EbowTheLetter
Bluelight Crew
He could not remember whether it was the sound of movement down the hall or the low rumbling outside that woke him. He supposed it didn’t matter. He could never remember exactly when this memory resurfaced. He thought it must’ve been high school, because that’s the first time he remembered sharing it with a friend. He remembered being aware of it at the time, and for a short while after, but then it simply went underground, burrowed into his psyche. Sometimes, when he thought about it, he saw it as the root of all of his problems and mistrust. Closing his eyes, he let the smoke drift through the his lips and replayed it all again.
He didn’t know the time or date, and that worried him. This memory, like many of his memories, was an island on an otherwise blurry horizon – and it was crystallized with clarity from pain. Logically, he could figure out when it happened. He knew it was October, and could see the poplars all in a row in the front yard, barren and vulnerable in the moonlight. Surely it could’ve been any time in Autumn, one would think, but this happened on his parents’ anniversary. Which anniversary escaped him, as did his exact age on that night. Perhaps he’d ask someone someday.
No one ever remembers the exact moment they wake up – or at least he didn’t believe any one did. He did remember something seeming off and pinpointing it fast once he was awake. He crawled from bed and went to his window and pulled the blinds open. It faced the road and beyond the towering poplars, sat a fire engine idling. It’s lights were off, as were the lights of the ambulance in front of it, and the police car’s behind it. Everything looked like it was painted in shades of gray, as autumn nights often do, when the moon is full and beaming its cold smile. But perhaps time had taken the color from this memory. After the window pane was too fogged from this breath, he turned towards his bedroom door. Opening it quietly, he crept out into the hallway. Looking down the hall, he blinked against the living room lights and saw a man in a black turtleneck and black pants.
It was no one he knew, but he didn’t have time to register or react with any emotion – from curiosity to fear – before his father came into view.
“Go back to bed, son” There was something wrong – no anger at him being up and about at this hour – something else he didn’t recognize in his father’s tone.
“I I I just got up to use the bathroom”
With that, he slipped into the bathroom across the hall from his room and stayed in there for what he thought a realistic amount of time. He had his hand on the doorknob to go back out before he realized he had forgotten to flush the toilet, solely for effect. He ran back, and as the water gurgled, he opened the door and darted back into his bedroom. He sat up in bed and listened to the muffled noises through the wall. He heard the front door shut and his father talking to someone on the phone. The fire truck and ambulance shifted into gear loudly, but otherwise quietly slipped into the night. His door opened a moment later and his father asked him if he was still awake. Even as he asked, though, he grabbed the boy into his arms so tightly that it seemed like he was reaching for anything real.
His father’s face was wet on his small neck and he hugged his father back tightly. This was the first time he had ever seen his father cry, or his father vulnerable in anyway. He let his father rock him back and forth and didn’t say anything.
“She tried to leave us, son. She tried to leave us.”
Anything beyond that was lost in a choked up throat and more tears. The doorbell ended the embrace. His father stood up and went to go answer the door. He followed a moment later, to find a family friend standing there, looking puzzled and concerned. This was not how adults were supposed to act. His father hastily told him that the woman would watch his older brother and himself and he’d be back as soon as he could. He probably gave him another hug and kissed him on the forehead, but this is where the memory fades a bit. He most likely made awkward conversation with his impromptu babysitter till either he or she suggested they watch television till he fell asleep. That was the first time he had ever seen M*A*S*H. . .
He opened his eyes and took another hit off of his small bowl. It was carved from a stone and the sides were wood in-lays. It was supposed to look native or tribal. He bought it at the headshop around the corner from his house, while high, and waiting for food to be ready to be picked up. He called that night his baptism into being a true pothead.
He leaned forward and blew the smoke through the window fan, watching it be sucked violently out into the world. Maybe that was an analogy for what he was thinking about, maybe the smoke had a better chance of survival than he did, or maybe he was just getting too high. . .
