longer hear or smell, but his eyes remained intact as did his tongue, which continued to hurl insults. One day, my vindictiveness nearly boiled over. The deaf monster wouldn’t stop. I’d bring him steaks from Dazai’s, and he would repay me by saying, “Did I ask for this, you stupid son of a bitch.” This happened so often that I began to wonder if he really meant it, or if I just happened to be in the line of fire as he vented general frustration. Just as I started to believe the latter, he screamed, “Sarah, get him the hell out of here!” As I made my way to the door, she grabbed my arm and handed me a bundle of envelopes, asking if I could drop them off at the post office. They were mainly bills except for one that was addressed to his cousin, who lived in Toronto. Although they weren’t close, every now and then he would dictate letters to Sarah, updating his cousin on the progress of his demise. I didn’t care what they said, so I dropped them off with indifference.

Ace Smith, proprietor of the post office, greeted me with a smile, flashing decayed teeth like popcorn kernels. There were only five or six left. Even with his condition, Dad still had all his teeth, so what was Ace’s excuse? Aside from that, Ace was pleasant to be around and much more polite than Dad. He had a crown of black hair and large green eyes; he loved to talk football and was a lifelong Bills fan. However, he thought I was gay because I wasn’t interested in sports.

“Hey, Sean. How’s it going? You find yourself a wife yet?”

“Not yet, Ace. But I have something in the works.”

“Oh really? Do I know her?”

“You just might.” I chuckled.

“Hope Bob is doing better. We pray for him every night.”

“Thanks, Ace. I’ll let him know.”

“Listen, Sean. You should have kids while you still can. It’s up to you to keep the Harrison name alive, you know.” He furrowed his brow. “You want kids, don’t you Son?”

“Of course. But I can’t just force myself on some girl. That kind of thing has to come naturally.”

“But you do want them, don’t you?” he repeated.

“When the time’s right.”

“You know, I wouldn’t judge you if you didn’t. I mean it’s okay if you never plan on settling down with a lady. Some folks might think it’s a little funny. The more closeminded ones might even treat you differently. But not me. No sir-y.”

“Thanks, Ace. That means a lot, but it’s not what you think.”

“I know, Son. I’m just saying that it wouldn’t be a problem.”

I gave him the mail and got out of there. It’s always the same with him. He imparts this false persona, pretending to be nonjudgmental when he’s probably the worst of them all. Besides, I’m not gay. I don’t know why he insinuates that every time I walk in there. I started to wish Dad would stop sending letters to his cousin or Sarah would stop transcribing them, but at the end of the day it was just a meaningless longing, incapable of resulting in action. This may sound weird, but whenever I found myself in a grim mood, which often happened after visiting the post office, I would go to the toy store next door. Something about it comforted me. As soon as I’d step foot inside, I’d feel like a child again. Aisles of stuffed bears, toy trains, Legos, Playdoh, GI Joes, Barbie dolls, toy guns, boardgames, puzzles, playing cards: I was surrounded by everything that used to make my heart gallop. Nowadays I feel extremely calm there, nostalgia flowing through my veins like a concoction of sedatives. Unfortunately, the toys don’t only suppress my worries, but they resurface buried memories from my childhood. Every aisle serves as a reminder, culminating in painful recollection. This time it was the Playdoh aisle.

It was before Mom’s death. She was baking in the kitchen; the sweet aroma of gingerbread permeated the living room as I sat on the rug sculpting a red ball of Playdoh. For some reason Dad was home that day. He walked in as I was picking Playdoh out of the rug. Increasing his pace, he rushed toward me and yanked me up by the arm.

“What the hell you think you’re doing? Do you know how hard I had to work for this rug?” He softened his voice. “What happened? Don’t you have any respect, Boy?” He grimaced. His breath smelled like burned oak. Whenever that was the case, no matter how much he insisted, it was better not to respond.

“I asked you a question, Boy. Answer me!” he screamed, commencing the beatings.

Each time he had to repeat himself, he increased the power of the lick. But that was better than what happened when I answered back. He threw the Playdoh in the trash and grounded me. I wasn’t allowed to watch TV or go outside, except for school, which was a few months away because we’d just started summer vacation. I was only seven.

“You actually going to buy something this time?” asked Harold Alanson, the owner of the store.

His dark hair was combed back, and his tortoiseshell glasses magnified the sunburst irises behind them. Like a uniform he wore the same ugly green sweater and brown corduroys every day, believing it made kids more comfortable. Although he had no kids of his own, he enjoyed their company, and for that reason he opened the store, which he’d kept running for the past twenty years. He smiled softly, staring at me, awaiting a response.

“Sorry, I’m just having a look around. Whenever I come in here, it…”

“Reminds you of your childhood,” he said. “I know, I know. And you’re welcome to come by whenever you feel a little down. By the way, how’s your father doing? I think it’s about time you bring him to…”

“You know he’s not religious, Harry.”

“It doesn’t matter. Many men in your father’s predicament make amends with the Lord when things get to this point. When you have nowhere else to turn, it’s the perfect time to become reacquainted with God.”

“Listen, Harry. What you’re trying to do is a good thing, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. The old man is even more resentful since being diagnosed.”

“Well, it’s just my opinion. But I think it could help… both of you. When was the last time you’ve been to church? I bet not since you were christened. Actually, the last time would’ve been your mother’s funeral. God rest her soul. You shouldn’t wait for another funeral, Sean.”

“Might as well. I doubt he has much longer.”

I was walking toward the door when he called after me, “God knows best. Tell your father I’m praying for him. And please, bring him to church this Sunday.”

Poor Harold. Dad wasn’t going to step foot in another church for the rest of his days, and neither would I.

