TNC Magazine :: NUBIAN belles-lettres

NUBIAN belles-lettres

Breath of Fresh Air - Short Story

My heart almost came to a halt when I saw my grandmother, Alison, a tiny, lovely, mocha-skinned woman with a warm smile and innocent, dark-brown eyes, sprawled out on her bed, gasping for air. My mind raced as disbelief formed.

Scared and close to having a nervous breakdown, I immediately called the ambulance to come to the house and save my grandmother’s life. I rushed to her side and held her hand as tightly as I could. Luckily, she found enough strength to tell me how grateful she was to have such a wonderful grandson like myself and how much she loved me. I leaned closer to her and said, “I love you, Grandma.”

I loved my grandmother because she raised me when my mother, Melinda, died from a drug overdose. I never knew my father. I mean, I heard of him, but I never met the man. My mother never told me who my father was, but Grandma Alison did. As a matter of fact, she gave me a picture of him just so I could see where my roots lay. My mother must have gave Grandma the picture to give to me or accidentally lost it. Still, when I asked my mother who my father was, she replied, “Your father is not important right now. He left when you were born and that’s it.” Pain and anger laced her voice as she took long puffs of her cigar, blowing little circles in the air. I did not know what she meant by not being important right now; I could only assume that he was either a deadbeat dad or my mother was a little gone in the mind. Either way, I was the one suffering from my father’s absence.

Sad and hurt, I went in my room and played with the broken toys that Mom bought for me at the Salvation Army.

Grandma grabbed my hand tighter and said, “I love you, too, precious. And I,-“ No more words were stated. She died from heart failure at age sixty. The ambulance arrived at the house, but it was too late. God took her home to reunite with my mother.

I became as cold as the Chicago wind and as bitter as lemon and salt combined. I was adopted after Grandma Alison’s death but ran away from home because of the physical abuse I constantly faced.

Now, that I am twenty, I question a lot of things, including my identity. I wonder who my father is and if he’s still alive after everything that has happened.

I became an outcast from the world. I began putting all my time and energy into my work so I would not grieve over my family’s death as much. I was mentally and spiritually lost despite my endeavors as a college student and part-time manager at Target.

One day, a week after my twentieth birthday, I glanced at a missing person’s poster outside of a local store that stated, “Caution! Mentally ill person on the loose! If you see this man, please call authorities as soon as possible. He is mentally ill and needs some serious help! Thank you."

Then, I glanced at the man’s personal information. Sex: male. Age: 48. Race: bi-racial. Eye color: blue-green. Hair color: light-brown. Height: 5’11.

I tore the paper off the pole and put it in my pocket. I pulled out the picture of my father I had and noticed a slight resemblance to the wanted man.

My gut told me that he was my father.

While standing at the bus stop waiting for the #3 King Drive bus to arrive, a man accidentally bumped into me.

“Excuse me, Frederick,” he said.

I spun around, taking in the tall man, his face shrouded behind the hood of his hoodie jacket.

“How do you know my name?” I exclaimed.

“A friend of your mother’s told me about you and where I could find you. He told me about your mother’s passing and your grandmother’s too. Told me everything.”

We stood there, motionless.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked through clenched teeth. “Take the damn hood off, and don’t try anything stupid.” I put myself in a fighting stance and added, “I am a three-time boxing champ and I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

The man pulled his hood back and revealed himself.

He was the man who ran out on me and my mother when we needed him the most.

I took a real good look at him, walked toward him, and affirmed, “After all this time, you did not have the decency to check up on me. I’ve been wondering where you have been and then…”

“And then what?”

I pulled the missing person’s report from my pocket, and replied, “I saw you on this warning notice.”

My father’s eyes widened, and he looked around him.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t call them…yet. I’ll give you time to tell me your side of the story.”

“Okay, sit down.” He began fidgeting and biting his nails.

“Why are you shaking like that? I’m getting nervous.”

With frustration in his voice, my father replied, “I haven’t taken my medicine. Sit down.”

As soon as I sat, my father began telling me how he and my mother hooked up and how he did not know he had a child and everything else.

No hugs or handshakes were exchanged because I had some unanswered questions that I needed answers to, and the last thing I needed to do was show emotion toward a man who never cared for me, yet alone bother to rescue me from the pain and suffering I endured after Grandma Alison’s death.

“How did you get in the mental institution?” I asked.

”I lost my mind after my sister passed away from alcohol poisoning.”

“Oh,” I affirmed with little worry. Honestly, my focus was finding the truth. I was not trying to be mean or anything; I was trying to find a piece of myself that was missing in my life after twenty years of wondering about my past.

“Why didn’t Melinda tell you that she was pregnant with me?”

He ran a shaky hand over his face and sighed. “I’m not sure. I tried getting in contact with her, but your mother kept changing phone numbers and addresses.”

“Why didn’t you ask my grandmother for the information?”

He looked at me with eyes that commanded my attention. ”I never knew Alison,” he exclaimed. He continued. “Hell, there were a lot of things that I didn’t know about your mother or her family. I didn’t know if she had any brothers or sisters. I didn’t know what school she attended. Hell, I didn’t even know her favorite color.”

I clicked my teeth. “What do you want from me?”

“I wanted to introduce myself to you.”

”Why?”

”So you will know that you have a father.” I was a spitting image of this man except my hair color was a shade darker than his and I was a bit taller than him. “God, you look just like me.” Tears collected in his eyes. “I can’t believe your mother never told me about you. Why would she do that to me and you? I would have been there for you and her.” He looked off into nothing, his mind not on me or the bench we sat upon. “I told her I’d be there for her if she became pregnant,” he mumbled.

I became numb for a moment until I snapped out of my reverie.

“You guys talked about having children?”

He turned to me, briefly. I saw shame in his eyes as he nodded yes.

“Well,” he began, then coughed. He diverted his eyes from me and continued, “The, um, condom broke during our rendezvous.”

“Oh.”

“I told her that I’d be there for her if she was pregnant with my child because I knew what it’s like to not have a father.” He rubbed his hand together. “I had to deal with not having a father for a very long time.”

My dad did not say anymore about his past. My father wanted to be there for my mother, for the me he didn’t know would come, despite a one night stand. My mother, sensing she no future with him, left him with two things: sensual memories and a broken heart.

Slowly, I put my arm around my father’s shoulder. He didn’t turn to me, but his fidgeting slacked. I pulled out the photo I had of him from his youth and looked at it, then him. For the first time in my life, I took a breath that didn’t hurt my chest or my heart.