Faded Memories

The house smelled as it always had, of faint pine needles and a hint of bleach on the newly mopped floor. The grandfather clock towered over us as we sat on the couch. It bellowed the time; it was 11:00. The sun tried to peek from behind the Earl Grey clouds, but the sky felt somber. It felt as though the whole world was crying alongside us.

My father was dead.

Now my father was a strong man, but his heart had been failing him for years. High blood pressure, chest pain, and arrhythmia were warnings he ignored until they brought him down. My mother wore deep shadows beneath her eyes. A slight smile was the mask she wore. We held hands, taking turns giving small comfort squeezes. We sat for what seemed like ages, speechless, together physically, but mentally worlds apart. The old grandfather clock spoke again. It was 11:15.

“Are you ready to do this?” Her soft voice pulled me back into the room.

“Yes, Ma’am,” was all I could croak out.

She lifted a small silver box, about the size of two stacked books, and placed it on the table in front of us. The silver paper had begun to peel and fade where her fingers had touched. She gently lifted the lid, cradled it to her chest, let out a relieved sigh, and placed it beside her. I peered inside. Several faded photographs, an envelope, a worn leather wallet, and a life-sized glass sculpture of a honeybee rested in the box.

Mom placed the photos, the envelope, the wallet, and the bee on the table as if they would disintegrate at any moment. We stared at them, these memories waiting to be free from their silver prison. I slowly picked up the glass bee. Its antennae, wings, and body were made of delicate glass. It cast rainbows across the floor. It was heavier and denser, but more fragile than I imagined.

“He was always afraid of bees, did you know that?” she asked. “One time, right in the middle of kissing me, he ran off because a bee buzzed near his ear.”

I sat waiting for her to continue, my hands clasped tight in my lap.

“Another time, we stopped at a yard sale by a farm.” Mom chuckled to herself. “We didn’t realize it was a bee farm until your dad stepped out of the car and started running from bees that seemed determined to chase only him.” She laughed harder. “He was swatting at the air, spinning in circles. Then he jumped back into the car and refused to come out until he realized he had trapped himself in there with one.” She shook her head.

“He got out so fast, and he wouldn’t get back in until I checked and made sure it was bee-free.”

Mom’s eyes began to fill, and her voice crackled. “He loved his honey. He sweetened his tea with it, made sauces with it; he even talked about keeping his own bees someday.” Mom shook her head. “Such fantasy…”

I stared at the glass bee. It twinkled, almost as if it could fly away. “We bought this bee and a glass flower right after we got engaged.” Her voice drifted. “He kept the flower with him at work to remind him of me, and I kept this bee.” The grandfather clock spoke again, but it couldn’t reach me. “The flower broke long ago, but the bee was always safe.” She took the bee from my hand and held it tight. “He was always safe with me.”

The rain fell softly against the windowpane. Mom let out a small sigh, her eyes still heavy. She got up and headed toward the kitchen. She said nothing, but I knew what she was doing. Mom was preparing tea. It had been our almost daily ritual when I lived here. Tea before bed meant conversation. Celebrations meant a cup of tea and cake. Cold wintry days brought cocoa or cinnamon tea. When I got the flu, it was ginger and lemon tea.

We had peppermint tea when she had to talk to me about taking money from her purse. When she had to tell me she and Dad were splitting up, I blamed myself. Those nights were filled with chamomile tea, tears, and hugs.

She reentered the room carrying a tray with a kettle of hot water and several different tea bags spread across it. On a small plate sat several shortbread cookies. That alone always made me feel better as a kid. Mom had three mugs on the tray. Hers was a white mug with teddy bears dancing around flowers. Mine was black, with a brightly colored phoenix carrying an olive branch. The word “burning” was above the phoenix, and “peace” was underneath.

Dad’s mug was there too: a white mug with a single bee flying around it and the word “Unbeelievable” written across the top. One night, the mug’s handle cracked when Mom and Dad had an argument. They separated soon after that. There was also a jar of honey on the tray.

Mom cleaned her face while she was in the kitchen. Her smile was the sun peeking from behind the clouds. Mom chose Earl Grey for herself, and I chose lemon tea. We placed a spoonful of honey in our mugs. The grandfather clock declared that it was now 12:00.

Mom picked up the envelope with her free hand. She sipped her tea and handed the envelope to me. After taking my first sip of tea, I set my mug back on the tray. She began to open a tea bag for Dad’s mug, but stopped short of pouring water into it. Although Dad rarely drank tea, she always prepared him a mug.

