The Last Voyage Home
Short Fiction
The car turns on, engine roaring to life. Of course it would, its not even two years old. A part of me expected that it wouldn’t, that the engine would fail, leaving me trapped here, stranded with no means of escape.
The feelings, they come, but with the constant busyness, they have yet to seep deep. Like gasoline in the lake, they stay on the surface shimmering. We know the threat it possess, the damage it can do to the whole ecosystem, but what can be done? Even the neighbors send their gas into the lake on occasion. The outside world, where things aren’t under our control, they spill into our lawn, and we are left to clean up the mess or leave it, the choice is ours.
The drive is long. Longer than I remember. There hasn’t been a ride this long in all the ages it seems. It is fall, and the crisp air enlivens me, as do the colors of the leaves. I’ve taken this road near ten thousand times, and I see it for the first time, bursting at the seams with life. Everything pops today.
I get there after forty-five minutes. The house looks the same. It’s been two years. The yard looks like it could use a good cutting, the flower beds tall with weeds. But the house is still red, and the shutters are still black, the driveway is still a hill, and the great big maple where we made our first syrup still stands proud behind the house.
I still remember it, clear in my mind. We had the whole neighborhood come over that day, the Lenny’s, the Peterson’s, the Mathews’. They all came out to try our maple syrup, all the kids running around, playing tag in the front yard. The fathers, gathered around the fire pit in the backyard, all giving different advice on the process. One thinks it should be done by feel, stirring it down until the liquid becomes thick and brown, another thinking the thermometer should be the boss. They argue.
We were so excited for that day. The mothers were inside, making heaps of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and home-fries. We had forty gallons of sap to start. With all that the men knew about the best way to boil it down, not a one had any idea how little syrup would come from it. We were left with under a gallon of syrup. At the end, we were rationing off the syrup to make it through breakfast. My poor father, the only taste he got was of the watery sap on the first day of collection.
My father’s car is in the drive, not the garage as it always was. He got it when he retired. Must have been ten years ago now. A black 2012 Cadillac CTS. You should have seen his smile when he drove it off the lot. The back left tire now lifeless, the rim flat on the pave of the drive.
Inside, the whole place is different. My father, always living in the room at the top of the stairs, now sleeps in the living room. It reeks. He smells like he hasn’t bathed in months. The machines all around him filling the dead silence with noise. A false livelihood to it.
The nurse, she greets me. A pretty young woman, probably in her late twenties. She informs me of her love for my father. She starts crying. It has been a long time since I’ve consoled a woman. I did then.
A few minutes go by, and we are discussing the next steps. She tells me that just a few nights ago he had written me a note. She hands it to me, the seal unbroken. I sneak off into the other room to read it over.
“Micheal, so glad to have you here. After your mother’s passing, I became angry with the world. I hope that you have since found it in your heart to forgive me. I don’t have long, I know that. The days are numbered. I hope you can find it in your heart to send me back to her. I love you for all eternity.”
Love,
Dad.
The process took longer than I had assumed. The nurse told me that was common. Sometimes they start breathing on their own. His throat caught, as if he was trying to speak. His eyes were closed, and his organs were failing, I know that sounds silly, but I can’t shake the feeling that he had more to say in his closing hours.
It’s dark by the time he is removed from the house. Having not eaten all day, I go into his fridge. It is full of all his favorites: Coca-Cola, Honey Baked Ham, Boars Head buffalo chicken. I sit down and make myself a sandwich. Once the hunger has been satisfied, I go over to his bed, curl up, and drift off to sleep.
There was nothing there for me anymore. In the morning, when I woke, I tried to go about cleaning the place, organizing his and my mom’s things, but I found I couldn’t. I went into their bedroom, and there on the wall was the college diploma I had gotten. It was from the local community college, hardly an accomplishment. I have sent them the four others I have since received, but that’s the one they have hanging, just across from their bed.
There was nothing there for me anymore. As I backed out of the drive, phoning my realtor in the city, I cried. The world had gone hollow. The Father had taken my father, I had nothing to do with it. It was dark when I drove off. That’s when I heard him. “Thank you, son. You have sent me home.” As I drove off, the maple hung in the rearview, reminding me of the home I left behind.
This work of fiction was in response to Ravyne Hawke’s Friday prompt in Promptly Written. You can find the prompts here
