Face

My wife's long umber hair undulated around the pleasantly hot bath water just near the base of the tub. It avoided my leg by inches as it sank in a lazy pendulum arc. Erratic tendrils resembling some kind of alien spider pulsed through the water with gentle throbs. Her hair was a regular leftover of her showers, so its presence wasn't alarming. The soothing temperature of the water reduced my concern further.

I pulled my legs up toward my torso and laid my back to the tub's floor, the heat my lower regions had become accustomed to hitting my chest and the back of my head for the first time. It sent refreshing, tepid waves through my body and I relaxed. The swirling, faraway nothing of the sound of underwater engulfed my hearing, eliminating all else.

I looked up to the peeling off-white paint on the ceiling and was instantly sent back to childhood. In the tub when I was a young boy, my mom would watch over me. Too old to have her in there with me, too young to be trusted. It might have just been motherly concern. Either way, her presence was innocuous and comforting.

I played a game called 'Face.' I'd be sunk into the tub water fully, save for my face, and l'd speak to her in a deep voice. "It's me: Face!" I'd say. I really liked the disconnected echo of hearing my speaking voice reverberate off the tiled walls while it boomed loudly in my own head. There wasn't much else to the game; really just conversation while I was mostly underwater.

My mom never engaged much with me when I'd play Face. I'd have to keep pulling my head out of the water when she'd respond as I couldn't understand her, which would ruin the illusion for me. But I felt a vague memory of an exasperated sigh, an eye roll when I'd try to talk to her that way. This was only a retroactive realization. That kind of subtle conversational nuance would have been lost on my 6-year-old brain. I may have invented it, but I feel it was there. Despite this, she played along, albeit passively.

A father myself now, I'm endlessly exhausted, particularly around the completion of a day. My dad died in a car accident when I was very young, leaving my mom to raise me alone. His place in my memory is limited to old photos. I have a generous and loving wife, and we're both negative space by the end of the day with our boy. He's a great kid, he's just a *lot.* I can't imagine doing it alone and I commend her for tolerating me when she was no doubt exhausted down to emotional reserves.

"Hey babe." My wife Audrey appeared in the bathroom, unplugging my reminiscing with piercing suddenness. I jolted slightly at the unexpected visit, rippling the water vigorously. "Sorry," she whispered, wincing.

"It's okay," I said placatingly, rubbing the splashed water from my eyes.

"I'm gonna step out for a smoke. David's sleeping though, so take your time." She blew me a kiss. "Love you. Sorry again."

"Love you," I said back, resting my head on my arm as I looked up to her. We smiled at each other as she shut the door. I watched the water from my arm drip down the porcelain wall of the tub and collect in a small pool on the blue-green tiles.

I got out soon thereafter and wiped the fog from the mirror as I dried myself. The long, faded scar across my lower torso was always the first thing I saw when I looked in the mirror shirtless. The jagged, lightning-like abnormality had been there my whole life. I'd been on that fatal car ride as well. My memory didn't recall it, but the tragedy would have been of such a great magnitude to my young mind, I wasn't surprised. I accepted it as truth and slowly worked towards accepting my mangled body over the years.

—————

When my mom died a few months later, I was devastated. The thyroid cancer had been in remission for years, but came back with ferocity. We'd been close. We were all the family we had. I guiltily relished the fact that my son was too young to have formed too close a relationship with her, thereby making the grieving process nonexistent for him.

Like me, she'd had no sisters or brothers. Her parents had both died when she was fairly young, certainly well before I'd come into the picture. I'd never known what it was like to attend those big family gatherings. I'd never gotten crappy presents from family members that barely knew me like I'd heard about from my friends growing up. I was always a little jealous of them for not appreciating the warm gesture, ineffective as it may have been.

But it had just been Mom and me. We'd gotten closer as I grew and matured, her influence on me building a fine man. So it sucked, to say the least. I took a leave from work, stayed home with my boy while my wife tried to let me grieve, being there as much as I'd let her. I was so glad to have had David around. His passionate, problem-free smile soothed and rescued me from the seemingly bottomless hole of sadness I dwelled in. Eventually, I started to feel better.

Mom's estate wasn't much, but she left it all to me. Her old house, her meager savings, her antiques and collectibles. Audrey, David and I went over there a month or so after her passing to organize and go through it all. We'd planned on donating a lot of it, but certain sentimental stuff was worth keeping for me.

It was late afternoon and I was alone when I came across the elegantly detailed wooden box in the very back of her bedroom closet. The sun was low in the sky and cast a dusty, yellow pallor onto the box. It served as a weak beacon. Ornate, Celtic knot-work adorned the edges and top of the dark-stained cube, framing carved Gothic lettering: "For Kevin."

My heart leapt as I gently ran my fingers across the textured surface, experiencing tacitly my lavishly chiseled name. I couldn't believe this find. I began to call out to my wife when I choked off my words. This was for me and I wanted to absorb it alone.

*Mom would've wanted it this way.*

I sat on my mom's bed and gingerly released the golden clasp holding the lid closed. A few folded pieces of pink paper lay in the box atop a black velvet inlay. My hands shook as I undid the folds. My mom's sophisticated script was instantly recognizable.