The creased envelope had been opened and folded so many times that a deep canyon ran down the middle. I slid my finger beneath the flap. The room darkened as the sun hid behind the clouds. I gently pulled out the aged paper. Across the top, in my childish handwriting, were the words:

My greatest day ever: One time my dad and I went to the movies. He bought me popcorn, some cola, and we had burgers before we went into the theater. We went to see a movie about an ape who wanted to leave an ape sanctuary to go back home, but a hunter wanted to kill him. My dad went into the bathroom after the movie and was talking to some other men about how he had the greatest son in the world.

Afterwards, we went outside, and my hands were cold, so he told me to place my hands under my armpits to keep them warm. I was surprised that it worked. We went on the bus and went home.

I remembered this. It had been an assignment from my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mentira. She wanted us to write about one of our favorite memories of our dad. It was around the time Dad and Mom had divorced. I was spending one weekend a month with him and half the summer, but I still struggled to find a great memory with just the two of us.

I looked at Mom. Behind a veil of weary tears, her eyes held hope.

“I kept this,” she said, her voice soft enough to blend with the rain. “It was the one good thing I couldn’t let go of from that time.”

“This letter is what convinced me your father was still a hero to you,” Mom said, dipping a shortbread cookie into her tea. “Or at least that I had to let you keep seeing him that way.”

The room grew silent.

The hero I thought he was? Had she known the embellishment I had written? While Dad had taken me to the movies and given me that advice on how to warm my hands, did she know I had made up the conversation in the bathroom? That it had been the fantasy of a young child seeking the approval of a father he had begun to suspect might not want him?

The grandfather clock begged me to confess. As I lifted my voice to speak, Mom handed me three photographs.

“Son, I have to tell you something. But first, tell me what you remember about these pictures.”

I looked at the first photo.

Mom and Dad had just given me a bike. It was not a birthday or Christmas gift, but according to Dad, “It was time.” They had taken me to the park. The park sat on a hill. It was not fenced in. They took turns holding me up along the flat sidewalk, helping me keep my balance. I fell a lot. I cried. They gave hugs. Dad ran from the bees, and we laughed. It was a good day.

But as the storm clouds began to rush in and the park emptied out, Mom ran to the restroom. Dad was supposed to pack the car, but he wanted to give me one last ride. I held my balance for a bit as he pushed me. I finally found my balance, but I was headed for the crest of the hill. I had forgotten how to stop. I yelled for Dad. He was gone. I fell down the hill and broke my arm. Mom took me to the hospital. Dad was not there.

“You and Dad were teaching me to ride a bike,” I said. “I broke my arm that day.”

My eyes drifted to the shadows on the floor. A soft silence filled the room, broken by the light patter of rain against the window.

“Your dad heard me scream,” Mom said. “He ran to me, left you alone to help me, and you got hurt.” She sighed. “All because of a damned mouse…” Her eyes dropped to her tea. “On the way to the hospital, I yelled at him. I told him he was always so busy trying to protect me, he forgot his job was to protect you. When we got there, he never came inside. He was ashamed. He felt like he’d failed you.”

I looked at the next photo. It showed my eighth birthday party, the last birthday before Mom and Dad had officially separated. Dad was already living on his own, but he still frequented the house. Mom had invited the whole family. She had made a baseball themed cake. The main cake was a baseball diamond, with small plastic players in their positions. Looking at that cake, I could hear the crowd roar and cheer for the players on the field.

I had gotten a baseball, a glove, a few bats, and a poster of Josh Gibson. “One of the greatest,” Dad called him. He said if I wanted to call pitches right, I should know the best. Dad had arrived late, but he was excited. He tested my glove by tossing me a small rectangular box. Dad always got me great gifts, even when he wasn’t there to see me open them. Inside were two tickets to a baseball game. My first baseball game.

Just him and me.

He promised it would be a day filled with stadium hotdogs, cracked bats, and jeering at the visitors while we cheered on our team.

But the day never came.

The day the game was supposed to happen, he got stuck at work, or traffic, or something, but he never came. It was the first of many times he didn’t come.

“This one is my birthday, isn’t it?” I sighed.

I had waited so long for Dad to teach me the things only he could teach me: how to catch and call pitches like Gibson, how to shave without cutting myself, how to talk to girls. But all I got was waiting, watching the rain race down the windowpane, wondering where Dad was and whether he would show up this time.

And he did show up sometimes.

Dad took me to the movies. When we played video games, even if he didn’t understand the rules or how to move his character, I would sometimes let him win. When we pretended to be boxers, he always faked a knockout so I would win. When we played, he was happy just to be with me, and I felt like he might really see me. As I grew older, we drifted apart until it was like we were two actors rehearsing different plays.

He never showed up for that game.

How I wish I could have had more time with him.

