I sit on the top row of bleachers and stare down at the transformed football field. This time of year, the lines change location and shape, and it becomes our lacrosse field.
My brother’s former paradise.
Unlike the softball field on the other side of school, this field is currently empty, as are the stands, so it’s easy to determine that my brother isn’t over here. It’s just me and some middle-aged lady with a long, blond ponytail jogging around the track surrounding the field. My eyes bob along with her every step, and when she runs by the stands, I drop my gaze. She appears to be roughly the same age as my father. The same father who’s about to leave his two sons alone in the world.
I abandon watching her and stare up at the sky, which is turning itself into a postcard right before my eyes. The sun dips lower, and the magnificence of the slathered reds, oranges, and yellows makes me lost in the view. This time of day used to be my mom’s favorite. Sometimes I’d join her in the backyard as she listened to reggae, sipping on a glass of wine, and we’d both gaze upward.
“So beautiful,” she’d whisper and take my hand.
I’d squeeze my little fingers around hers and nod. Mom and I didn’t need to talk. Even as a boy, I understood that she was appreciating the calm. I always hated when Vance would show up, bouncing around us asking a million questions about what we were doing, did I want to play tag, what was for dinner, what time was Dad getting home, and on and on until Mom would tire of answering him, kiss the top of my head, and say she was going to get dinner going. Vance always followed her inside, leaving me alone just as the sun disappeared. That absolute plunge into darkness was my favorite.
A few weeks before she died, I found her at dusk in the backyard, classic Marley coming from the outdoor speakers, wine in hand, and she quickly wiped her cheeks. I never asked her why she was crying. She took a sip and said, “Isn’t it fascinating that the daytime sky is such a bright, clear, stunning blue, and then it changes to this?” She pointed up. “It’s so completely different when the sun is going down. I love that.”
“Transformation,” I said.
“Exactly, Oscar.” She leaned back in the patio chair. “Why is it that something as complex and huge as the sky can change itself every single day, yet people struggle against it so hard?”
I knew she was talking about Dad, but he was a mystery to me so I had no answer for her. Maybe she thought that if Dad could change—be better—then everything would be better.
“Your father used to make me laugh when I first met him. Did I ever tell you that before? He was so different from the guy I’d just broken up with. That other guy was so serious, so boring. God, your dad was fun. I wish we could have fun again.” She drained her glass and then apologized for getting so personal.
“Mom, do you remember that trip we took to the zoo, the four of us? And Vance and I bugged you guys to let us get our faces painted?”
She smiled and looked away. She remembered.
“That was a great day. We could always go back there, to the zoo.”
“I love that photograph we had taken of the four of us. So cute. We were happy.” She goes to take a sip, but her glass is empty. “Your face was painted as a tiger, and Vance was what? A lizard?”
“A snake.” I wanted to get the snake painted on my face, but Vance shoved in front of me and got it first.
“I just love that photograph.”
Of course she did. It was the only framed family photo in our house. It sat prominently and alone on the corner table in our living room.
It seemed like she was holding back, that she had more to say, but she went inside to check on dinner, leaving me alone in the yard. The memory is depressing because I’ll never really know. The only conclusions I can draw right now are: (1) I fiercely miss my mother and having someone want to talk to me like that. (2) It’s time I get back to the hospice room. I’ve been out here for a while.
I walk across the street and am almost to the front door when I hear my name being called. It’s Vance. Smoke escapes his cracked window. Great, he’s getting high in the hospice parking lot.
His hand shoots out and motions me to his car. Before I make a move, I look around to see if anyone else is in the lot. It’s not that I think my brother is motioning for someone else; it’s that I’d rather ignore him than slink into his pot-filled car in front of watching eyes. I don’t like assumptions. I do my best not to make them, and I definitely don’t appreciate it when they’re made about me. My brother and father have flat-out mastered the art of assumption. It’s a trait I pride myself on not inheriting.
No one else is out here, so I walk to him. His window slides all the way down. Smoke billows out as if he himself were on fire.
“I thought you weren’t allowed to smoke weed anymore,” I say.
“Get in,” he commands.
I make a face.
“It’s serious. Get in.”
The fact that our father may have died suddenly registers in my brain. “Is it Dad?”
“I’m not telling you shit until you get in.” His window glides back up.
Control is important to my brother. Controlling me is even higher up on his list. I wish I could turn on my heel and leave him and his command to stew inside his smoke-filled car. In light of the situation, I do not storm off. I get in.
Vance squeezes the steering wheel. “His breathing is down to four breaths a minute.”
“How do you know?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I feel stupid. He knows because he’s already been back up there and the nurse must’ve told him exactly that. With an annoyed tone he confirms it.
“Did she say how much time he has left?” The answer to this question has become my personal obsession. I don’t like surprises. I’m a planner, an organizer.
“A day, maybe less.”
We stare out the windshield. A breeze blows through the trees. A red sports car drives by. We stare more.
Eventually I break the silence. “Do you think we should have Dad’s will here?”
Vance huffs. “It’s still in my backpack.”
I wonder what Vance’s reaction would be if I confessed to what I’ve been feeling in my heart—that I want Dad to die.