Chapter 22

We stared at each other, each hesitating. He was wondering how much I might have heard; I was wondering how much I wanted to acknowledge. It was better to just get the hell out of there.

“Uhh…uh…Hi…Mr.Becker. Enjoying the morning?”

He coughed, cleared his throat.

“Yeah…yes.” He didn’t say anything else.

“Well…well…that’s good. It’s…it’s good to see you again.”

Not waiting for a response, I headed out the door. I put in the earphones to my iPod and turned up the volume. I needed to block out my thoughts, the screaming questions ricocheting in my head. And I walked, nearly ran, back to my apartment. I didn’t look back, didn’t want to see if Mr. Becker might follow. A conversation with him was the last thing I could handle.

I didn’t stop at my apartment. I just pick a couple of things, got in my car, and drove. I needed to be home. I needed to speak with my dad.

The time on the road, the growing distance between me and school, allowed me to settle down, breathe. It was a revelation, to know what my professors thought about me, about what I could accomplish. My mind spun out new scenarios of what I might do, where I might head. I was suddenly filled with possibility, light-headed with a sense of liberation.

Miles rolled by between me and the things that had, for months, been both a life-line and a source of unending confusion. But, I still could not shake off the shackles they had attached to my mind. I wanted to, for just a few moments, forget about the responsibilities, the impending deadlines, the consequences for the decisions already made. I felt strengthened by the knowledge of my professors’ unified belief in my abilities. I felt foolish for not being assertive enough, confident enough, to follow through. And I felt scared, frightened that I might already be too late.

I felt something else growing, as I grew closer to my destination. Resentment, turning itself into anger. I thought about my predicament, the missed chances that had practically fallen in my lap. And it had been my fault. That unyielding need to be everything my Dad had aspired for me – it had been the mindfuck that prevented any serious consideration of other possibilities. My promise to my father had built itself into this impenetrable wall, so high that I couldn’t see over, so long that I couldn’t see the end. And I had been following it blindly, believing it would somehow lead me to where I wanted to be.

I hated myself. I had made a promise that I now resented. Resented for the obligations it entailed, the cage it had placed upon me. I had reached out, in my mind, to my dad – a way to reconcile with him, to ensure him that I loved him, had moved passed those feelings I had harbored in my teenage years.

But I hadn’t. I could feel them, compounding as the miles between myself and home shortened. What right did he have to my life, MY LIFE? Regrets he had, and that should have been enough. Enough for me to absolve him of his transgressions, if they could be truly called transgressions. But I hadn’t. I still hadn’t.

I headed for the cemetery. I need to sort it all out. I needed to talk it out. I needed my father to listen.

I pulled up along the winding road leading closest to my father’s grave. Gray and cloudy weather of the typical northeast winter had given way to a mild streak, the sun setting early across the frozen hills, framed by clear crystal sky. A warm, rosy haze settled, turning snow-covered plains from chilly white to a sparkling sea of reds, pinks and oranges.

So much had boiled up on my drive, so much ready to spill forward. And now, as I moved towards the grey marble stone that marked my father’s final place, I filled with trepidation. Confrontation was tantamount to sacrilege, was it not? Especially here, at his place of rest, at his place of final peace.

I stepped towards his stone, facing him, and stared down. How many times had it been now? How many times had I been here, right here, talking to this stone, thinking I was talking to him?

“Dad. You told me that, in the end, you wanted me to be happy. That it was the most important thing to you. And I have to know…know if you really meant it.”

I paced a little, back and forth, treading a small line in the freshly fallen snow. Putting my thoughts back together, putting them into place.

“Sometimes I wish I had asked you what you envisioned for me. I know you had ideas. You had dreams, expectations. We both knew that. But we never talked about what you had in mind – what you imagined when you thought of me as an adult. Was it a white-shirt professional? Was it someone like you, whose success became measured by the title, the salary, the pedigree?

If it was, I bought into it. Hell, I still buy into it. I can’t imagine measuring success any other way. And I hate that. I hate that I can’t see past it – see success in any other way…I hate that I can’t get myself to imagine my life in any other way.”

I turned back to the headstone, bent down. And took I deep breath.
“I…I…I hate the fact that I am failing, and I can’t prevent it. And I hate that I feel this way, that…that…I feel this way because of you.”

I had said it. I had laid blame. And it sounded hollow. Sounded selfish and bitter and spoiled. And true. It was how I felt. Right or wrong, with sound reason or not, it was something I had dragged with me, baggage from a disappointed youth that still doggedly followed me. And, with the icy breeze whipping around me, emphasizing my singular presence in the vast landscape of the dead, it seemed like foolish comfort, to hold on to the resentment, the anger. Yet still, it lingered, and I hated myself for that as well.