*My Sweet Kevin,*

*If you've found this letter, it means I've gone on. I wish I would've had more time with you and Audrey and our darling David, but alas life always has other plans.*

*Remember that old John Lennon song I used to sing to you? "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." It's so true. And there's so much I should've talked to you about before it was too late, my beautiful boy. I should've planned this better.*

*I'm rambling. My old age has made me pontificate a lot more. It's really because what I need to tell you is something I've kept hidden for a long, long time. Almost your whole life, in fact. It's something I've been conflicted on for as long as I can remember and has racked me with guilt. But it's time you know.*

*Your father was a terrible, hateful, violent man. I know I told you otherwise growing up, and you'll see why. But in reality he used to do horrible things to me. Beat me bloody. Made me do vile, degrading acts in bed. He treated me like garbage and I just put up with it for years. In sickness and health and all that. Then you came along and it seemed like it all was going to get better. Your father appeared to soften and you really seemed to make him happy. He was treating me better, too.*

*But then one day, he just snapped. You were 1, playing on the floor with some blocks, and your father was asleep in front of the TV. You made an excited sound about something, and it woke him. Without hesitation, he grabbed his beer bottle, smashed it and attacked you. I screamed from across the room as he jumped to the floor and repeatedly slashed and stabbed at your abdomen. I reflexively grabbed a pair of scissors and jammed them into his neck. He stumbled to the ground and was coughing blood and gasping for air as I snatched you up and ran to the car to get you to the hospital.*

*For some reason, I lied to the doctors too. I told them there'd been a terrible accident with a farming tool. They believed me. They believed me when I said my husband was out of town on a business trip when they asked about that, too. I was feral with worry about you, but weirdly lucid in my lies to them. I didn't understand why I did it then.*

*You were cut up pretty badly, but somehow he'd not damaged your internal organs, thank heavens. So we stayed there a few days while you recovered. Your father never showed up at the hospital. In those days and in the small city we lived in, people didn't ask too many questions. The mother was the one that did the heavy lifting with the children, and that was canon. I expected him to appear in the emergency room at any moment during those days in the hospital with you. But he never did.*

*When I was able to take you home to recover, I was overjoyed. There would be many more trips to the doctor in the coming years to correct the physical damage he'd done to you, but by the grace of God, it hadn't damaged your sunny disposition. You were still the cheerful, optimistic boy you'd always been. But that is obviously the true source of your scar. That lifelong physical reminder for me (and now you). It was far worse before all the cosmetic attempts to make it look presentable. Trust me.*

*When we arrived home from the hospital, the trail of blood to the bathroom was obvious. It had splattered onto nearly every piece of furniture in the way and had turned the olive green carpet a sickly brown everywhere it touched. I called out for your father, but got no reply. You can see what I found.*

*I got rid of him in a way that I won't divulge here, but rest assured it was thorough and unpleasant. I reported him missing to the police after I'd cleaned things up. I took up the carpet and burned a fair amount of furniture, among other things. The details don't matter now. But he was deemed a negligent father in absentia and miraculously I was never considered a serious suspect in his disappearance. The police tried somewhat, but I stuck to my story and things eventually quieted down.*

*The story I invented was for both of us. After a few years we moved and started new in Akron and that was all the life you knew. The story worked to close the chapter of our lives in a way that was satisfactory for you and pacifying for me. I probably could've handled the situation better, but I stand by the choices I made.*

*I'm terribly sorry I wasn't brave enough to tell you this in person, when I was still alive. I just couldn't deal with the look of shock and betrayal you're certainly applying to this paper instead of to my face. I understand if you hate me, but know that what I did was for the best. He would have killed you had I not been there. In my heart, I know that. My actions were automatic and rash, but I stand by them, even now.*

*I love you, my sweet son. Please take care of your family and never succumb to angry, violent thoughts. Seek help if you ever feel it creeping in. All of that is okay now and can be managed by mental heath professionals. It was never that way for me and your father and our generation, and I'm certain he wouldn't have agreed to it anyway. I'm doing a lot of rationalizing, and I guess that's how I've chosen to silently cope with it. It's not right and I wouldn't fault you for turning this letter over to the police. I could never tell them myself.*

*You'll find one more thing under the felt of this box. If you're willing, I'd like you to burn it. I don't know why I took it and why I held onto it for so many years, but in a way I'm glad that I did. You need to see it, too.*

*I'm sorry. I love you, Audrey and David the most. Take care of yourself and please be a better parent than I was.*

*Sincerely,*

*Mom*

I sat there dully taking it in for a moment before I lifted up the flap. I felt disconnected from myself. Everything I'd known about my Dad was a lie. The dual feelings of betrayal and admiration fought for precedence as I saw the Polaroid face down under the felt.

The photo was severely aged and wrinkled, but its subjects were clear. I stood in the bathroom, bandaged around my midsection and in diapers looking into the tub. My dead father lay there in a blood-filled pool. All you could see of him was his pale face, staring blankly at the ceiling.