Twenty-Seven #2
My face screws up in confusion, because I know this story. This story is under the butterfly doodle in my course notes for the Phil of Death. “The Mahabharata?”
“Yeah! That’s the one!” His hand flicks under his shroud, as if he’s snapping his fingers, but of course, there’s no sound. “I wasn’t patient enough for it, but I got pretty decent at lucid dreaming. Enough to see you kids anyway.”
“Instead of filing for custody, you astral projected yourself into your toddler son’s dreams and what, got stuck?” I ask, with a snort. “Because that sounds more plausible than you drinking yourself to death. You were hitting more than just the bottle at the end, huh?”
Dad cocks his head, and my heart lurches.
Behind his veil, I can picture so clearly the deadpan, skeptical look on his face.
It’s how he looked at Mom all the time when I was young, when she said something that rubbed him the wrong way; I can tell he’s giving me that same look just from how he tilts his head.
“Yeah, I know how it sounds. How it must have felt. But your mom and I—neither of us were perfect. No court would have awarded me custody.” His tone is softer than I remember, when he wore that look on his face for Mom.
Behind his shroud, his doubtful expression must be softened with that same crooked smile that Angel inherited.
“So I fucked around with shit I didn’t understand, didn’t respect, and I went too far.
I couldn’t find my way back to my body. But I did dream of you, too.
All the time. You were easier to find then, because you were looking for me, too.
It’d be just us on the ol’ porch swing, or driving nowhere and making up stories about the shapes in the clouds. ”
“In the Cadillac,” I murmur, my heart in my throat.
I want so badly to believe that his dreams were real and not an alcohol-induced delusion.
Because I loved those dreams, and those dreams being real would mean he loved me.
If Esther and I shared dreams, why couldn’t my father share dreams with his children?
“That’s right, in the back of the Cadillac, top down.
Just like the old Sunday drives I’d take with my parents,” he says, just as softly, his voice barely audible over Mom.
“I didn’t intentionally choose Angel over you.
You always found me in the dreams when you wanted to see me.
Angel…Angel never knew me. I tried to find him, to bring him to the dream plane so he could get to know me, too.
So he could ride in the Caddy with us. Only I went too far and couldn’t get back. ”
He shakes his head again, regret palpable in his voice.
“My options were to stay Tied to Angel, or move on. And how could I move on when my son still needed me? When I could still watch you both grow up? If I could have somehow Tied myself to both of you, I would have. It probably doesn’t mean much because the end result was the same, but I swear I didn’t intentionally abandon you. ”
“I forgive you, if that’s what you need.” I wish I could see his eyes through his shroud, the same eyes I used to see in the mirror, to know if he’s telling the truth or simply trying to assuage his guilt. But the wisp of a white veil over his head is milky and opaque wherever my eyes can catch it.
Maybe he’s been dead so long that he’s rationalized everything to himself. Or he’s invented a story based on the dreams I told him about when I was a kid, to make himself feel less guilty. Not that he should feel guilty. He died and found something worth hanging onto, even if I wish it had been me.
But if he is telling the truth… I swallow, not allowing myself to consider it. There’s no point. If Dad’s been stuck for decades, what hope do I have?
Even without an audience, Mom continues ranting, mostly to Angel luckily; I haven’t missed her.
“It’s not about me, Luce,” Dad says with a sigh.
“Well, not just about me. I’m apologizing because I need to say it, yes, but also because you might need to hear it.
” He laughs softly. “That’s what his therapist says anyway.
An apology is for me, and it’s also for you.
Angel writes letters to you, to your mom, to everyone.
He mails some of them, but the ones for us, he burns, in hopes that we will hear his apology somehow. ”
I chuckle, still in disbelief that Angel would ever apologize to anyone. Maybe he’s less like Mom than I thought. “It’d be more efficient to mail mine to Esther. Maybe then I could read over her shoulder.”
Esther twitches her head, hearing her name.
She replies to whatever Angel just said, comforting him with her usual silver-lining optimism, “Most storms aren’t destructive.
Storms could also be a metaphor for renewal and transformation.
” She fiddles with the tab of her seltzer.
“Like how Lucy built herself up and made her own path. She had a lot of students asking about her when she went missing—she’s officially on sabbatical, so they don’t know she’s…
uh, gone. But so many students wanted to learn from her because she was so genuine and engaging in her teaching.
She somehow made heavy, complex topics humorous and approachable. ”
What Esther says is based on truth, her perception of it anyway.
But the way she talks about me makes me sound powerful and, well, capable.
I wouldn’t describe myself as humorous, but I did try to be engaging.
I did try to connect with the students, even if I wasn’t around long enough to become anyone’s Cash.
“Was that your girl?” Dad asks. I can barely hear his question over Mom’s unending rant. Is that where I get it from, my loquaciousness at night, at my most hopeless and deranged? I hate how much of myself I see in her.
“In another lifetime, maybe.” I pull my gaze away from Esther to look at Dad again. To try to see through his veil and into his soul. But I can’t manage to catch a solid glimpse of him aside from the shroud outlining his form.
Before we came here, I expected to be angry with him, or resentful.
But all I can find in myself is pity and resignation.
I can’t do anything to change whether or not he might have loved Angel more than me.
All I can control is my reaction to the knowledge, and accept that Dad doesn’t see his attachment to Angel the same way I do.
Resentment is hard to sustain against the genuine remorse in his voice.
I may have hardened my heart, but anger has never fueled me.
Bitterness and apathy were constant companions, but never my sustenance.