Vance sits in the smaller chair, and we resume staring at Dad. His declaration of “Maybe we should start trying sometime soon” was shocking. What did he mean? Was he weighing his options with me? Would he stay after Dad died? Asking him to clarify was terrifying so I’d just dropped my eyes.
Vance refuses to go back to the pullout, but he lets me have the recliner. “What’s fair is fair,” he says. I swallow a laugh. He has never in his whole life subscribed to this philosophy. He’s more of an “If I want it, I take it” kind of guy.
“Thanks?” I say, unsure if he’ll suddenly change his mind.
I take out my sketchbook and begin a new drawing of Dad. I haven’t drawn him from over here.
“What are you doing?” Vance snaps.
I lift only my gaze. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Are you seriously drawing Dad right now?”
I take a deep breath. That was a familiar tone. Here we go. “Yes, Vance, I’m seriously drawing Dad right now. Why is that a problem for you?”
He shakes his head wildly. “You’re too fucking much. You really are. You make everyone around you feel like they’re stupid or lower than you. You even do it to Dad sometimes. And you, you—” He stops abruptly and exhales. I remain silent. “I can’t believe you have the balls to sit there with your little book and draw him. He’s dying!”
What I can only describe as steam shoots from my nose. He’s attacking me for drawing? We both just said we didn’t want to argue! So much for trying to find common ground. If I respond, I may crack and leak and puddle. If I don’t respond, he may lose his mind. My hands sweat. The walls suddenly crowd me. I want to run away.
Instead I clear my throat, glare at him, and find my voice. “Is this you finding common ground?”
“Stop staring at me like a psycho!” Vance’s eyes just might pop from their sockets. “You’re too much.”
Our silent scowls duel for some time until Vance says, “Don’t you have anything else to say? What’s that? You’re a selfish prick?”
I look down at the floor. “That’s not fair.”
“Fair? Do you hear yourself, Oscar? Fair? None of this is fair!” He yanks the sheet up in the air. “Dad’s feet swelling like stuffed pigs, that’s not fair! We’re going to be orphans, that’s not fair! You getting your feelings all bunched up because you know I’m right? Who gives a shit! Not me. It’s obscene to draw him like this. It’s just fucked up. Do you really think he’d want this captured in your book?” He points to our comatose father.
“Just because you’ve always been Dad’s favorite doesn’t mean you know what he wants. I can draw whatever I want. Besides, you’ve never laid your eyes on a single thing I’ve drawn.” While this is true, I’m not sure it’s the best response to his outburst.
Vance paces the length of the bed. “It’s about you, huh? Of course it is, baby brother. Well, boo-frickin’-hoo. I’ve never seen the shit you’ve drawn. Has it ever occurred to you that you’ve never shared it with me? Because you haven’t. Ever. Not once. But believe me, it’s not like I’ve been too broken up about it. I seriously don’t give a shit.
“You can keep your drawings. In fact, how about you shove that whole book and your pencils straight up your ass?” He stomps toward the door. “And let’s stop pretending like you care about Dad. You want him to die! I know you do!” Vance turns away. “You’re such a hypocrite.” He says over his shoulder, “When Dad dies, we are completely fucked, by the way. Shit. Man, I need some air.”
I’m alone with Dad. He shows no signs that he’s heard the blowup between his boys, the ugly truth Vance just yelled out. Dad is just breathing. Guilt forces me to concentrate. So Vance believes everything’s over for us. Maybe we should go our separate ways and live our lives. Kids lose parents every day all over the world. Who says we have to rely on each other? Where is that law?
Dad’s chest rises and falls three times in a minute. I time it.
I want more time. No doubt my brother wants more time. Finally, common ground established.
“Why are you dying?” I whisper.
No response, which is not all that different from when Dad was up and around. A fresh jolt of shame shoots straight to my heart. Why is my first reaction always to go negative? Am I even capable of remembering the good?
I lean my head back and close my eyes. Dad coming home from work with new packs of Yu-Gi-Oh! cards pops into my brain. Vance and I used to lose our minds with excitement ripping those plastic packages open. Dad would stand there smiling, asking if we got any powerful monster cards. My brother and I would race to the basement to duel, and of course we’d argue. Dad did always let me and Vance duke it out on our own. It was a rarity if he stepped in. He said brothers as close in age as us had to figure it out ourselves. I think that is positive.
But after Mom died, there were times I’d stomp to my room, furious that he hadn’t seized the moment to teach my brother humility, compassion, kindness. I’d usually go to bed promising myself I’d be nothing like my father if I had children.
I’m being negative again. Damnit. I’m hopeless.
With defiance surging through me, I resume drawing. He’s my father too, and if I want to sketch him, I will. I concentrate on his face, specifically his eyes and forehead. There’s no crease between his brows. It’s smooth.
My father furrowed his brow whenever he talked to me. If he was interacting with me, his forehead was pinched.
Why haven’t I noticed his relaxed forehead till now?
I tuck my book underneath my arm and stand to get a closer look. Flat as can be. I run my fingertips above his brow. I’m drawing him for me. Vance is right. Dad probably would be angry. But deep down, I like to think he’d understand that I have to draw him. I have to capture every single second he’s still here. That’s not selfish, is it? My hand slides down to his shoulder, and I rest it there. “Maybe it is selfish.”