“I don’t know if I can do this without you,” I say, starting to break again.
“Hush,” he says, resting his chin on my head. “There’s still time.”
We say nothing for a while after that, just sit there, content with each other’s reassurance that somehow it’ll all be okay. He never removes his arm from my shoulder. Our feet kick the water. He ruffles my hair. I breathe him in, and he does the same to me. After a time I hear him humming, and I can’t help but go along with it. He finds his words and we sing together: “Sometimes I float along the river, for to its surface I am bound. And there are times stones done fill my pockets, oh Lord, and it's into this river I drown.”
There’s that sense of duality again, like I’m being pulled in two different directions, like the road ahead splits into two different paths. One is safe and certain, the other scary and unknown. But it helps to see.
I understand now, I think. I understand Michael’s gift and what I must do, the choice I have to make. This was never about helping me. This was never about my grief or pain. This was never about the anger, the loss, the love, the betrayal. It’s about nothing that I thought it was. It’s not even about me.
This is about my father. It’s about this man, this big man who sits beside me, who I will compare everyone to for the rest of my life, should I choose to go that direction. It’s about this man who would not cross the final river so he could go home because he loved his family above all else, and he couldn’t see them hurt, no matter the cost to himself.
That’s because it’s all about sacrifice, Michael whispers. The world will blaze in the glory of fathers and sons because they know it’s about sacrifice. What a person does for the greater good defines who they are. A man should never be measured by how full his life is, but what he is willing to give up in order to protect those he loves. He must do so without regard for his own self. That is a measure of a man. That is worth more than any combination of fifteen words that mean nothing.
“I saw things,” I tell him quietly. “Beautiful things. Memories of things that could have happened. They rose like ghosts and I saw it all. I thought it was a gift….”
“But?” Big Eddie prods gently. I think before I speak. “But it’s not. That wasn’t the gift. It wasn’t, because it wasn’t real. It never happened. It was part of the design never used.”
“Then what were you gifted?”
“You,” I tell him, and he smiles at me with watery eyes. “Here, this moment. This chance. I was given you because in my heart, that is what I wished for the most. Not even for you to be alive, not for things to not have happened the way they did, not really. All I ever wanted was to just have a few moments where I could sit right next to you and feel you here, so I could tell you how much you mean to me. How much I love you for being my dad.”
“Benji, don’t you think I know?”
“I know. I know you know. But please, just listen, okay?”
He nods, looking pained.
“I have this moment. I have this great moment, something most people will never get. Not while they still have a chance to live. Not when there is still hope to return. So I have to say thank you.” My voice breaks on the last word, but I push through. “Thank you for being my dad and thank you for making me who I am. Thank you for loving me and accepting me. Thank you for protecting me and making sure I could stand on my own two feet. And if anyone ever thinks me brave and strong, if I ever stand again for what’s true, it’ll be because of you. It’ll be because you are my father, and I will always be my father’s son.”
He looks off to the river, his eyes brimming. “There has never been a father prouder than I am. I hope you know that, Benji.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“You’re not going with me, are you?”
I shake my head even as my heart breaks further. “No. I think I’m here to tell you it’s okay now. It’s okay to let go. It’s time for you to move on.” I shudder. “There are others who need me. There are other people I have to help.” I hate the words. I hate everything about them. Even as they spill from my mouth, I want to take them back. But I can’t, because that’s not what he taught me. That’s not what it means to be his son. It’s about sacrifice.
He nods. “It’s the river, isn’t it? I have to cross the river.”
“I think so.”
“I’m scared,” Big Eddie Green says, holding me close. “I shouldn’t be, but I am.”
“I know,” I choke out. “I’m scared too.”
“Benji?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you help me?”
And this is it, here, this moment: this is my last chance. This is where I could say I’m going with him. This is where I could say I’m tired, I’m so very tired, and I don’t want to go back. This is where I could say we’ll cross all the way together. That we’ll be side by side for the rest of time, and that will be all that matters.
