Hothouse Resurrection
“I understand
you prefer not to show emotion, Chris.
But certainly you must feel emotion?”
Chris sat
silently, not wanting to answer, but mildly compelled to offer some sort of
reply.
“I dunno,
Barbara. I s'pose…...sometimes.”
Pushing her
scarlet red horn-rimmed glasses down the bridge of her nose with her right
forefinger, Barbara peered over her spectacles.
She leaned forward in her imported black leather chair, positioned
directly across from the antique Victorian era couch upon which Chris fidgeted
with mounting agitation. “What are those
times?" she asked. "Tell me
about when you feel emotion, Chris.”
Chris stared
downward at his scuffed and tattered Reeboks, a shock of stringy brown hair
shielding sunken eyes. “I felt really
sad when my mom died back when I was twelve.”
Barbara smiled
in sympathetic acknowledgement. “I know
you loved your mom very much. However,
it seems that you don't ever want to discuss her. Why is that, Chris? Is it that you feel she abandoned you?”
“No. My mom didn't abandon me."
It was the
first time Chris had raised his voice during a session.
Several
moments of silence followed. Finally, in
scarcely more than a whisper, he muttered, "I don’t want to talk about her
with you. All right?”
Barbara's
words were gentle. “All right,
Chris. But if you change your mind, I
think it would be enormously helpful to explore your relationship with your
mother.”
Chris glanced
up at Barbara, offering a quick, barely perceptible nod. Then he fixated back on his tennis shoes.
Barbara leaned
closer, purposefully adding weight to her next question.
“Chris, I have
wanted to ask you this for quite a while.
Clearly you are uncomfortable with our conversations, such as they
are. In fact, you can hardly wait to
leave as soon as you get here. Why do you keep coming to see me?”
“My grandma’s
payin' you, ain't she?”, he blurted.
Chris’s
maternal grandmother had long been funding his ongoing, though sporadic,
counseling. Her dearest wish was that he
rediscover, at least in part, a child's infectious smile. As Barbara came highly recommended, she
thought that the seasoned psychiatrist could help put an end to years darkened
by depression.
"Yes. She is, Chris.”, Barbara responded quietly.
“That’s why
then.”
Barbara
settled back in her chair. With a
familiar air of resignation, she announced, “Well, that’s the end of our time
for today, Chris. See you on the second
Tuesday of next month at four o'clock.
I'll email a reminder."
Springing from
his seat, Chris made a beeline for Barbara’s solid oak office door-in his haste
ignoring the therapist’s hand, left extended in an unnegotiated attempt at a
farewell shake.
Chris hated
this house. And not only because he
despised its lone resident. The cesspit
reeked of cigarettes, mold and cheap liquor.
And with the descent of a punishing winter, Chris fully expected it to
be colder than a witches tit. The sorry
son-of-a-bitch never closed the
windows, claiming the gas heater had leaky pipes and the dump needed the
ventilation. Chris knew the truth is
that he's too damn cheap to pay to fix anything.
“What is it
you want, boy?", the old man sneered.
"Money, I reckon."
He was
anchored, as always, to the dilapidated lounge chair, from which he removed
himself almost exclusively for the purpose of fetching a fresh bottle or
pack. “Well I ain’t got any. Same as forever."
Chris was
certain of two things.
His father
wasn’t broke. For stashed away somewhere
was a huge chunk of the $150,000 State Lottery jackpot he’d won nearly five
years ago. He would never consider revealing where he'd hidden the
money, nor sharing a single cent of it with anyone. That included his family, the entirety of
whom he held in bitter derision. Like
practically everything else in his miserable life.
As it was
crowding noon, the other thing Chris was sure of is that the old cuss would be
stinking drunk, having already guzzled the day’s first half-pint of
rotgut.
Chris
addressed him as usual-with a minimum of emotion and syllables. “No, I ain't here for money. Did you find them pictures of mom? You said you'd hunt for 'em last time.”
“Hell, no.”,
he growled. “Don't see no need. She’s dead and buried for fifteen
years this month. Best left in the past,
I say."
Chris said
nothing. The haunting images of arriving
home after school that autumn day flashed in his mind. The eerie quiet of the house. Calling for his mom. No customarily cheerful reply. Checking the kitchen, the sewing room, the
back patio. Then the master
bedroom. And finally the empty bottle of
sleeping tablets spilled out on the bed next to her.
There would be
ambulances. And police. And grief-stricken neighbors. And a blur of lights and sirens and shouting
and screaming. Chris did not process any
of this nightmarish chaos-aware only of the relentless contempt and abuse
responsible for it.
Chris spent
the next half hour scouring the closets in the hallway and spare bedroom, but
couldn't find a single image of him together with his mom. Dejected, he returned to the living room to
find his father passed out. Chris headed
to the door to leave. Stirred into
semi-consciousness, the old man shook his head in an effort to come to. Then he delivered the crushing blow.
“Hey,
Chrishy!", he slurred.
"I lied to ya. I did
come acrosh a pile uh...hic...pishers uh yew 'n yer mom.”
Chris stared
his father down. “Where are they?"
“I burned ‘em, Chrishy. Burned
ev'ry lash damn one.".
He paused,
allowing the devastating words to penetrate.
"Who
needsh ‘em anyway? Themz baaaad
memoriesh.”, the old man cackled. Within
seconds he had drifted back into a stupor.
It was as if
Chris had been set on fire. His began to
shake uncontrollably, struggling to dam the tears fighting like hell to bust
out in waves.
Though they
fell on deaf ears, Chris choked out the words. “They might be bad memories for
you, ya wretched animal. But them
memories are the one thing keeping me alive.”
Chris had
contemplated doing it for so long. Now
was the time.
The inspection
was thorough. All windows and doors were
shut. Air tight. Chris went to the heater. Gripping the power knob, he twisted it all
the way to the right.
Outside it was
beginning to snow. Flakes swirled about
him in the bitter breeze. Chris slammed the front door. He ran his hands around the frame, insuring
that it was sealed completely. Then he
turned and walked away.
After a few
steps he stopped, startled.
It was so god
damn long since he had smiled.
John Smistad
John Smistad
"The
Quick Flick Critic" https://thequickflickcritic.blogspot.com/
Tags:
Short Fiction