The Long Way Home

I don’t know when it was that I felt I had become an adult. But sometime between when I left home in August to return for my senior year of college and now, I felt I was there. I was driving into work for my third shift job at the newspaper, following a full day of classes and my 2^nd shift job at the mall. I was not only a college student, but a working man with little time for sleep. A prophetic foreboding to say the least, but surely this was not the lifestyle of a kid.

Work was pretty pedestrian, nothing extraordinary tended to happen in the mail room. It was just the last place the newspapers passed through in the morning on the way to boxes and doorsteps across the central part of North Carolina and some into Virginia. It was time to punch out and go home before I knew it.

When I got home from work everyone in the apartment was awake, which was odd. They were all hanging out in the living room when I came in the door; my two roommates, and their girlfriends, my girlfriend and another buddy who was crashing for the night, which was slowly giving way to morning.

The phone rang shortly after my entrance. I raced to grab it, stepping on the sofa and jumping over the back to take the most direct route. To this day, more than a dozen years later, I still don’t why I reacted the way I did. It could have been a wrong number, or anything else for that matter. But at that moment I just knew there was something wrong at the first sound of the phone.

My Mom was on the other end. I don’t remember the whole conversation, or even if there was one to speak of, but the sound of her voice and the way she said, “It’s your father. I don’t know if you’ll make in time,” will stick in my mind forever.

I have packed for week-long vacations and weekend jaunts, overnight stays and road trips, but I have never packed for this…this…whatever this was. I was in a panic.

I ran to my room and grabbed a suitcase. I started throwing things in, whatever I could grab. My eyes welled up to the point where I could barely see. I was hardly functioning as my vision blurred with tears and my mind was racing. I had to get home.

My friends struggled to keep up. At first they were stunned. They wanted to know what was wrong. Adrian already knew. He had been with me at the beginning of that week before we returned to school. My father went into the hospital the day before I left with an unknown source of pain. He was disoriented from the medication he was on, but I never once thought it would come to this.

“It’s my Dad. I don’t know if I’ll make in time,” was all I could muster as they satisfied their curiosities and tried to find ways to help. I repeated the phrase several times, as if repeating it would allow me to find a way, to indeed, make it in time.

My girlfriend insisted on coming with me. I told her she needed to stay and concentrate on school, but she was very persistent about helping me through this…this…whatever it was. I felt so unsure about everything right now. We grabbed some of her clothes that she kept at my place and threw them in the suitcase as well.

In what felt like an instant but was almost certainly too long to begin this journey, we grabbed what we had collected and rushed out to my car so we could make the trek, ideally, in time. In time for what I couldn’t fathom, all I knew was that I needed to get on the road.

Normally, the trip from school to home was about 8 hours. It would seem much longer. I was already tired from a full day of classes and working at both of my part-time jobs with just a quick nap in between. It must have been just a little before 5 a.m. on a misty Saturday morning when we made our way out of town.

I had followed this route at least a dozen times before. I was effectively on auto-pilot, which was a good thing, one less thing to think about.

Crystal didn’t seem to know what to say, which was just as well, since I didn’t really feel in the mood to talk. My mind began to wander into unfamiliar territory.

What if…I didn’t want to think about what if. I wanted to think about anything other than what if. I wanted to think about his pain, his struggle, his fight for his very existence. I tried to think about the World Series.

It was October 23^rd and Game 6 was tonight. I hadn’t gotten the chance to watch much, with school and work keeping me pretty busy. I was carrying 15 credit hours in my major and working 2 part-time jobs which filled about 50-60 each week not including drive time.

Maybe everything would be alright. Maybe this was just a scare, a false alarm. We could watch the game in the hospital, cheering our hometown heroes.

We were a Phillies family and the Phils were down 3 games to 2 to the Toronto Blue Jays with the Series coming back home to Philadelphia. I just knew they would battle back. My Dad and I could watch the game tonight, me at his side, the way it should be…the way it should always have been, the way it could be, at least one more time.

But in the back of my mind I knew it wasn’t going to be alright, it would never be the way it was.

I started to remember the times I had with him. I remembered the time when I was in second grade. We had some special event at school that day, because I remember I was wearing one of my favorite shirts, one I got from baseball camp that summer. I was in the back corner of the yard, a nice little wooded spot away from the house, with my two neighborhood friends, Kim and Danny. We had a lighter and one cigarette. I don’t know who brought it, but we were prepared to experiment with some big kid stuff, some grown up stuff. I’m not sure how we got caught, but I know it was before my turn. I think he hollered for me, he might have even been able to see us from the back door where his office desk was.

