Relativity (18 page)

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AFTER A PROMISING DAY
—of returning appetite, lucid conversation, sudden surges of energy—death felt far away. John's blood pressure and breathing were normal, his condition had stabilized. Tom went home and Mark relaxed into the night. It was an uneventful evening. Nurses checked on John from sunset to sunrise; the old man slept and ate. Mark eventually drifted off in the chair beside his father's bed.

Orange light cracked the dawn horizon and filled the hospital room. Mark stirred. He stood to shut the curtain, didn't want the light to disturb his dad. When he sat down again, he noticed John's face. His father looked pensive, that limp expression of being at peace: loose jaw, tension-free mouth. He wasn't moving, wasn't breathing. Softened muscles, hollow eyes. No, not yet. Mark had seen this before with his mother. He touched his father's hands. They were slightly warm, but too cold to still have life.

“Dad,” Mark said to his father's body. He wasn't sure why he felt the urge to speak to him. John wouldn't answer but Mark wasn't entirely convinced. “Dad?”

The air conditioner rattled overhead. His mind went blank. As he watched his father's face drain of color, Mark slowly became aware of the antiseptic finality of this moment. The thud of the end. His father was dead. That was it. No eleventh-hour declarations of unconditional love, no ultimate exoneration. Mark hadn't said everything he needed to say, done all the things he needed to do. There'd be no closure. Too late to cling on to that irrational splinter of hope, that perhaps this would end without any regrets. Time had run out.

Mark sat there for a while, unsure what to do next. He felt numb. Finally, he left the room to find someone. The hospital staff would know. He was startled but relieved, nauseous but light-headed as he approached reception. At least it was over. Terminal illness had the same dragged and driven inevitability as terminal velocity: a final speed we're all destined to ultimately reach.

John wasn't in pain anymore, but all of a sudden Mark felt winded. His face went cold and he took a deep breath; his mouth quivered before he started to speak. As he tried to tell the staff about his father, Mark was incoherent with tears. Saying it aloud—that his dad was dead—flooded his chest with pain. His pulse throbbed inside his throat and he strangled a sob, but now the anguish was irrepressible. Mark lost control of his feelings. He gulped for air. Waves of undiluted emotion made his body tremble; loud ringing filled his ears. Mark hadn't anticipated being overcome with sadness of such depth, this puncturing grief that excavated him and left a hole. Nurses gave him comforting smiles and offered consoling words. Eventually, Mark caught his breath and calmed himself down before he went outside to call Tom.

Back in his father's room, the doctor pronounced John dead. He handed Mark the certificate in a sealed envelope, gave him a pat on the shoulder. Two nurses laid John's body out and asked about funeral arrangements. Mark had no idea. Tom knew all that stuff. They lifted his floppy arms and carefully wiped his creases, treating the old man's body with reverence. Under John's blankets, one nurse discovered a framed picture. She handed it to Mark.

The smiling face was a strange amalgamation of features he knew well. Ethan—it had to be. But the boy looked older than Mark expected. The last photograph he had of his son was taken over a decade ago. A baby on a red picnic blanket, with a toy tiger in his mouth, staring straight into the camera. Each time Mark looked at the picture, it felt like looking at Claire. Those blue eyes were hers; it was dislocating. He kept the photo in his wallet, but instead of proudly displaying it in the plastic window, it lived crumpled in a hidden compartment. Often he forgot it was there, tucked away behind old receipts.

Mark took the photograph out of the frame and put it into his pocket.

Tom arrived at the hospital before John's body was taken down to the mortuary. He carried several folders—color-coded, labeled “Funeral,” “Important Documents,” “Will.” He'd also brought one of his daughters. Her dark eyes were red, her fists clutching damp wads of tissues.

“Angela loved her grandfather,” Tom said. “They were very close.”

The little girl brushed her hair out of her eyes. She wore red leather shoes that made Mark think of his mother; Eleanor would've loved to have bought her granddaughters beautiful shoes. Angela's fine hair was the most unusual color: golden black. Inky until it hit the light, revealing accents of ashy-yellow.

“Is that really him?” she asked her father in a quiet voice.

Tom nodded. “He looks different now that he's passed away, but that's Pop.”

Angela pulled on Tom's sleeve. “No, is that my uncle Mark?” She peeked up at Mark quickly, before looking at her red shoes.

Tom was distracted by paperwork. “I forgot you haven't met him before. That's my brother.” He opened the folders and handed a piece of paper to the nurses. “I'm his next of kin. When can I get the medical certificate of cause of death?”

The younger nurse pointed at Mark. “It's already been prepared. We gave it to your brother.”

“No,” Tom said. “All official documents must be given to me. I've been appointed the executor of my father's estate. I have it here, in writing. I need it for the funeral director.”

“It's on the table, Tom,” Mark said, gesturing to the white envelope. Did his brother really think he'd hide the death certificate? “Just there.”

Angela gave Mark an understanding smile. The clarity of her genes cheered and saddened him; she'd inherited Eleanor's pretty mouth.

“It's really nice to finally meet you, Angela,” Mark said, crouching down to speak to her eye to eye. She had perfect skin, powdery smooth. “How old are you?”

“Eight and a half,” Angela whispered. She was missing a front tooth. “How old are you, Uncle Mark?”

“Thirty-eight and a half. I guess you were born around the time of my thirtieth birthday.” Mark had spent his thirtieth birthday in Cessnock Correctional Center. Three birthdays behind bars but he didn't celebrate one; it was never a good idea to draw attention to yourself. Although he wasn't treated as badly as the sex offenders, Mark had trouble making himself invisible. There weren't many other men like him inside. His solemn, scholarly demeanor made him look incongruous with his surroundings; he stuck out like a sore thumb. The worst inmates were savvy and shrewd, right away they knew precisely how out of place Mark was.

