CW 18: Closed Circuit

I wrote this today as part of my commitment to the Clarion West Write-a-thon. A dedication means that person sponsored it by donating to CW, and then provided me a writing prompt that sparked the piece. If you would like something written especially for you, please consider sponsoring me.

Here’s all the work of the 41 days. You’ll also find these pieces cross-posted at Sterling Editing as incentive for writers to practice their editing and story-building skills.

Enjoy.

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Closed Circuit

For Colleen Lindsay. Thank you for your friendship and support.

Peter got the call while he was giving the 8th graders his Don’t Try This At Home speech about electricity. “We’re using low-voltage batteries for this experiment,” he said. “Do not go home and plug yourself into the wall, okay? Because you’ll probably fry your brains, and you’ll definitely flunk this class. Strong current is dangerous–”

The ringtone startled him so much that all he could do was pull the phone from his pocket and stare while the kids snickered and Alanis Morrisette wailed The mess you left when you went away. And he almost let the call go because it was a mess, but…

“Excuse me,” he said, “I have to take this.” He stepped into the hallway and put the phone to his ear, and took a deep breath and said, “Dad?” But he didn’t recognize the voice on the other end; and it took the longest time to understand that his father’s death was calling.

“Celestún. In Yucatán. Are you a great distance away?” the doctor said.

I’m not the one who’s far away, Peter thought. I’m right here. But what he said was, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

#

He spent the entire journey — the subway to his apartment, the packing, the taxi to the airport, the planes, the drive from Mérida — preparing and discarding greetings to his father.

Excuse me, are you George Bridges? Oh, hi, Dad. I’m Peter.

What’s so important that we have to fight about it in person? That’s what the phone is for.

Hi Dad, long time no see, thanks for breaking our hearts, fuck off and die. Oh, right, you are.

But in the small hospital room, he found his father white-stubbled and gaunt, and so thin under the blanket that all of Peter’s bitter words trickled away.

His dad turned his gaze from the window and held up a skeletal hand. “Petey. I’ll be damned. You came,” he said.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” Peter said.

“I think that’s my line,” his dad said. And Peter gave a small, appreciative smile at the charming, cynical way his dad told his truths. Even the painful ones.

Peter sat by the bed. The window gave a view of a lagoon where flamingos stood in the green water like a rack of pink umbrellas, and herons spiraled in to land. “Is this where you’ve been?” Peter said.

“A couple of years. They have a bird sanctuary here. I like birds.”

“They migrate,” Peter said. Now it was his father’s turn to smile small. “They also occasionally kill their young in the nest,” his dad said. “So thank God for small favors.”

And Peter couldn’t help that it still hurt, that his dad could still burn him after all this time and distance. High voltage. No resistance.

There was a long silence during which his father took several shallow breaths. One of them turned into a wracking, gutteral cough that had Peter halfway out of his chair before his father waved him back weakly. So Peter sat while his dad hacked bits of himself into a tissue.

After it passed, his dad turned his head back to the window and looked out at the birds. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said finally. “I probably wouldn’t have. And I thought, even if you did, what the fuck would I say to you?”

Peter thought, Christ, then what did I come all this way for?

His dad was still watching the birds. “And then I thought, you know, when Petey was born, when they gave him to me… you were bawling your head off. You were mad, you were scared, I don’t know. But I held you and you got quiet. You know? Whatever it was, it was okay then.”

Then he began to cough again, hard and deep and no time for tissues because he was too busy fighting for breath, fighting the death that was coming down to land. Peter helped him sit up; then he put his arm around his dad and braced him while his dad leaned back and shook himself to pieces inside, and every spasm went through Peter like current. No resistance.

“I’m here,” Peter said. “I’m right here.”