Birthright
Fiction Friday
“I didn’t think dad had so much stuff. He was a borderline hoarder.” Victoria peered into a box full of knick-knacks and random certifications balanced on her hip.
“Well, there’s only a few more boxes left. You can head out if you want. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, go. It won’t take me much longer.”
She stood and contemplated for a moment then flashed a grin. “Great. I’m sure Kate is wondering where I am. She was expecting to meet up two hours ago.” She paused. “Call me when you’re done. Please? Seriously, don’t stay in this empty house for too long. It feels like . . . like he’s still around — y’know?”
I knew. I felt it too. I nodded my head and turned to what was left in the basement. I heard the contents of the box shift as Victoria bounded up the stairs.
“Don’t forget to call me!”
The back door opened and shut. The lock clicked in the door and Victoria thumped down the porch stairs. Then silence.
I was alone.
There were only four boxes left. Mom wanted us to sift through everything and save sentimental pieces. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t have gotten rid of anything. Victoria was only slightly better. Everything she touched was, “remember when the four of us watched all of those Survivor reruns,” or, “man, I totally forgot we went on this cruise. We have to keep this!”
All of dad’s things were just triggers to memories I was eager to forget.
I sighed and sat in front of the first box and crossed my legs. It all looked like junk until I looked at it for too long. It was easier to toss something in the garbage when Victoria wasn’t around forcing me into nostalgia.
The box was large but light. I guessed it contained clothes before opening it — I was right. I pulled a neon yellow puffer vest, high-waisted Levi’s, and plaid after plaid flannel shirt out of the box. White shirts, black shirts, suspenders, and swim trunks. Rain jacket, windbreaker, toques, and scarves. Socks, underwear, socks, socks. They all smelled like dust. Not a trace of his scent.
If I closed my eyes for a second too long, I could see him wearing what I was holding. I began to stuff clothes by the fistful into the garbage bag. I couldn’t even remember the last time he wore some of these pieces; why could I envision him wearing them so clearly?
My throat began to tighten. A familiar swelling started to rise in my chest. How many clothes were in this damn box? The garbage bag was overflowing but I didn’t notice. I grabbed and stuffed, grabbed and stuffed.
Fingers grazed cardboard as my eyes began to well and I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I felt my shoulders loosen and my body sag. I swallowed the lump in my throat and suppressed whatever was growing inside me for another moment.
“One down, three to go,” I whispered.
I picked up the box to toss it to the side and heard something shift across the bottom. I peeked over the wall and saw a small white container with a lid. It was a box for baby shoes.
My heart was racing and I didn’t know why. I grabbed the box and removed the lid. It was full of notes, stacked to the lip. Handwritten notes. They were dad’s handwritten notes. I recognized his hand immediately.
I picked up the top note:
He got the job promotion. He told me if something was worth doing, it’s worth doing right the first time. He remembers. You should tell him you’re proud of him. Your dad never told you he was proud of you and his truth died when he did. You should tell him you’re proud.
I read the note three times. It took me three reads to realize he was talking about me. I was transported back to that moment last year. He had stood there and nodded his head. He told me to aim higher. He compared his personal accolades to mine in what I thought was an attempt to overshadow me. He never told me he was proud.
I placed the note written side down in the lid and picked up the next. My hands shook. It read:
I’m a father, a husband, a brother, a son. How did I become these roles and forget who I am? I am failing miserably at the handful of things I’m expected to be good at. I let them down.
I placed it face down and picked up the next.
I am becoming my father. I am suffering for it. My family is suffering. This cycle is impossible to break. I can’t break it.
I flipped through them quickly. My heart pounded in my chest.
The alcohol makes me stop feeling. But it makes me remember. I remember long after the feeling comes back. If the memories don’t stop, then I will.
I cheated on Lynne. She’s everything. I can never tell her. The guilt can eat away at me but she will never know.
They don’t know I need them. How could they? I don’t tell them. I don’t know how. In my silence, I push them away. They are the only reason I stay.
Which parts are real and which are illusion? I’m trapped in a reality that deteriorates around me. There’s noise and there’s words. I don’t know what’s what.
Will they be happier when I’m gone?
I couldn’t read anymore. The box was still full. I hadn’t put a dent in the stack. I fanned them out in one hand. Each note was dated and none of them were organized. Notes dated as far back as twenty years ago. The most recent was from last year — the first note that I’d read.
These notes expressed more feelings from dad than I’d witnessed in the last 32 years. It dawned on me I had no idea who he was when he was here.
I sat in silence and stared at the shoebox. How long had he been harbouring these feelings? As long as I have mine? Did he pretend like I do? How far back did this unbreakable cycle go? I found myself wanting answers to questions I didn’t know I had, questions I never thought I would direct towards dad.
The day I found him hanging in the garage, I lost my father. I found the box of notes and realized I didn’t know who I had lost. The lump in my throat returned but I didn’t fight it. Tears rolled onto my cheeks and fell into my lap. I could feel my mind and body being engulfed by the gravity of the past month. It was foreign and devastating. But it felt like new.
I hadn’t been alone before.
Maybe I wasn’t alone now.