Yesterday we were running errands. Sarah is in Maine visiting family for the holidays, so I had to stay with Dad. His condition is in its final stages. As you can see, all that’s left is a limbless torso and his head, which has no lips, no nose, one eye, half an ear: a Mr. Potato Head started and abandoned by a bored child. I wrapped him in a blanket and put on a beanie to keep him warm. Lovelace told me his immune system is so weak that a cold could kill him within hours of becoming symptomatic. I took all the necessary precautions, which proved to be minor because, as you can see, he doesn’t need gloves, long johns or boots. At the department store, I pushed his stroller between rows of shirts, sweaters, pants, dresses, socks, pantyhose, jewelry, shoes, kitchen appliances, and electronics. I was trying to figure out what to get him. Then I heard that angelic voice.

“Hi, Sean,” said Mary. “Oh look, you brought your dad. Hi, Mr. Harrison.”

“Hi, Mary. Say hi, Dad.”

I’ve known Mary since high school. She was prettier back then and popular too: Mary Littleton, Queen of the Cheerleaders. Don’t get me wrong, after all these years her hazel eyes have retained their allure and her luscious blonde hair has as much vitality as it ever did. She still can’t help blushing, even when speaking with those who aren’t worth her time. That scrumptious laugh is still there, the one that reminds me of rabbits frolicking in tall grass wet with dew as dusk covers the earth in heavenly pastels. That said, she’s put on a little weight, and that laugh—that ethereal, jovial laugh—has become slightly irritating. But nothing gold can stay, and in this case the good far outweighs the bad. Recently, her and I have become closer. Whenever I come to the store, she ignores other customers and questions me on everything under the sun. She’ll start with “How’s work going” before moving to “Are you doing anything this weekend” then “How’s your dad holding up”, and sometimes, “You see any good movies lately?” Like me, she spends her free time at Dillinger’s catching the latest flicks. She and her ex-husband split a few years ago, due to her alcoholism, and he won custody of their daughters. But she’s much better now. If she wants, she can see them three times a week. But they don’t want to see her, and she doesn’t get much time off from work anyway.

“Say hi, Dad.” I repeated.

“Oh hello, Sweety. Fancy seeing you here,” he mumbled, looking up at her.

“Sorry, the medication makes him a little loopy. He’s in a lot of pain. They call it phantom pain, but the doctor says it can feel real,” I said. “Out of nowhere he’ll just start screaming, so they prescribed this heavy-duty painkiller. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s the only thing that calms him down.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” she said.

“Thanks.” I was eager to change the subject. “By the way, did you hear about the new Ben Stiller flick, Meet the Fockers. It’s a sequel to Meet the Parents.”

“Yeah, it looks hilarious.”

“I have to watch Dad for a few days, but after New Year’s we should go see it together.”

“Sounds like a great idea. Although, I don’t know if I’ll be able to join with work and the kids and everything. I might go and see them around that time.”

She knew her kids wanted nothing to do with her, and there wasn’t a chance in hell she would see them over the next few weeks.

“Oh, I understand. Well, let me know if plans change. I can wait until you’re ready to go see it.”

“Oh no, don’t bother. You might end up waiting too long and miss it while it’s still in theaters.”

“Well, okay. But if you change your mind, let me know.”

We walked down the hat aisle. I glanced down at his blue beanie, then back up at a green one twice as thick for only ten dollars. This should do, I thought. I brought it to the register. Drool dribbled down his chin as his eye rolled back into his head. The cashier didn’t seem to notice.

It was warmer outside when we left, so I loosened his blanket. The wind died down and the sun beat against the asphalt where chrome puddles glimmered in the light. We began to climb Lafayette, a street so steep it belonged in San Francisco, not the Northeast. While my body struggled to push Dad up the hill, my mind was on Mary and our movie date.

“Did you hear her, Dad? Were you listening? She really likes me. If it wasn’t for her kids, we’d have a date at Dillinger’s.”

He didn’t respond.

“What do you think of that? I bet you never expected me to find a girl, much less get married one day.”

At this point we were halfway up the hill.

“She looks like she hasn’t aged a day since high school. Don’t you think she’s great?

I stepped on a piece of black ice and lost my footing, fumbling the handles of the stroller for a moment, but I quickly regained my composure and we continued.

“Sorry about that. Anyways it’s funny a girl like that, who never gave me the time a day, is now interested. Every time I see her, she gives me signals.”

We were almost at the top.

“She can’t take her eyes off me. In fact, she asks so many questions that if it was anyone else, I would get annoyed. But I think it’s proof of how much she likes me, don’t you think?”

Still no response.

I peered into the stroller, curious if he was still breathing. All I saw was his headless torso. My heart dropped when I noticed his pruned head, barely discernable among the trash bags at the bottom of the hill. It must have fell out when I slipped on the ice. I ran to get it—and in the spur of the moment—let go of the stroller, causing it to speed past me and reach the bottom, before I could, where it smashed into a parked car. Luckily no one was around because such a sight would’ve caused unnecessary commotion. I scooped up his head, threw it in the stroller and ran back up the hill without stopping until we reached the house.

That was yesterday. I didn’t want Christmas to be spoiled, so this morning I took some duct tape from the cupboard and wrapped it around his neck several times, fusing his head to his body. Now we’re eating Christmas dinner and we have a lot to celebrate. He should be proud. Instead, he refuses to congratulate me for finding my future wife. He won’t even touch his plate. But I suppose there is a silver lining: he’s quiet, and I’d rather deal with that than the usual bickering. And besides, you’re here so it hasn’t been all that bad. In fact, this may be the best Christmas dinner I’ve had in years. He hasn’t hurled a single insult at me and we’re having good conversation, eating in peace. And let’s not forget, I’m getting married soon. I’m finally getting married.