Chapter 9 The Villain In My Story
THE VILLAIN IN MY STORY
Heartbeats by Aron Wrights
Holden
Something about Natalie stays with me for the whole drive to the hospital and the walk to the kidney care unit.
Her kind, knowing eyes stay behind my eyelids, and every time I blink, all I see is them.
All I hear is “you have your answer”. I’m not easily persuaded, but her assertive words sent me straight here to see him.
“There he is,” the kind nurse says. Taking a breath that fills my lungs until they feel like they would explode, I step through the space where patients receive their treatment and take a seat next to Jerry.
His head’s laid back on the reclining chair, his arms stretched out with what looks like straws connected to a machine.
There’s a worn blanket draped over him, and with his mouth slightly open, soft snores escape it.
The machine whirs softly as his blood pumps through the tubes, filters, and is sent back into his body.
It’s both fascinating and terrifying, but he looks peaceful.
That is, until he coughs. This time, unlike the other day, there’s no blood when he covers his mouth.
He doesn’t open his eyes at first, but when he does, he gives me a double-take when he finds me here.
“Son,” he croaks. I hold back the urge to roll my eyes and snap at him.
He looks fragile, almost brittle, and he’s not even that old. I always imagined that things like this, dialysis, were reserved for older people, for people who aren’t able to move, walk, run, or even talk lucidly, and that was definitely a misconception.
Since the doctor told me about his diagnosis the other day, I’ve read some on kidney failure, and I was shocked when I saw it can even happen to kids. Yes, sure, we know about cancer and some chronic illnesses, but we certainly take health for granted.
“I’m sorry, Holden. What are you doing here?”
That’s a good question. What am I doing here? Am I looking for answers? Am I seeking apologies? Am I here tithing like a good Christian would if I actually were one? Or am I here because I don’t want him to die, and I’m willing to pay my dues by doing this?
“I don’t know.” It’s the only answer I’m able to form. I truly don’t know. “I didn’t even know if I was going to find you here, since the doctor said you’ve missed appointments.”
“I was hoping you’d come.”
He sits up straighter, pulling the blanket closer to his chest, tracing his face with his hand after. It’s not cold here, not in comparison to other areas of a hospital, but he looks miserably cold, even with a jacket and a blanket.
“Do you need an extra blanket?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“It won’t help. It’s cold like deep in my bones.”
I point to the machine with my chin. “The treatment?”
“Mmhm.” He doesn’t say anything else as he waits, sitting there, holding my gaze and searching my face for something I can’t quite name. I wish I had any other feeling for this man right now other than the same sympathy I would offer a stranger going through something like this.
I wish I could sit here and tell him how sorry I was for the years gone by and missing between us. Or how the past is the past and that I forgive him.
“Listen, I know I said it the other day, and I’ll say it again. I’m sorry. I know my words carry no meaning unless I back them up, but I am. I’ll probably tell you the same every time I see you.”
“The thing is, I believe you. I just don’t know what you’re exactly sorry about.”
“So much, son. So much.”
I want to scream at him to stop calling me son. Mom used to call me son.
So many parents have sweet pet names for their kids, and Mom did for Liz. Lizzibear, she’d call her, and oh boy, how she hated that. Me? She called me son, and I loved it.
It was the one thing I could be without replacement or fail. It didn’t matter what I decided to do. I was always going to be her son.
And I miss hearing her say that.
I never thought I would be a son again. Ever. The son got buried the day Mom died. But now, he expects me to unbury him. This grief is different from what I’ve been working through, and suddenly, I’m mad all over again.
I worked so hard not to be angry anymore, but it's maddening.
“Where should I start?” he asks.
“Where should you start? Where should you start?” I get up, letting out an exasperated breath and sitting back down. “How about the day you decided we were not enough and a drink would make it all better?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Enlighten me then.”
He shakes his head, letting out a breath, and says, “I remember the exact morning I understood drinking was no longer a harmless habit. I woke up with my mouth dry and my hands shaking a little. I was so disoriented and tired, so tired.”
I eye him suspiciously but let him continue.
“You were five or six. Couldn’t be older than that.
That’s the thing about being drunk for half your child’s life.
” He lets out another breath. “All his life,” he corrects.
“I looked in the mirror that morning and felt disgusted. I couldn’t deal with myself anymore, so I had another drink before work.