Tom pulled his daughter away. “Come and say good-bye to Pop. Didn't you want to read him your letter? Then if you're a good girl, you can sit here and play on my phone while Daddy sorts some things out.”

The little girl nodded, tears swelling in her eyes. She took a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it carefully. Mark noticed Angela's handwriting; she wrote in clear cursive script, not like a child.

“Go on,” Tom said.

Angela nodded and took a deep breath. “Dear Pop, I am very sorry to hear that you are dead. Our cat Toby is dead too, so maybe now that you are both dead, you can play with him. He was a nice cat, and I think he will be a nice cat for you in Heaven too. I will miss you and the stories you read to me and I will also miss the chocolate biscuits you always gave me at your house. I hope you won't forget me. I will never forget you. Good-bye, Pop. Love from your second-oldest granddaughter, Angela Olivia Lim Hall.”

Mark shed an unexpected tear, wiping it away quickly. The little girl loved her grandfather. In death, Mark saw a side of his father he hadn't known. He imagined those snatched moments of tenderness, of chocolate biscuits and reading books, and felt a strange yearning for the safe mask of childhood. But being a grandparent was different than being a parent. Angela would never grow up to know John as a flawed human being. Only as the kind old man who she'd always miss.

“Beautiful,” Tom said. He handed Angela his smartphone. “Here.”

She took it from her father's hands, swiping and tapping herself into some form of amusement. They waited outside the room as the nurses finished preparing John's body. His name had been rubbed off the whiteboard outside. Already erased.

“I managed to secure Friday afternoon for the funeral,” Tom said. “The order of service and readings are already decided. I'll print the booklets later today, but I was hoping you'd help me choose a photo for the cover now so we could get it off to the printer. I've already sent the death notice to the newspaper.”

“Jesus, he's only been dead for a few hours,” Mark said.

“Dad and I planned everything before you arrived.” Tom took out a draft copy of the funeral booklet. “So I'll give the first, more personal eulogy, and we've also asked his old colleague Craig Brooks. You remember him. Actually, I think he's your godfather.” Tom paused for a moment. “Do you want to be a pallbearer?”

Mark shrugged. “Sure.”

“In that case, you won't be able to do the processional or recession. But that's okay, you can still go after the eulogies.”

“Go where?” Mark hated public speaking but was touched to be included in the service.

“Music,” Tom said. “You'll play the violin. Like you did at Mum's.”

Mark hardly remembered their mother's funeral. That day was a heavy cloud of white wreaths, dark suits, strangers offering to keep him in their thoughts. Sitting through the service was like being in a vacuum. Airless, soundless, thoughtless—he couldn't remember how to breathe, hear, or think. But his mother loved to hear him play the violin and he'd promised. She'd chosen the music herself, morbidly excited about deciding her funerary score.

The only vivid memory Mark had of her funeral was watching the steel strings of his violin vibrate as he pulled the bow against them. Bridge-to-nut harmonics of its friction force, wave velocity on a taut string. Music made from stress, beauty from tension. Mark was only nineteen years old then, and that soaring wonder of chasing mastery was effortless. He didn't yet know how easily that feeling could be lost.

“That was different,” Mark said. “I can't play like that anymore.”

“Just use the same piece. Nobody will notice.”

“No.” He hadn't touched his violin for years but that wasn't the point. “It was for Mum. I played it for her.”

Tom gave him a weary look. “Choose something. Anything. Just take some initiative, Mark. You're a grown-up. I shouldn't still need to give you directions, tell you what to do.”

Mark glanced at Angela, sitting in a plastic chair. Although she was looking down at the screen of the smartphone, the little girl was clearly listening to their conversation. She sat up straight and quickly glanced at the adults. As he caught her eye, Mark winked. She tried to wink back but didn't have full control of her facial muscles, making it look like a sneeze.

“Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the guest list too,” Tom said. “Claire and Ethan—”

“No,” Mark said immediately. “No way.”

“Dad wanted us to at least extend an invitation.”

“You can, if you want. Claire will say no. Guaranteed.”

“She got along with Dad.” His older brother spoke with certainty but Mark knew Tom had no idea. Claire tolerated John at best—ignoring his lewd jokes about how flexible she must be.

“She won't come.”

Tom ran a hand over his face. He looked uncannily like John when he did this. Mark was reminded of nights their father worked into the early morning at his desk—swearing, sighing, stressed—and loud classical music playing from downstairs as the children tried to fall asleep.

“Bach. I think Dad liked Bach. I can play that,” Mark offered. “Tom, I really need to get some sleep. I've been here all night. Let's talk later about booklets and photos. Great to meet you, Angela,” he said, waving at his niece.

And before Tom could bark any more instructions at him, Mark left. Turned his back to the palliative bays and postwar bricks. Marched away from his father's body. His thoughts returned to Ethan. He took the photograph out of his pocket and looked at his son's face. In the boy's eyes, Mark saw something bright, something hopeful—thousands of volts of potential.

His every wrong turn was behind him now, fixed in the map of the past. Ahead, there was only the future. Mark didn't want to end up like John; he'd already lost enough time. For the first time in years, Mark felt optimistic. Perhaps his fate wasn't sealed. He was convalescent now, thrilled to see the last of this wretched hospital, sliding happily past people sitting in wheelchairs at the front gate and into the busy street.

T
HE MORNING WAS BRIGHT AND
hot; Ethan woke up sweating. It was a Saturday but he had another appointment with Dr. Saunders. As his mum drove toward Randwick, warm breeze in their faces, they sang along to music on the radio together. Mum was a terrible singer. Instead of holding a tune, she yelled—she was always off-key and off-pitch. Her loud voice competed with the stereo, jumbling the vibrating frequencies in the air. Tangled waves of noise filled the car.