But I don’t. I say none of that. I say none of what is tearing my head and heart to shreds, because there is a part of me that wants to cross with him. There’s a subtle whisper that I think has been here since I arrived, and it causes me to ache because it’s singing me home. It’s nothing like the voices in the black. It’s kind and soothing, telling me all will be well, that the world can be a wonderful place, but sometimes it’s okay to just leave it behind and come back home. I don’t know how my father has been able to ignore it for so long.
So instead of saying what part of me wants, I say the only thing that matters, because I am not here for me. I am here for him. “Always,” I tell my father, who sighs in relief.
We sit then, just for a bit longer, with what time we have left. As if our words were what it was waiting for, the sun begins to move slowly across the sky, the day pushing toward night. It’s subtle at first, but the river begins to move more rapidly, the waves growing bigger, the water level rising. I feel my father start to shake again, and instead of allowing him to comfort me, I shrug his arm off my shoulders and wrap my arms around him. He sighs and leans his head down against mine as we watch the river rise.
“I’m tired, Benji,” he says. “Don’t know how I got so tired.”
“I know,” I reply, kissing his forehead. “It’s okay, though. Just a little longer. You only have to go a little longer.”
“The water is moving so fast,” he murmurs.
“You’re stronger than it is,” I say, gathering my courage for a final time. We have to go.
“I’ll miss you,” he whispers, and it’s like I’m six. It’s like I’m six years old and trying to run away but knowing I will always come home because he is my home. “Every day we’re apart, I’ll miss you until we’re together again.”
“Because you’re my daddy?”
“Because I’m your daddy,” he says faintly, smiling at the memory.
“You must love me, huh?”
“Oh yes. Very much.”
“Why?”
The river rises and begins to roar.
“Because you’re everything. Benji, I’m scared. I’m so scared.”
“I know. But I’ll be with you. I promise.”
“Even here at the end?”
“Even here at the end.”
And because if I don’t do it now I never will, I stand, pulling my father up with me, his arm around my shoulder, lifting and holding his weight against me. He moans quietly, and I choke back the sob that threatens to rise. He leans against me as the sun disappears behind the mountains and twilight begins to fall.
The first step’s the hardest, as it always is. The first step is filled with doubt and trepidation. The first step makes you want to stop and reassess, to make sure you’re going about this the right way, doing the right thing. The first step is where choices are met with determination, because every step after will be easier.
And so I take it. I take that first step for my father. For myself. That first foot forward is followed by the other, and my father has no choice but to follow
me or be left behind. For a moment, I think he won’t follow, but he does. Of course he does. Big Eddie is strong and brave. He’s the biggest man in all the world. He is the smartest, the funniest, the greatest man alive. He’s the reason the sun shines in the sky, the reason the stars come out at night. He is the greatest man in the world because he is my father, and I can see him no other way. So of course he steps forward. Of course he moves along with me, beside me for that first step and the ones that follow.
We reach the riverbank and I’m sure we’ll hesitate. I’m sure we’ll pause to make sure we’re doing the right thing. But even as the thought forms in my head, my father steps down and into the river, the swift water rising to his knees.
I follow him in.
“Benji,” he gasps. “You can’t….”
“Until the end,” I say.
He nods, and his head comes back to my shoulder. We step together.
What follows is hard. The current is stronger than I’ve ever felt before. The river mud sucks us down with every step we take. The water splashes up into our faces, blinding us, choking us. And still we push on. My father’s breath is ragged in my ear, and my chest feels like it is burning. But still I push on, for him. For him, I would do anything.
The river reaches my shoulders by the time we’re halfway. And it’s at this halfway mark that the whispers from the other side get louder, more inviting, more calming. They are calling me home, telling me all it takes are just a few more steps and I’ll be home, my father will be home, and we’ll be home together. Isn’t that what I want? Isn’t that what my heart desires?