I remember the yelling when I got inside. I don’t remember what he said but I remember the look on his face, the anger, the disappointment. I got grounded for a month that time.

Then I remembered the time I accidentally over filled the kerosene heater out in the garage. The fuel back washed all over the floor. He yelled then too. I remember trying to look down, hoping to avoid the fire in his eyes as he tore into my heart with his words about carelessness. I was always doing one irresponsible thing after another.

I don’t know why these times came to mind. I tried to turn to happier times, family trips, ball games, quiet nights at home. I tried to wrap my mind around the times when his eyes sparkled with the delight of a child. A rare instance for any adult, especially one as focused as my father.

I remember when I hit my only legit home run in Little League. I think my Dad was there for that. Yeah, he was there, I remember, as the fogginess began to subside.

I was 12 years old and we were playing in a tournament hosted by our arch rivals from the next town over. They had this fireballer, Tommy Czarsasty. We hadn’t touched him all day when I stepped to the plate with 2-on and 1 out, I think, with our team down 3-0. I missed a bunt sign and summarily drilled an inside fastball down the left-field line. I was happier than I had ever been in my entire life to that point. My Dad may have even chased down the ball for us. I still have the ball. Dad always made sure to get game balls from my big games. I keep them on a shelf at home with some of my trophies.

Home.

They say you can never go home again. I don’t know who “they” are, but I’ve heard that “they” have said that. That’s when I had this particular epiphany. This is exactly what they meant. I couldn’t go home again. I wasn’t terribly sure where home was right now. Was home the place where I grew up? The place where the swing once hung from the tall pine tree in the backyard? The place where I played wiffle ball with my friends and ran through the sprinklers on those hot summer days? The place where my Dad taught me to play baseball, ride a bike, and always do my best no matter what the challenge I was taking, big or small?

Or was my home a little off-campus apartment with my friends? The place where I was making my new life; where I was becoming my own man, the man my parents brought me up to become? The place where I shared everything with the love of my life, every struggle and every triumph? The place where I figured I would lay my head down every night until the next phase of my life would begin?

Regardless, I knew that the last time I went home, just a week ago, would be the last time I would ever see the old place. A new day was dawning…right before my eyes…whether I was prepared for it or not.

I’m not exactly sure what nondescript piece of highway we were on when I gave up the wheel. It was either the tree-lined nothingness between Durham and Petersburg, Va. along I-85 or the mostly tree-lined nothingness of I-95 north of Richmond to just south of Washington, D.C. At any rate, Crystal convinced me to let her drive and I was too tired to be macho about it.

The bad thing was that now without the focus on driving, I had more time to think. That was really the last thing I needed to be doing. My mind became cluttered with memories of my father, and the way I left him just five days ago..

My buddy Adrian and I took the train up to Philly. He was to be my traveling companion for the drive back, a 500-mile trek with my new wheels, a metallic light blue ’78 Camaro I was buying from a neighbor back home. We got in Saturday. Adrian went to visit a friend of his in Philadelphia and I went to spend time with my family at home in South Jersey.

The day was mostly uneventful, just hanging around the house and going out for dinner. When Sunday came around, my Dad wasn’t feeling too well. While my brother and I spent most of the day watching football on TV, he lay on the couch in the front room, with my mother checking on him constantly. It didn’t seem like anything major at the time. His Rheumatoid Arthritis would really take him out of commission sometimes. Other times it was the medication for his arthritis pain or inflammation that would make him feel terrible. My Mom seemed really concerned, more than usual. She wanted him to go to the emergency room to get looked at by a doctor.

It was late in the evening when he finally agreed to go. She drove him to Mount Holly to their ER some time after 8 that night. My brother and I stayed put, hearing from her several hours later that he had been admitted to the hospital “just for observation.”

I was to leave on Monday, pick up Adrian and head back to NC. I stopped at the hospital for a brief visit that morning. There he was, lying in his hospital bed, awake, but not really able to stay alert. He was there, but not so much, if you get what I mean. I only spent a few minutes talking to him. Every now and then he would ask me wasn’t I going to be late for the movie. I kept telling him I wasn’t going to any movie. So I didn’t know what he was talking about. I never really figured out where he was in his head then. The conversation wasn’t important but I do remember how it ended.

“I love you, Dad,” I whispered in his ear as I leaned over to give him a hug.

