That
Time You Were Gone
(continued)
By Wendy Lestina
“No,”
Dad was saying. “God isn’t whoever you want him to be. He is exactly
who they say he is.”
“How
do you – how does anyone know -- anything – about God?”
A
heavy fog was dripping on the windshield. I turned on the wipers.
“Kit,
can you keep a secret?” We were passing the orthopedist’s office
for the second time.
“Dad,
my whole life is a secret.”
He
let the allusion pass, and neither of us rushed to fill the lull.
I used the time to let my thoughts move gently out of the sand
trap of religion. Dad rolled me back in.
“I
died Tuesday. Don’t tell your mother.”
We
should call the orthopedist on the cellular, I thought, cancel
for today.
“The
needle hit a nerve in my wrist. My heart stopped. Jack gave me
oxygen, then another shot of something. He said I was out for
about fifty seconds.”
I
circled the block for the third time.
“I
was on an Amtrak commuter, barreling down the tracks. The train
was filled with light.”
“Dad,”
I said, “this has happened before. To other people who have sort
of died. There’s a book. Life After Life.” He smiled his
this-horse-looks-just-fine smile.
“No,
Kit. This has never happened before. You remember Mickey Mouse
on a boat? When you turned the handle, little pictures of Mickey
fluttered by. My life fluttered by: my mother wrapping cheese
sandwiches in butcher paper, my father in the garden wearing his
felt hat. Dancing with your mother at the Phi Delt Christmas party.
The war. Italy, Alaska, how cold it was.”
“You
had a near-death experience. I’ll bring you the book.”
“I
don’t want a damned book.”
A
kid in a truck pealed out of a parking space in front of a pharmacy.
I shot into the space, turned off the ignition, and focused on
the misting windshield.
“After
the last picture, it rewound, like a videotape. Then, the tape
jammed and stopped, and there I was. With Bret. On the fifth hole
at the club. We were playing in the father-son tournament.”
“You
won.”
“We
did. We won because we – because I – took Bret’s putt. I cheated.”
Was
a hug required? I didn’t move.
“The
light said, ‘Russell, are you proud of this moment?’ I said, ‘No.’
The light said, ‘Remember, and atone.’ ” He caught himself shouting
and dropped his voice. “So, Kit, I think God wants me to give
up golf.”
“I
can’t presume to know what God wants,” I said, although once he’d
said atone -- a concept not in my father’s vocabulary let alone
his theology – I had not a shred of disbelief. “My guess would
be that golf has nothing to do with atonement.” I was trying to
put myself in God’s shoes, which I was finding amazingly awkward.
“Bret is the one you should be talking to…”
“Why
embarrass Bret? That tournament was over forty years ago. He’s
forgotten about it.”
Neither
of us believed that. Bret had four bookshelves in his condo lined
with athletic awards. Somewhere in that pantheon was the gold
cup from the Hillsborough Country Club’s father-son tournament.
“Dad,
just tell Bret you’re sorry and return the trophy.”
“The
past is where it belongs, Kit. Let’s get a move on.”
Alison was curled up on one end of the sofa, covered by an afghan,
a book balanced in her left hand. I claimed the other corner,
entangled my legs with hers, and pulled the afghan over the
whole mess.
“Dad
had a near-death experience in the doctor’s office Tuesday,”
I said. I retold the story in a weary monotone. “I’m such a
cynic. He’s not going to give back that trophy. So?” Alison
was thumping my knee with her book.
“So?
Jesus, Kit - Jesus, or somebody, calls your dad on the carpet,
reviews the details of his life, and his major sin is cheating
at golf? Hello? Italy?”
A
chunk of celery rose in my throat. I was losing Anna Magnani,
and for what, I didn’t want to look too good.
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