It is. It is. It is.
“No,” my father croaks. “No. Not now. Not yet. It’s not your time.”
River water splashes up into my face, urging me on, and I try to pull him toward the whispering voices.
“No,” he says, sounding more sure. He grunts as he pushes himself upright, the water to his chest. He pulls his arm from around me and turns me to face him. When I look up at my dad, his eyes are shining such bright green. He looks stronger than before, and I know that look. He’s made up his mind, and there will be no other way.
“You’re going back now,” he says as the river batters us both. “It’s time for you to turn around and go back.”
I begin to panic. “No. No! It’s not. It’s not time! There will never be enough time. I’m going with you! I’m going with you, and I won’t look back! Please don’t make me. Please don’t leave me here. I can’t do this without you!”
He shakes his head. “You can’t go with me,” he says. “You know you can’t. It’s not your time. It’s not meant for you.”
“Just don’t leave me alone again,” I moan. “Please.”
He cups my face in his hands. “You listen to me, boy, and you listen good. Are you listening?”
I nod, and even the river fades because all I can see is him.
“You are my son,” he says fiercely. “You will never be alone because I will always be with you.”
“You promise?” I cry.
“I promise with all that I have. Now go back.”
“Dad.” I don’t know what else to say.
But he understands anyway. “I know. I’ll see you again. I swear, one day, I’ll see you again.”
And he pushes me away. Not knowing what else to do, I take a step back. And then another. And then another. He watches me and waits, the river slamming into his massive frame. It’s a struggle, but I make it back and haul myself out of the river and onto the cool grass.
And as the stars come out above, and as the moon glows brightly in the sky, my father turns and faces the other side. He takes a deep breath… and pushes on. Every step he takes is one closer to the other side. It gets harder for him as he gets closer. The waves wash up and over him, the river trying to sweep him away. There’s one moment where he stumbles and I think he’s going to go under, but he manages to keep his balance and takes another step.
And another.
And another.
Away, away, away from me.
And then he reaches the other side and pulls himself up and onto the bank. We both collapse on our sides of the river, lying on our backs, catching our breath. The stars are so bright. So blue. Everything here seems to be blue, and I know it’s almost time for me to go home. I’ve been given a gift. I’ve made my choice. I’ve done my duty as a son. For him.
I sit up and look across the river.
My father stands, watching me.
I don’t know how much time passes then. But we watch each other, a river separating us, taking one last look while we can. I don’t know when we will see each other again, but I cling to the promise that we will. I pray. I have faith. I have hope.
Then suddenly he smiles and looks over his shoulder. I know someone is calling to him, someone I can’t see or hear. I wonder who it is. He turns back to me, and the smile fades, a conflicted look coming over his face. He takes a step toward the river. I do the only thing I can do, to ensure he goes.
I say good-bye.
I raise my right hand in his direction. A small wave. I ache.
Big Eddie nods slowly and raises his hand in return.
His smile returns and he lowers his hand, and with one last look, he turns away. Above the river, I hear him shout in joy. It sounds like he cries, “Abe!”
And then he’s gone.
I sit for a time, in the dark, watching the other side of the river. He doesn’t come
back.
Finally, I rise to my feet. “One day,” I say with a small smile. “One day.” One more time, I must stand.
I turn away from the river, and everything explodes in white.
the fallout
I open my eyes and I’m back in the White Room.
For a moment, I panic, sure I will be trapped here forever, that I was meant to cross with my father and since I didn’t, I am now in limbo. I’m sure, in that split second of rising terror, that I’ll be nothing but a burnt shadow on the wall, a vague mystery for all those who will follow my footsteps into this place.
“It’s okay,” a soothing voice says. “Benji, it’s okay.”
Is it? Is it really?
