In Memoriam

“Stephanie.”

My father’s voice startled me from the gentle shake of the cruising car. I looked at him innocently but he saw through my disguise.

“What have I told you about picking your nose?” I reluctantly let my finger drop from my face and slumped into the car seat next to my dad.

“I wasn’t picking my nose,” I protested. “I was itching it.”

“Yeah, itching the inside is called picking.”

“Nuh uh.”

Such a childish remark didn’t even merit a response from my father – he merely slid his eyes sideways, took in my pouting countenance, and turned his eyes back to the road. The day before us was bright and sunny, the leaves on the trees shaking violently as our yellow station wagon flew by. I leaned up toward the dash to watch the dotted lines in the center of the road blur together. Someone had told me once each line was eighteen inches long, but it always seemed shorter to me.

I refused to believe those lines were a foot and a half long.

“Hey Dad,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on the lines.

“Hmm?”

“Do you know how long the center white lines are on the road?”

“Huh?”

“The white lines, the short ones that mean you can pass. Do you know how long each one is?”

My father shrugged.

“I don’t know, sweetie. Ask your teacher at school.”

I paused, considering his suggestion before moving on. “Matt Reagan told me they were eighteen inches long.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“But they look shorter.”

My father chuckled. “That’s probably because the car is moving so fast.”

I settled back into the seat again.

“I don’t think they’re eighteen inches long.”

“Well, ask your teacher. Or look it up. You have an encyclopedia on the dingus at home, don’t you?”

He meant the computer. He was never fancy enough to bother with technology.

“Yeah, I could. But I don’t think Mrs. Johnson knows the answer. She’s too mean.”

He laughed again. “Then look it up.”

“But I want to know now.”

“I can’t help you with that, sweetie.”

A silence fell in the car and the only noise was the clacking of the wheel bearing that my father always swore he was going to replace. I watched the leaves and the tress pass us by, sometimes feeling that the occurrence of an occasional field was like a deep breath of something bluer and less green, more sky and less earth. After we’d passed a few more fields, I spoke again.

“Dad, where are we going?”

There was a long pause.

“Well, sweetie, you remember how sick Grandpa has been?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to his house to see him. And you get to see Grandma too. She told me she has a surprise for you when we get there.”

The promise of a gift passed me by and I focused on the former statement. “How sick is he?”

“Pretty sick.”

“Why?”

My father sighed, a weight dragging down on his shoulders. He seemed to age a decade.

“He used to smoke cigarettes a lot when I was a little boy, and now the doctors say his lungs are hard from the smoke, so he can’t breathe very well.”

“Oh.” I thought back to the times I’d played with Grandpa as a toddler. He never seemed out of the ordinary or anymore sick than the rest of us. He crawled around on the floor with me and let me ride on his back like a horse, and sometimes he even let me stomp on his feet just to see me laugh. I didn’t like to see him sick.

“So is he going to get better?” I asked a few minutes later.

The weighted face returned. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” The reality of my grandfather’s illness sat a little firmer in my head. “So… are you okay?”

A long pause.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Are you sure? I mean, he’s your dad, and if you were that sick I think I’d be depressed.”

My father snorted out an obnoxious laugh. “Depressed? Where did you hear that?”

“Dr. Philips said it to you that one time.”

“And you remembered it?”

“Yeah. It means sad, right?”

My father smiled. “Sure does.”

“Anyway,” I continued on, “what I’m trying to say is that you should probably be depressed because Grandpa’s your dad and he’s sick.”

“I know. And I am, you just don’t see it.”

“You hide it?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “It’s easier. It’s how I deal with things like this.”

My face turned sour. “I wish you wouldn’t. It’s not healthy.”

He laughed again. “Oh yeah? Did you hear that from Dr. Philips too?”

“He’s a doctor, Dad,” I spat indignantly. “He knows about stuff like this.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Do you at least tell Mom?”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. I’ll take care of it.”

The smooth whir of the paved road suddenly changed into the jostling crunch of gravel. My father swung a quick left and we pulled into my grandparents’ driveway, parking behind a few other vehicles that I didn’t recognize. I knew that my mother would be coming later when she finished her shift at the hospital, but for now, it was mostly people I didn’t know.

“Come on,” my dad said, getting out. “Let’s go see your grandparents.” He walked around the front of the car and opened my door for me. I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid out of the seat, my small feet hitting the gravel with a gentle thud. We closed the small distance between the car and the house.

My father held the door for me.

“Think you’ll be okay?” My dad asked as we headed into the living room. I opened my mouth to answer but caught sight of my grandfather’s portable bed, stationed perfectly where the recliner used to be. People surrounded him shoulder to shoulder but I briefly glimpsed his papery face.

I shivered.

“I don’t think so,” I trembled quietly, taking my father’s hand. “Will you?”

Dad’s eyes followed mine and rested upon his father’s dying face.

“No,” he whispered, squeezing my fingers, “I don’t think so either.”