Mom nodded. “Your dad was really excited. He wanted to take you. He had rushed out of work to get those tickets.” She paused, her eyes dropping to her mug. “It crushed him when he couldn’t make it. It broke my heart for you.”

She hung her head. “I tried to help him keep his time straight and keep him from planning too much, but he was always too ambitious.” Her voice dropped. “You were always the one who got hurt when things didn’t work out.”

Her next words hung in the room for a moment.

“It hurt him when he hurt you. Just never enough to make him change. By the time he tried, you were grown, and it was too late.”

Mom handed me another photo as she sipped the last of her tea. She set her mug down on the table and began to open a lemon and chamomile tea bag. “Do you remember this one?” she asked, dropping it into Dad’s mug without looking.

This was a photo from my college graduation. Mom wore a lovely white spring dress, and I stood beside her in my graduation cap and gown. She smiled for the camera, and I wore a false smile of my own. I wanted honor cords like my friends, but my grades were never strong enough. During college, I had ambitions, but I was never very good at meeting all the goals I set for myself. I missed deadlines. I let plans slip.

So while everyone else wore cords and carried awards and accomplishments, all I had was my plain black gown. I remember thinking, At least Dad could see me. He had always wanted me to go to school, and I wanted to make him proud. But once again, he was not there.

I had three tickets in my pocket. Once graduation was over, I wanted to treat the three of us to a baseball game. I kept feeling for them all day. He never came.

“This was graduation day. You were so proud of me, Mom. I know you were hurting because Granddad had just died, but your smile made the day feel whole.” I paused, watching Mom pour water into Dad’s mug without looking. “I kept waiting for Dad to come, but he never did.” I sighed. “Not long after that, Dad got sick, and he was never the same again.”

A tear began to pool in my eyes.

“I told Dad I was done. That I didn’t want anything more to do with him. I didn’t mean it. I never got the chance to take it back.”

The silence in the room was broken by rain drumming against the window. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the grandfather clock spoke as Mom lifted her head from Dad’s mug. Tears fell into the tea.

When she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. But when she said it again, it echoed inside me. “I didn’t tell him about graduation. Not until that morning.” Mom sat shaking. “I was tired…” She swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to watch you get hurt again.”

I stopped thinking. The sounds around me dulled. The color drained from the room. She hadn’t told Dad? She had promised she would let him know for me. I was buried in exams. I wanted Dad there… and she had not told him.

The grandfather clock called out the hour again. “You didn’t tell him,” I seethed. “How could you not tell him? That was the one thing I asked you to do. Make sure he was there. You promised me.”

The wind rattled the windows. Mom answered me forcefully, hurt and defensive. “I was tired of seeing you stare out that window every time he said he would come.” Her grip threatened to crack the mug’s handle further. “I got tired of telling him when to call. Where to take you. When to show up. Just tired of trying to teach him that loving you was part of loving me.”

“Dad did love you, Mom. He let me fall down that hill for you.” My voice rose with the wind outside. I stood so abruptly my chair scraped across the floor. “Dad was always doing things for you. Whatever you asked, he did. When you split up, you kept the house and he left… and you say he didn’t love you!?” I stared into her tear stained eyes.

My heart stopped again. “I stopped talking to Dad…” My breathing turned ragged, as hail beat upon the glass. “I told him I never wanted to talk to him again.” Mom looked at me. The tears were gone, but she trembled. I reached for Dad’s wallet and snatched it off the table.

“It took everything in me to go see him in the hospital, especially after I told him I never wanted to see him again.” Tears streamed down my face. “Do you know what Dad told me in the hospital? He told me his heart hurts.”

His heart gave up.

He suffered a heart attack.

It felt like the whole world was crying. Rain pattered across the roof. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the wind began to calm. Dad’s wallet slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a soft thump. It fell open. Mom sat staring at the wall behind me, unable to speak.

When I picked up the wallet, one last photo stared back at me. Two familiar faces from an unknown memory.

Mom in a hospital gown, holding me as a baby.

The photo was faded, the edges worn smooth where his thumbs had held it.

I flipped it over.

In Dad’s writing: “My Heart.”

How many times had he taken this out? I traced my finger across the picture, looking from my mother’s younger face to my own. Mom held back a cry. I slipped the photo back into the wallet and put the wallet in my pocket.

The weary grandfather clock yawned as I made my way toward the door. She sat silently, the cracked mug in her hand, sipping chamomile and lemon tea. She made a slight sound as I opened the door, but never spoke. I never looked back. The storm knocked down a tree, scattering branches everywhere. The flowers enjoyed the tears of the sky, their colors brighter because of it. As I walked away from the house, wiping tears from my face, the fallen tree left the scent of pine in the air.