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Dad’s Dilemma

Marilyn June Janson

    “Dad, I’m not going downstairs!” The overwhelming ammonia smell covered up the stench. Trying to avoid the fumes in the upstairs bedroom, I took in shallow breaths.
    “Sweetie, you’re a college grad. Don’t you think that it’s time you went into the basement? There’s some stuff belonging to your mom that she would like you to have. Then you can pack them up.” His mud brown eyes bulged out at me from behind gold wire rimmed spectacles. “There are boxes downstairs.” Dad’s miniscule maroon lips turned up into an uneven arc. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”
    The thought of wearing my mom’s castoffs did not appeal to me. I squinted my eyes and stared at him. “You’re the husband. Why don’t you pack them up? It’s the least you can do, since you never did much for her.”
    I picked up a big, white, jug sitting beside his torn, faded recliner. “Are you planning death by disinfectant?”
    He chuckled. “Are you afraid that your mom will pop out of the dark and scare you to death?”
    “I would be thrilled to see. But you are the one who should be worried. She might hit you over the head with the iron she used on your undershirts.” My lips stretched into a grin, showing teeth.
    Then red, blue, and black colors danced before my eyes. I put down the container. Feeling dizzy from the fumes, I moved toward the window. My clammy fingers slipped as I worked at opening the lock. “Whe wa th lasss time you open th window?” I slurred.
    “Don’t open it,” Dad barked.
    I opened the lock and struggled to shove the sticky window frame up. Letting out a swooshing sound, the wooden structure moved. Gripping the paint chipped molding, my head fell against the screen. I gulped in air. Turning around I said, “It’s time to man up. I’m tired of cleaning up after your messes.”
    His face sagged. White stubble peeked out from between the folds in his skin. He grumbled. “I can’t move the body myself.”

    I pointed to the bed. “That’s not just a body. She’s my mom.” I went to the bed and sat on the edge. With great effort, I picked up mom’s stiff hand. It felt like lifting steel. That hand, at one time, was soft and comforting. Those fingers fixed my hair, brushed away tears, and held compresses to my forehead when I had the flu.
    “Mom, I’m so sorry that I couldn’t make the cancer go away. I would have taken your place and gone through all the pain so that you would get better.” I bent over and kissed the top of her blue-green hairless scalp.
    I smelled something burning. Startled, I turned around. “What the...”
    Dad stood there looking at me with mischief in his eyes. He held a lighted match poised above the bottle of ammonia.
    “NOOOOO!” I wailed. As I lunged at him, he dropped the match into jug.
    Whoosh.
    The lights went out.

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