Everyday

I wake up feeling awkwardly well rested. It’s easy to remember that Joseph goes to sleep at 9:30 so he can wake up rested and with plenty of time to get ready for- drum roll please!- bible study. I hop in the shower and get in dressed in the attire that usually gets me by on days like this: slacks, button-down, cardigan.

I tug on the dirty converse by the door and hurry into the living room where his dad is sitting at the table in a sweater vest pulled over his own button-up shirt. He finishes his coffee and rinses the cup before placing it in the dishwasher. He turns to me then and waves for me to follow as he heads out to the car.

I slowly work my way over to the passenger seat, preparing for a righteous day. Nothing against his kind of person. I just find that I have a hard time fitting in with bible thumpers and incidentally, being one as well.

As if to drive the point home his dad asks “Everything alright, son. You seem a little off.”

I hadn’t realized I how much it irked me when parents call me “son”. I guess it makes sense though seeing as I was never graced with the privilege of parents. I mean I’ve seen some fucked up parents that lead to painful pasts and even worse presents, but at least they had some one. I was someone different every time I woke up and I always had to put everyone else before me. It was a long shot that I’d ever go where I wanted to and see the same people every day and have consequences for my actions that lasted more than a few hours.

“Joseph?” He glanced at me before the light turned green again.

“I just- I’m not feeling like myself today.” I rest my head on my hand and my elbow on the door, pretending to care about the trees that rushed by, finding odd humor in just how much each of my days had in common with the trees.

“Okay, bud, but you know we can talk about anything you need,right?” He spared another glance.

“Yeah,” I glanced back, “Yeah, I know, Dad.” That seemed to surprise him, but he didn’t say anything for the rest of the ride.

Once we were parked in the parking lot. He reached into the back seat and grabbed the bible I hadn’t noticed was there. It was burgundy with ridiculously thin pages and a cover that had surely seen better days. We sat there for a while, him looking at the bible with wet eyes and me accessing what I could regarding it.

Joseph’s mother had given his father that bible when she knew she might not make it. She said for him to read it and remember God’s grace even though she couldn’t be there to remember right there with him. She said it was time for her to go home and that they would have Sunday dinners with the big man himself and that she’d make him burnt mac and cheese once he meets her up there and they laughed. She never made a decent mac and cheese but she never stopped trying and everyone never told her just how bad they were. Joseph was peeking through the little crack in the door and he was crying and he thought then that maybe God wasn’t real because of the way he was letting Joseph’s mom die and the way she was always in pain when she was awake and always at risk when she was asleep. I accessed that some nights his dad would sit there and hold her hand because she could be gone at any time of any night and that would just be it.

I skim the grieving period because that was always too personal. I can’t feel what they felt when I’m in their body because it’s just that. I’m just there. I’m not them. Emotions and feelings including pain were always a mystery. I couldn’t sort out why Joseph blamed his dad for his mom’s death, though. From experience it was probably a coping mechanism.

After that, I realize I haven’t accessed his dad’s name, which in my book is a rookie mistake, but knowing his name would make him too real. It was too real a thing when someone loses what they knew they had in life. He leaned on her and now he was in flux. It was all a free for all.

We sit through a short spiel from the preacher involving a few biblical texts and a lot of conservative and equally condescending stances on various levels of politics. This is really the only time I have issues with religious groups: they always pressure you to agree and when you don’t… you better keep quiet and run, Unfortunately, my life is not my own so I just sit there and take it when he bashes my sexuality and makes sure everyone else does too. I just assumed they saved the rallying of troops for Sunday when they could really slap you with the nearest bible.

Soon enough, I find his dad and I in the middle of a prayer circle. The main topic is Joseph’s mother and no one seems to have any mercy when reopening that wound for Joseph’s father and everyone keeps telling me it’s okay to cry. I’m sure Joseph needed to hear that stuff, but unfortunately, I was showered with condolences in his stead.

Then, it pops up into the front of Joseph’s mind, apparently by reflex: Joseph’s father wouldn’t pray. It makes sense that a person like his dad wouldn’t want to really face it. For him praying for mercy made it real. It made her illness honest to God real. Not everyone’s built for that kind of ache, the kind of ache that’s everywhere. His dad felt it anyway. After the funeral, after their anniversary, after Valentine's day, he really ached and yet Joseph never forgave him.

I didn’t come down for dinner after accessing that Joseph skipped dinner these days so he didn’t have to be alone with him. His dad explained that night, leaned against Joseph’s closed bedroom door, that he felt he’d failed Joseph as a support through this.

“I’m sorry, son” he cried silently, not acknowledging the tears, “I’m going to have to let you go. It’s not like you’ll be alone. I’ve meet the woman who’ll be handling your file and she’s great so… um I want you to know that I love you and that I will as long as I live, but I don’t want all that love to crush you. I don’t want to just fill the whole your mother left by suffocating you and honestly,” he scoffed, unhappily I’d say “I honestly don’t know what to do, Joe. She would know how to handle a situation like this and she’d help me be a good father. I’m lost, too, son.” He almost sounded like he was pleading his case. The way he was acting didn’t match up with the circumstances.

“ Dad-” This was a new one for me, but there’s a first for everything. “I want to try to make it work. I’m not willing to let go just yet.”

“You social workers down stairs.” He looks to the floor. “I think you should meet her.” Then, he’s gone.

What the actual fuck? I’m not sure how to turn this around… It’s already past ten o’clock. I trot downstairs and just as I greet the lady-Melissa, the last time I was a Melissa she was bouncing around in group homes, the irony- I hear a crash in the bathroom, which in my line of work always means huge trouble.

I get up the stairs and shove the door open, seeing his dad covered in blood. As if on instinct, I grab the towels off the rack and the social worker helps keep pressure on it while I dial 911. It's obvious he's taken something, but the bleeding'll kill him before the pills have their chance.

“Don’t do this. Dad, I already lost mom, don’t make me lose you too.” I whisper, hamming up the role, but still hurting in Joseph’s stead. You don’t ever get used to pain like this. Mostly, I just carry on. It’s not like I could take my life without dragging someone else with me… if that would even work.

"I'm sorry, Joesph. I'm so sorry." his body stuttered as he fought for breath. "D-don't pray for me." He went pliant in my borrowed arms. Joseph hated his dad for not praying for his mom, for not accepting that it was real and helping a terrified 16 year old kid.

Then, I pray. I haven't done it before so it's mostly awkward, half-assed ramblings, but I think it's what Joseph would want to do and there isn't much in my power to help his dad.

I hear the ambulance arrive just as I pass out right there by his dad at about eleven… an hour early.

Notes

Sorry it took a bit longer this time but it was a bit rougher to flesh out.

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with the sloppiest of x's and tightest of o's,

XOXO