Our new life hasn’t come without its quirks: sharing a sink while we brush our teeth, watching Crime and Investigation Sunday night and, on weekly impulse, taking a tour through the city in Father’s pickup. During the latter, we marvel at the blooming streetlights offering radiance after dark and shelter from the rain, shudder whilst driving down lonesome roads submerged in darkness, and enjoy the restful beating of the wind on our faces. Filling the gaps once a while with furtive glances, our eyes say, “Look at the sky. Isn’t it so pretty?” “It is.” “See that cloud shaped like an angel on a chariot?” “I see it.” “What about the petunia flower basket beneath the antique lamppost?” “Jeez. That’s gorgeous, too.” I find myself wondering about the dynamics of loss. Who is most bereaved when a parent and spouse is lost? – The father, or child? For Father, Mother was, most likely, The One; that one true love people almost never come by in a lifetime and, on the other hand, for me, she was Mother – you can’t get two of those.
I imagine sometime in the future Father would find someone. Like Mother, she probably will have short, nappy hair, with side-swept bangs, a spoon body shape, and a diamond face. She would be God-fearing, a good cook and peace-maker. I hope we get along.
±
It’s amazing, to think a lifetime isn’t enough to know someone and, no matter the bond, people almost always reserve a piece for themselves. On this particular day, it’s raining. The lights are out and I discover we’re short on diesel when I start the generator. Father says, “Don’t let it happen, next time. To think I thought to give you money for diesel earlier. You must always remind me.” He is irritated, pointing a torch in my face while lying in bed as I stand by the door.
Heavy showers pitter-pattering on the rooftop, windows and doors rattled by the hopelessly wheezing wind, I sit in my bedroom, turn on my laptop and let the weather lead me on a journey to nowhere as I write. I hear the downstairs’ gate jangle and know Father has stepped out. Through the window, I see him stride down the street in a parka jacket, with Mother’s bubble umbrella over his head. Where to, by this time of day, in the dark and under the rain? I think to myself.
The story I’m writing is going pretty well. It is about a thirteen-year-old boy, who gets bullied for being overweight. Standing on the roof-top of a skyscraper, on the verge of suicide, his brother’s ghost appears and, startled, he trips, falling recklessly—pasts windowpanes and balconies—to the ground. An inch from death, he shuts his eyes, ready to be swallowed up by the unknown when his brother takes him by the shoulders, lifting him up. Like a bird, he soars, the wind is a carpet and a song, and when he opens his eyes he is on solid ground, amazed to know he is still breathing. He feels his cheeks—ice-cold and spongy—then looks about to find a white handkerchief lying on the floor. He picks it up. Inscribed with a pencil, are the words “Don’t be silly, bro,” on it. With a smile, he shakes his head and walks home. In school, the bullies come but he is unfazed. He is not alone. His brother is omnipresent.
In my head, is the plausibility the story is a reflection of how I have felt of late. The boy’s weight is the burden I carry, wishing Mother and I had gotten along, the ghost is Mother, and the note on the ground is my self-forgiveness.
The hours wane, the sky, now cloudless and beige, rains in bits, and I realize it’s been three hours and Father isn’t home yet. I put on a jacket, headphones with an indie playlist on repeat, and go find him. Walking down the road, the streets are empty, with cars whooshing by at intervals and lampposts magnifying raindrops. Rainwater accumulates to form shallow ponds on the promenade and I skip, walk, and then skip again. James TWs When You Love Someone starts to play and I pull my hood over my head as the lyrics sink into me.
…Sometimes moms and dads fall out of love
Sometimes two homes are better than one
Some things you can’t tell your sister ‘cause she’s still too young to understand
When you love someone…
I am taken back to the time Mother and Father came close to giving up on their marriage. I do not remember, verbatim, the reason as to why, what I do remember, however, is it was Saturday, Mother had spent most of it on the couch sulking as she binged on a sad movie (Titanic or something). She received a phone-call. She’d been lying on her back, but as the call lengthened, distressed, she sat up. Where? ... When? ... Are you sure it was him you saw? These were the words she uttered and, right after the call, her frantic mien took a contemptuous turn. She tap, tapped, tapped her feet hunched over the centre table, shaking her head as if a film other than the one on TV was playing. When I asked what was wrong, she said: “What are you doing in the parlour?” Her bronze eyes turned murky. “Would you leave my sight before I slap you.”
I remember there being a lot of shoving when Father returned, Mother, drumming on his back as he walked away, and me, caught in the middle, standing on the corridor, aloof, as they shut the bedroom door behind them and their voices clattered, one above the other.
Standing beneath a lamppost, I see now why Mother never felt assured of Father’s affection. There she is, a version of Mother’s younger self, holding Father’s face in her small hands and staring into his eyes with sympathy. Not much has changed since I last saw her. Her hair is still the same, dark, kinky and short, her eyes, though heavier, still possess the luminous allure of an enchantress. Father takes her in his embrace and, after a few seconds, benevolently offers his lips for her caress. It is a perfect portrait. They are standing beneath a Rhododendron tree, ringed by its vermillion leaves, a lamppost shines its torch a few meters away, creating iridescent streaks through the bubble umbrella, and the rain, like confetti, falls.