Our Heart (4 page)

There are times in our lives when we must face that which we run away from. Everyone has at least one day of reckoning, a moment when his or her very existence is put to the test. This was one of those times for me. I was waging a war within myself. Part of me cries out there is no hope of redemption and to acquiescence into the dark. The other part struggles against the weight of negativity to find the last remnants of belief and strength to continue the fight for light. As I continue to avoid the visitation across the street, I look up at the stained glass window behind the altar. It is a scene of Christ granting mercy to a man in desperation. I can see my father once again, standing at my door, imploring me to give him a chance for redemption. I wonder if this pain, which is traveling through my veins, is the same hurt my father felt years earlier, when he faced me in San Diego. I sought answers, but God seemed intent to let me wearily struggle alone with my thoughts.

I know why I left back then, why I had to go as far away as I could. I told myself many times over that I was running towards my dreams of being a singer, pursing the life my mom might have had. I had to do it. I needed to prove that I could be somebody. That was the eighteen-year-old without a clue and afraid to face the things that really mattered in life. For every pretty girl who tried to get close to me in the last few years, it was always Allison’s face I saw. Every touch, every kiss, every sensation Allison and I once shared had become permanently etched in my memory and tattooed on my very being. I was lost and only she would be able to save me. I was afraid I was starting down a dead-end road and going to end up like my father, totally isolated from life. I wanted to be judged worthy and have a chance to be a part of Allison’s life again. I didn’t need therapy or a psychiatrist to indulge me and tell me that all my latent feelings stemmed from the relationship I had with my dad. Life, in all reality, was much simpler for me than that. My dad couldn’t handle his relationship with me. How could I trust myself with someone as special as Allison? Like father, like son, so why not make it come true sooner than later and have less hurt? Only the hurt of “what ifs?” never go away. They can haunt you every day of your life. You feel them within you forever, leading you farther and farther down paths of regrets and missed opportunities. They never go away; instead, they continue to fester and grow. I don’t know if it’s even possible to erase a “what if?” once you’ve made one. For me, this one has found a place firmly rooted in my brain. I may be able to ignore it and pretend that it isn’t there, but it finds me in my dreams and, no matter how far I run, it’s always there and demanding an answer to “Why did you?”

Chapter 3

The day that Grandpa Jake died, a very big part of me went with him. After leaving Aunt Vicky in the cafeteria, I made my way back upstairs to his room, past all of the friends outside his door in the nearest waiting room. Everyone was there, anticipating the inevitable. Grandpa Jake was going to die, and everyone understood it was going to be sooner rather than later. Walking down the hall to his room, in intensive care, I wondered if I would no longer be a part of this town. My last claim on the life I once enjoyed here would pass with the death of my grandfather. My dad didn’t ever look back when he left it far behind. Somehow, he started me down that same path. Had I been trying to do what he did, erase my existence from this town and much of my life?

Would my father be there when I got to Grandpa’s room? I could only shake my head in dread at the thought of facing him, especially now, under these circumstances. Everyone always told me how much I looked like my father, handsome and strong. At one time, those praises gave me a sense of pride, now only sad disappointment. I even went so far as to grow my hair extra long and wear a full beard, trying to hide any outer resemblance as much as possible. The eyes don’t lie, however, and I could see too much of him looking back at me every time I stared into the mirror. I was like my dad in many ways. He was a good athlete in his youth and excelled in track and basketball. Many times growing up, I’d see Dad put on his running clothes and head down the open road; back then he always came back, refreshed and invigorated, ready to face new challenges. Maybe that’s why he felt the need to run away from me. I gave up a long time ago trying to understand his motives and reasons. What has bothered me more than anything else after his visit a couple of years back is how much I have come to realize I’m more like him, than not. That frightens me even more!