The confusion on my face must be clear, because the voice says, “Oh, baby. Oh,
sweetheart. You’re okay now, you’re fine. And I love you. Everything will be okay.” Then, quietly, “Go get the doctor. Hurry. Now.” The room comes into sharper focus. Not the White Room, but a white room. Soft fluorescent lighting overhead. Eggshell ceiling tiles. The subtle tang of ammonia. The hiss and beep of machines. A blurred face, hovering over my own. A cool hand brushes against my brow.
My mother. Lola Green. The most beautiful woman in the world. I have so many things I need to tell her. So many, many things.
I try to smile at her, but there’s something in my throat. My eyes widen. I start to panic. I start to breathe heavily. The machines beep loudly in warning. I’m gagging. My body starts to shake, and I can’t stop it. Pain rolls over me in crushing waves. I hurt everywhere. My body. My heart.
Cal. Cal. Cal.
I try to make her see with my eyes, try to tell her what my soul is screaming for. She looks scared and she’s yelling at someone over her shoulder, and then she looks back down at me, telling me it’s okay, to calm down, that everything will be fine.
Cal, I try and tell her. Cal.
But then I’m in the dark again.
I’m cognizant on what I’m told is my fourth day in the hospital. Apparently,
my right lung collapsed after being shot, hence the need for intubation to clear all the rising fluid in my chest. I was Life-Flighted through the storm and taken to Eugene, where surgery was performed on my lung and to remove the bullet from my chest. I woke up on the third day and had some sort of panic attack then collapsed back into unconsciousness for another eighteen hours.
My right wrist was shredded from the pocketknife. I am told I will have heavy scarring on my wrist unless I would like t
o consider plastic surgery. I wave the offer off tiredly. I don’t care what my wrist looks like. It’s now heavily bandaged. The stitches itch horribly. No one will help me scratch it.
My ankle is severely strained. I have contusions in varying shades of greens and yellows, blues and purples, covering my entire body. Cuts on my legs and arms. My nose is running, and I have a wet cough I can’t seem to shake.
And that’s the biggest concern, I’m told. The potential for pneumonia. It’s no wonder, the doctors say, seeing as how I was found in the river in the middle of a storm by a passing motorist who then drove me back into Roseland. They’d seen a flash of my clothing and had almost continued on but stopped. I say nothing to this, casting only a casual glance toward my mother, who looks away. We both know that’s not what happened. The risk for infection is quite high, though, the doctors say, and I’m not exactly out of the woods yet.
The path of the bullet was, I am told, miraculous. Aside from nicking my lung, it bounced off a rib, breaking it in the process, and embedded itself in muscle. It didn’t strike any other organs or any other bone. The doctors can’t figure out how a shot from a rifle didn’t cause much more severe damage at such close range. I’m told I must have a guardian angel on my shoulder.
The doctors leave, telling me I’ll need plenty of rest, though I have quite a few people waiting to speak to me.
The room is covered in balloons and flowers, stuffed animals and cards. My mother tells me it seems like everyone in Roseland has sent me something, and that there’s been quite the stream of visitors to the hospital here, though they’ve all had to stay out in the waiting room. There were always at least five or six of them, and they seemed to take turns. It’s a funny thing, she says, how close our town really seems to be. She grips my hand tightly as she says this.
“Mom?” I ask her tiredly. “What’s going on? Where’s Cal?”
A tear rolls down her cheek.
Dread fills me. “Where is he?”
A shuddering sigh. Then, “He’s dying, Benji.”
The storm hit faster than they thought it would, back in Roseland. One minute it was just cloudy and overcast and they were all enjoying the festival, and the next it was like Heaven itself had opened up and poured down. The rain, my mother says, was a frightening thing, cast almost sideways by the roaring wind. The gusting wind itself blew down Poplar Street, knocking over signs and breaking windows. The booths and displays for the festival were toppled almost immediately. Most of the town was at the festival, and the majority took refuge in the church, the rest in the Grange. It was strange, some whispered, how the wind had seemed to blow them directly into these places. Some tried to leave but turned back when it became impossible.