I should’ve known that day, but I didn’t, not until years later, and I was faced with the question, when did I realize I had a problem? ”
“Who asked you that question?” There’s no way he started pondering all of that without prompting. There’s no way he’s sober without help. And there’s no way he would be getting this treatment if he wasn’t. Right?
For a moment, I think he’s going to lie to me. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“I went to rehab, where I did a lot of soul searching.”
I huff and cross my hands behind my head, sinking into the chair. “Carry on. I’ll save my questions for when you’re done.”
He chuckles. “Sorry to break it to you, but we’re going to need more than one session if you want me to tell you everything.”
“Do you want to tell me everything? Do you want to be honest for once?”
“You know what, Holden? Yes, I want to be honest. I told you five years ago I wanted to. I told you every year since, and I’m telling you now. I’m trying to make amends here. Meet me halfway.”
“No.” I sit up, my elbows resting on my thighs. “I’m not meeting you halfway any more than sitting here and listening to you talk. This is all I’ve got in me. Take it or leave it.”
He’s infuriating. I don’t even know if I can keep coming to these. Would he? “How do I even know you’ll come to sessions?”
“I’m willing if you are.”
I don’t reply, and he takes it as an answer. He continues talking as if the middle of the conversation didn’t happen. “I don’t remember when it started. When I started drinking more booze than water. I always had a beer or two after work. A beer or two working.”
“While you were repairing people’s homes?” Unbelievable.
“Always did. It was never an issue, but I don’t remember when I stopped counting the beers and started giving myself reasons why drinking every day was okay.”
He blinks fast, drying his eyes before they can let out tears.
“Just one to take the edge off,” he whispers. “I’d tell myself I deserve it. I work hard. I provide. I am proud of that.” He scoffs and shakes his head. “A drink became two, then three, before I even questioned it. It felt like nothing at first, like a small treat.”
“Everyone drinks, right? That’s what you’d tell Mom.”
He narrows his brown eyes and cocks his head to the side. “You remember that?”
“You used to say that every night for years. Of course, I remember.”
He swallows hard. “I kept going because it became part of the rhythm of my days. I poured a drink when I was happy, and I poured a drink when I was tired, and I poured a drink when I didn’t want to think about anything at all.
I told myself I was in control. I can stop if I want to.
I repeated that lie until I started to believe it. And I did.”
“What?”
“Believe it.”
We stare at each other in an unyielding match, but what I hope he can see in my eyes is probably the opposite of what I can read in his. I can see it, how it happened. I was there, but hearing him admit he didn’t even think it was a problem doesn’t make it any better.
The worst part is, I don’t know what I want from him. I don’t know.
The machine whirs louder, followed by a beep that jolts me to my feet.
Jerry raises his hand. “It’s done.” He looks at the machine. “The hemodialysis. Today’s session. The treatment. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Mr. Clay! Good job today.” A nurse walks in.
It startles me hearing Mr. Clay, because for a long time, that was me.
Clay, number eleven—my lucky number. Until eleven wasn’t mine anymore.
Until the eleventh night of the eleventh month, at eleven eleven, my whole world was taken from me.
And suddenly, I didn’t want to be Clay or number eleven anymore.
I can’t stay here and watch. I can’t talk to this man anymore.
I need air to breathe. I need to go.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say suddenly.
“This won’t take long. You don’t have to go,” she says, and I shake my head.
“No, I—” I clear my throat in a deep, low cough. “I have to go to work.” A white lie, but who’s going to know? “I’ll see you around, okay?”
He nods while the nurse continues doing her thing, clicking buttons and working on his arm.
“I’ll be here on Wednesday, same time, if you want to come.”
That stops me in my tracks. He’d come back to treatment if I’m here. He’ll live. It’s not a small feat to have someone’s future in my hands, so I nod. “I’ll come back.”
I leave, the rush of my blood surging to my head, threatening to hit me harder than any headache ever has. Every little boy idolizes their dad, and so did I, until my rose colored glasses fell off, and I knew the truth.
But all this time, I thought it was a choice.
I thought he woke up and decided he was going to drink because life was hard.
I hoped we had money troubles or they had marriage troubles.
Hell, I even hoped he hated us, and he drank so he could tolerate us.
Because if that was the case, I would’ve been able to hate him forever.
But this? Not even realizing it was a problem until it was too late? Accidentally becoming addicted to something so normalized anywhere… That I wasn’t expecting.
If he wasn’t the villain in my story…then who was?