When Grandma died, dad and I shared very little conversation; we spoke, but didn’t. He and Grandpa took a long walk and were gone for several hours before they returned. I don’t know what they discussed or where they went during that time, but neither of them would say much when they got back. Dad stayed with one of his old friends in town, while I stayed with Grandpa at the house. The day after the funeral, we all sat together in the living room, lost in our own personal thoughts and memories. Grandpa sat in his recliner facing the old stiff-backed chair Grandma used to sit in every day, probably picturing her working on whatever craft or project was occupying her attention at the moment. I lay on the couch, the one that would always be forever, too short for me. I had one foot on the floor and the other leg bent so it would fit on the couch. None of us moved or uttered a sound for what seemed like days, rather than a few hours. By early afternoon, the steady stream of visitors began, each guest bearing another food dish of some type or another. By the time everyone left, both the refrigerator and dining room table were stacked to overflowing. As I tried to find places for everything, I wondered how many funeral casseroles ended up spending eternity in the garbage can or eaten by the disposal instead of by those for whom they were intended.

My father never came back the next day and left town early in the morning. I didn’t expect him to say goodbye. Why should I? He was good at leaving. I had been preparing myself to face him in the worst of all places and times. I believe my grandfather knew he wasn’t coming, and it might very well have been part of their conversation the previous day. It made me mad and gave me more reasons and reassurances for why my father shouldn’t be a part of my life any longer.

Whenever I tried to raise conversation towards my dad with Grandpa, wanting to discuss my feelings of anger and frustrations with him, Grandpa Jake would just shake his head at me and say, “He’s my son and you’re my grandson. I don’t go there!” To Grandpa’s credit, he never tried to give me advice or point me in any direction in dealing with Dad. He always listened, nodded, and when I needed it, he raised an eyebrow if I became too belligerent; then he’d find a way to change the subject. He wasn’t going to go there and did his best to get my mind thinking about other things.

At Grandma’s funeral, the three of us sat together, Grandpa in the middle. The three generations of Owens, what a group we made, no one able to say much to the others. We were all lost and all missing terribly, the one person who might have been able to put the pieces of the puzzle back together. Without Grandma Sarah, the three of us were destined to walk along our chosen paths alone.

The few times my father and I faced each other during those difficult days and managed an attempt at communication, Dad only asked if I was doing okay and if I was getting along in San Diego. I answered politely and without any additional information or even the return of pleasantries. I didn’t want to know how he was getting on. He didn’t try to push, and I was glad I was not tempted to let my anger show or even explode and make a bad time much worse.

Now, opening the door into my grandfather’s hospital room, I prepared to face him once more. I will look at the man in the mirror, the reflection of who I am and from whom I came. I’ve tried to walk, if not run, away from him, and now I am him. I am very much like my father, and it is not a comforting feeling. The things he did to me, running away, I’ve also done to myself. I may have to face that reflection in the mirror someday. Like my father, I am destined to search for a way to forgive the face that stares back. Maybe only then will I have the capacity to forgive the man who gave me my face. Today will not be that day.

When I
entered Grandpa’s room, my father was there, sitting in the chair next to Grandpa’s bed. He is crying and has been crying for some time. My father’s eyes are painfully red, and he looks extremely sullen and worn. Seeing him so distraught causes mixed emotions. How can my father express such sorrow for his dad and still have let the bond we once had fall away and mean so little? I couldn’t see myself sitting in the chair, like he was now, if it were him lying on the bed instead. I don’t know, maybe under dire circumstances, forgiveness comes easier. Life can throw so many things at you and feelings can change, but I can’t suppress the awful thoughts from circling inside my head. Randall Jesper Owens, my father, looked up when I entered the room. In that brief instant, I saw a lifetime of loss move across his face. He didn’t say a word but held my gaze for a moment before once again taking a vigilant watch over Grandpa Jake. I moved into the room and took the chair opposite my father, on the other side of the bed, in complete silence. Grandpa’s breathing was becoming more shallow and raspy. The only sound in the room was the steady hum and beeping of the monitoring equipment. To some, it might be the sound of hope. For me, it was a sound worse than any torture imaginable. The heaviness of the room slowly engulfed me, and I found it hard to breath. The room was thick with the smell of medicine and sickness. If it hadn’t been for Grandpa, I would have bolted from the room to the fresh air outside. My single thought as I sat down was to burn my clothes, for I knew I would never be able to wear them again.