That was my Dad’s one big rule. He never let my Mom leave the house without a kiss and an “I love you.” There were always happy goodbyes for everyone in our household. And there was always lots of love at the end of our telephone conversations since I had gone away to school.

Even if he didn’t realize it at the time, I left him with “I love you.”

Somewhere awash in the memories and emotions and regrets I fell asleep. Again, I didn’t know what boring stretch of asphalt it was that we were on, but I know it was before D.C. because that’s where we got lost.

Now, Crystal is a great girl. She’s got a keen sense of sight a magnificent sense of touch, she’s got a sense of style and taste, she’s even got a little sixth sense at times, but her sense of direction didn’t make this particular trip. Somewhere in the mess of highways and byways that is Washington, D.C. she took an exit she shouldn’t have. I mean, really shouldn’t have.

When she woke me up we were closer to nowhere I had been, than somewhere I had been. The neighborhood was unfamiliar and a tad uncomfortable, it would have been downright unpleasant had it not been daylight. I have never been more thankful for daylight.

We drove until we came across a semi-recognizable thoroughfare (at least to me anyway) and, luckily, found our way back onto I-95 North. I re assumed piloting duties shortly thereafter.

The rest of the trip lacked the sort of driving focus I had before I relinquished the driver’s seat. My mind wandered and my anxiety grew. But I was on automatic pilot in extremely familiar territory now, so no thinking required here. A couple of hours later we were just about to the house.

I still don’t know why I went directly to the house and not the hospital. I had been to the hospital just a few days earlier and yet I went to the house, like I just automatically knew I wasn’t going to be able to see him again. Part of me wanted this trip to be over, and I think, deep down, I knew, it would never really be, over.

When we got to the house I wanted not to cry. It was the first time the thought even entered my mind. I guess it was the first moment that I made the conscious realization that he was gone. We pulled into the driveway and my Uncle Glen was working on my Dad’s car. I got out and started toward him on my way in. A slightly dirty air filter lay on a red shop rag on the ground in front of the car, a used oil filter beside that with empty oil containers and various tools strewn about the concrete.

He was a large man (to me anyway,) broad shoulders, former football player, a Good-

'Ol boy from Virginia, with just a touch of that drawl from his upbringing combined with the managerial professional voice that came with his responsibilities, a full, rich voice that commanded attention and was definitely manly. I thought the man was an emotional rock, a solid man with a granite disposition. Few would undertake routine vehicle maintenance at a time like this, but what he lacked in outward emotions he made up for in focus and determination. I think he was determined not to cry just as much as I was. Both he and I would disappoint, at least a little, on this occasion.

I hadn’t seen him since our last family Christmas dinner more than 10 months ago, or perhaps it was the Christmas before. Always a firm handshake and smack on the shoulder with a “How’s it goin’ there?” A polite, direct, manly greeting. Today was much different. Not even a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Arms out slightly encouraging the hug that would follow; an uncomfortable approach for him because it wasn’t his way. Uncomfortable for me because I knew what it meant. But that all went away quickly. The sadness in his eyes caused me to well up, but no tears were allowed to stream down my face. Not yet.

The hug was brief and no words were exchanged. He was allowed to fortunately resume the mindless tasks at hand as I turned toward the garage.

I gave a nod to my Uncle Conrad who was raking leaves in the backyard. He was watching my younger cousins play as he worked on his chores. He managed an unconvincing smile in front of the children as continued his efforts.

My girlfriend slowly followed behind me as I went through the garage and took the two steps up into the house. I opened the door and turned to go down the hallway which on a normal day was only about 40 feet to where everyone would sit at the kitchen table. It felt more like 40 miles.

My mother was sitting at the table with my Aunt Jayne, who got up when I came inside. My Uncle Dennis was there too, standing back toward the living room.

My legs felt heavy as I journeyed down a hallway which I had run a million times as a kid. It probably would have been less if I had heeded the typical parental suggestion of “Alright, inside or outside,” as my Mom always used to say. I wish I could take away this one last trip.

When I got to where my mother was she stood up. Her eyes were red and her body weary. I could tell her trip had been much further than mine as I wrapped my arms around her.

“He’s gone,” she whispered in my ear and grabbed me tightly.

This is a good place to stop. The rest gets more mish-moshy (more?!) and I'm not really sure how far I'm going with this story. Plus, I still have the most recent round of changes from my editor to work (this is my 5th rewrite, without any help) so I hope to post that in a month or so. Maybe I'll have an ending by then...or not. Even then it will be just one story or many, from the Incomplete Writer.