He woke up the next morning in his room, to the sound of his father talking to his brother, filling him in. His brother had slept through the entire night. He opened his door and they booth looked at him. His father looked older and more tired than he had ever seen him. That was perhaps the first time he had looked at his father as seeming old, as any particular age beyond “Dad” – which was some sort of stasis your parents seem to stay in when you are a young child. He didn’t remember how is brother looked, but he didn’t have many memories of his brother. At some point or another, he had begun to think of himself as superior to him, and thusly he just stopped factoring into his life. He wasn’t there for support, and maybe he held it against him that he had slept through that night. That he wasn’t there to protect him from it, like big brothers were supposed to do. That’s what they were there for, no matter how many pummelings they dealt out.
She had left a note and her walkman for his brother. That’s what his father was holding now. He turned on his heel and went to search his room. There, in the tangled sheets (he rolled over endlessly when he slept – he still did), he found it. His journal that he had bought because he wanted to be a writer, even then. It lay next to her AM/FM headset that she wore while gardening while they were at school. He picked up the journal and read an apology that she could not go on and an assurance that he would grow up to be a fine, handsome man. A kiss off and a parting gift. It made the whole thing worse.
He remembered his father reading the notes that she’d left each of his sons, and looking angrier than he ever had, then looking like he was going to start sobbing, and not stop till he collapsed. As the three of them stood in the hallway hugging each other, it still hadn’t come back to him. It wasn’t till a few days later, when they were taken up to see her in her hospital room that it came out of him. Walking into that hospital was horrible. She had been there before, when they had given her shock treatment. It always looked more like a prison to him than a place to heal. He saw her there, saw his mother, and it all came back. The Lie. The thing that changed his life. Simple words, a complex mistake, and a child too perceptive and emphatic.
His parents had come in late at night fro ma show in Boston: Phantom of the Opera. He knew that because a refrigerator magnet was on the fridge door for years afterward. He and his brother had still been up, so it must’ve been a weekend. As soon as they came in the door, they were ushered to bed. His father tucked him in first, saying goodnight before heading to his brother’s room to the same there. His mother came in next, sat just where his father would sit hours later, and gave him a hug and kiss on the forehead. She began to leave the room and close the door. That’s when it happened.
“Goodbye”
“What?”
“What, honey?”
“What did you say? You said, ‘Goodbye’”
“No I didn’t, honey. I said ‘Goodnight’ now go to sleep.”
There were tears in her eyes as she closed the door, but he was too tired to argue what he had heard, and she was his mother, after all. . .he could trust her. . .
He didn’t know the time or date, and that worried him. This memory, like many of his memories, was an island on an otherwise blurry horizon – and it was crystallized with clarity from pain. Logically, he could figure out when it happened. He knew it was October, and could see the poplars all in a row in the front yard, barren and vulnerable in the moonlight. Surely it could’ve been any time in Autumn, one would think, but this happened on his parents’ anniversary. Which anniversary escaped him, as did his exact age on that night. Perhaps he’d ask someone someday.
No one ever remembers the exact moment they wake up – or at least he didn’t believe any one did. He did remember something seeming off and pinpointing it fast once he was awake. He crawled from bed and went to his window and pulled the blinds open. It faced the road and beyond the towering poplars, sat a fire engine idling. It’s lights were off, as were the lights of the ambulance in front of it, and the police car’s behind it. Everything looked like it was painted in shades of gray, as autumn nights often do, when the moon is full and beaming its cold smile. But perhaps time had taken the color from this memory. After the window pane was too fogged from this breath, he turned towards his bedroom door. Opening it quietly, he crept out into the hallway. Looking down the hall, he blinked against the living room lights and saw a man in a black turtleneck and black pants.
It was no one he knew, but he didn’t have time to register or react with any emotion – from curiosity to fear – before his father came into view.
“Go back to bed, son” There was something wrong – no anger at him being up and about at this hour – something else he didn’t recognize in his father’s tone.
“I I I just got up to use the bathroom”
With that, he slipped into the bathroom across the hall from his room and stayed in there for what he thought a realistic amount of time. He had his hand on the doorknob to go back out before he realized he had forgotten to flush the toilet, solely for effect. He ran back, and as the water gurgled, he opened the door and darted back into his bedroom. He sat up in bed and listened to the muffled noises through the wall. He heard the front door shut and his father talking to someone on the phone. The fire truck and ambulance shifted into gear loudly, but otherwise quietly slipped into the night. His door opened a moment later and his father asked him if he was still awake. Even as he asked, though, he grabbed the boy into his arms so tightly that it seemed like he was reaching for anything real.