As Dad and I sat there, the beeping became a driving beacon counting down to an eventuality. Both of us were cognizant of its sound and what it meant, dreading the moment when the perpetual warning beep would transform, to become the single final acknowledgement that the end was at hand. It was not a human sound, nor was it a sound of dignity. It was a hollow and unfulfilling resonance; a temporary comfort that was merely nothing more than a prelude to an inevitable ending that could not be stopped. The closeness of my father to me, the smells of attrition from within the room, made the time unbearable and burdened. I prayed, I paced, I sat, and I prayed some more. My father never left his chair. He held on tightly to Grandfather’s hand, sometimes resting his head gently on it. Maybe he was hoping for the best or dreading the worst, I couldn’t tell. Maybe he needed one last gentle hand squeeze from the man we both considered so important in our lives. In selfishness, I asked God for a calm heart and hope for my future. When I was finished with my prayer, I felt the guilt of lost days and too much inner defiance. It became difficult to even raise my eyes to look at Grandpa Jake.

My grandfather lay there in his bed already well on his way to the other side, to a place I knew with certainty he was going to be welcomed with open arms. I felt regret and sadness, knowing I was not heading down a path that could bring me needed salvation or even warrant my passage alongside that of my grandfather. To understand I was lacking in purpose, and my life was spinning in an unfulfilling manner, made me ashamed of who I had become. The claustrophobic feeling of the room continued to press against me, slowing the sense of time and intensifying the sounds and smells surrounding me. Throughout it all, the sound coming from the uncaring monitor continued its prolific countdown; occasionally, it would be interrupted by the muffled sounds outside the door or temporarily be diverted from fixation when one of the nursing staff would check in.

Great Aunt Vicky opened the door and brought in coffee and a candy bar for both of us. I could tell she was doing her best to leave her tears outside the room. She was determined to be strong for both our sakes. She never stayed long, even though she had just as much right to be in the room. I believe she hoped the Owens men would search their souls and come together. My father and I sat in that room for the better part a day and into the early evening. Not one word was ever spoken. Even so, I could sense the barrier between us began to slowly lift, as if the memories of Grandpa seemed to bring additional understanding and meaning to the direction we had taken in our own lives. Sitting silently, in Grandpa’s presence, I couldn’t help but remember much happier times of the three of us together. If it’s true that every cloud has a silver lining, then maybe in the hardest of times, hope can be restored. I dearly wanted to be a part of a happy life once more.

My heart thumped hard against my chest, as Grandpa Jake choked and wheezed. The monitor let out a long single beep, then returned to its steady rhythm once more. All the tension in my body could not withstand the anguish in my heart. The tears streamed down my face, and I felt the first wave of shudders overcome me. Instinctively, I looked over at my father. His face conveyed all the same emotions I was feeling. I saw the concern and sorrow in his eyes, as he silently returned my glance. It was monumental in its brevity, but I felt the outer reaches of hope within my heavy sadness. It was an inner acknowledgement that maybe my future path had not yet been set in stone. I prayed once more and, this time, I asked for forgiveness and the strength to heal old wounds. It was a small step, and I knew it would take time, but I found some much needed comfort in that thought. With a glimmer of hope, the guilt I had harbored deep inside for so long cast off its anchor and let the wind carry it toward destinations unknown.

My grandpa was but a shell of who he had been. I wanted so much to believe, but in the end, Grandpa didn’t have any miracles left, or maybe he did. His death came early that night. He passed quietly in his sleep. It came without fanfare, but I knew the angels were sounding the trumpets, as he walked the stairs to the gates of Heaven. His legacy to those left behind would be the stories he spent his life telling. Some of them were nothing short of unbelievable and amazing. Over the next few days, I would see a side of his life that I was totally unaware of. In his final passing, he still found a way to touch my inner spirit and guide me in a much-needed way.