Not Me

Chapter 1 The last person in the world I wanted to know about was my father. I did not want to know if he had lovers. I did not want to know if he took diuretics. I certainly did not want to know if he liked to masturbate, or if, even occasionally, he fantasized about teenage boys. It was of absolutely no interest to me if he cheated at bridge, or if his secret ambition was to become a ballet dancer, or if he had an obsession with women's shoes, or if he washed his body with lemon, or if he hit my mother (especially, God forbid, if she liked it). So when I was presented with twenty-four volumes of journals, each bound with a rubber band so old it was as brittle as the leather cover it held together, and was told, "These are your father's, take them," I was less than enthusiastic. Especially since it was my father who gave them to me. "These are your father's," he said, "take them." "Dad," I said, "you are my father." He looked at me quizzically. His eyes were like aspic. Cloudy. Beneath which something obscure, unappetizing. "Where's Karen?" he asked. "Karen is dead," I reminded him. "That's not true," he said. "She was just here. I was speaking to her. Take these." With his feet, he pushed the box of journals toward my chair. "All right," I said, "I'll take them. But I won't read them." Then he turned away, and looked out the window. "I'm waiting for Frau Hellman," he said. "Okay, Dad," I said. I had no idea who Frau Hellman was. Maybe someone from his childhood, or maybe his name for the lady who washed him. After a little while I realized he had forgotten I was in the room. The space between us seemed to grow as if I were standing on a dock, and he were sailing away on the Queen Mary. I say the Queen Mary because he once actually did sail away on her, and I really was left behind, waving. Still, it was unthinkable that I would have a troubled relationship with my father. If I was not the perfect son, he was certainly the perfect father. I reminded myself of that as I sat there looking at him drooling, his head lolling back like a toddler's asleep in his car seat. "He's doing just great, isn't he?" the station nurse said. "We just love him!" I held out the box to her. "Where did he get these? They weren't in his room before." "I don't know. I think someone brought them." "Who brought them?" "He has so many visitors." "He does?" "You know how popular he is!" Actually, I didn't know he knew anybody. I thought everybody he knew was dead. I thanked Nurse Claraher name was emblazoned on her ample, nurturing breastand walked out into the brutal Florida heat. The car was only a few steps away, but I might as well have been crossing the Amazon River. By the time I got there, my shirt was soaked and my legs were sticking together. I turned on the air-conditioning in the Caddy, but had to wait outside for the temperature to dropthe car was an oven. In my arms was the box of journals. They weighed me down painfully. Finally I sank into the plush leather seat and let the frigid jets cool my face, my underarms. I tugged my shirt away from my body to let the air caress my stomach wLaVigne, Michael is the author of 'Not Me ', published 2005 under ISBN 9781400063116 and ISBN 1400063116.