His father’s face was wet on his small neck and he hugged his father back tightly. This was the first time he had ever seen his father cry, or his father vulnerable in anyway. He let his father rock him back and forth and didn’t say anything.
“She tried to leave us, son. She tried to leave us.”
Anything beyond that was lost in a choked up throat and more tears. The doorbell ended the embrace. His father stood up and went to go answer the door. He followed a moment later, to find a family friend standing there, looking puzzled and concerned. This was not how adults were supposed to act. His father hastily told him that the woman would watch his older brother and himself and he’d be back as soon as he could. He probably gave him another hug and kissed him on the forehead, but this is where the memory fades a bit. He most likely made awkward conversation with his impromptu babysitter till either he or she suggested they watch television till he fell asleep. That was the first time he had ever seen M*A*S*H. . .
He opened his eyes and took another hit off of his small bowl. It was carved from a stone and the sides were wood in-lays. It was supposed to look native or tribal. He bought it at the headshop around the corner from his house, while high, and waiting for food to be ready to be picked up. He called that night his baptism into being a true pothead.
He leaned forward and blew the smoke through the window fan, watching it be sucked violently out into the world. Maybe that was an analogy for what he was thinking about, maybe the smoke had a better chance of survival than he did, or maybe he was just getting too high. . .
He woke up the next morning in his room, to the sound of his father talking to his brother, filling him in. His brother had slept through the entire night. He opened his door and they booth looked at him. His father looked older and more tired than he had ever seen him. That was perhaps the first time he had looked at his father as seeming old, as any particular age beyond “Dad” – which was some sort of stasis your parents seem to stay in when you are a young child. He didn’t remember how is brother looked, but he didn’t have many memories of his brother. At some point or another, he had begun to think of himself as superior to him, and thusly he just stopped factoring into his life. He wasn’t there for support, and maybe he held it against him that he had slept through that night. That he wasn’t there to protect him from it, like big brothers were supposed to do. That’s what they were there for, no matter how many pummelings they dealt out.
She had left a note and her walkman for his brother. That’s what his father was holding now. He turned on his heel and went to search his room. There, in the tangled sheets (he rolled over endlessly when he slept – he still did), he found it. His journal that he had bought because he wanted to be a writer, even then. It lay next to her AM/FM headset that she wore while gardening while they were at school. He picked up the journal and read an apology that she could not go on and an assurance that he would grow up to be a fine, handsome man. A kiss off and a parting gift. It made the whole thing worse.
He remembered his father reading the notes that she’d left each of his sons, and looking angrier than he ever had, then looking like he was going to start sobbing, and not stop till he collapsed. As the three of them stood in the hallway hugging each other, it still hadn’t come back to him. It wasn’t till a few days later, when they were taken up to see her in her hospital room that it came out of him. Walking into that hospital was horrible. She had been there before, when they had given her shock treatment. It always looked more like a prison to him than a place to heal. He saw her there, saw his mother, and it all came back. The Lie. The thing that changed his life. Simple words, a complex mistake, and a child too perceptive and emphatic.
His parents had come in late at night fro ma show in Boston: Phantom of the Opera. He knew that because a refrigerator magnet was on the fridge door for years afterward. He and his brother had still been up, so it must’ve been a weekend. As soon as they came in the door, they were ushered to bed. His father tucked him in first, saying goodnight before heading to his brother’s room to the same there. His mother came in next, sat just where his father would sit hours later, and gave him a hug and kiss on the forehead. She began to leave the room and close the door. That’s when it happened.
“Goodbye”
“What?”
“What, honey?”
“What did you say? You said, ‘Goodbye’”
“No I didn’t, honey. I said ‘Goodnight’ now go to sleep.”
There were tears in her eyes as she closed the door, but he was too tired to argue what he had heard, and she was his mother, after all. . .he could trust her. . .
