Chapter 2: The Wait and the Pain

John's time is running out. He can feel how the cancer in his body slowly takes away his life, how it consumes his body from the inside. Like a parasite. Like a traitor. Like a demon taking possession of a soul. So does this cancer take possession of his body, slowly, painfully, inexorably.

            He can't sleep anymore. Every twenty or thirty minutes he closes his eyes for a little while hoping that this time the fatigue will win over the insurmountable anxiety that has taken him for hostage, but it doesn't. So he gives up trying to fade off and just stares at the dark waiting for time to pass. So little time left and here he is, waiting for it to pass. If he weren't so tired he would get up, but then what would he do anyways? What is there left for him to do but stare at the dark and see his time go by?

            It's not even six in the morning and he's getting up. He's still just as tired as he was about six hours ago when he went to bed, if not more. The battle to fall asleep is lost and he can't stand the boredom of the blank night any longer. His whole body aches as he stands up and the morning cold infiltrates his bones, even if the heating is on.

            It is still much too early for a glass of scotch but he pours it anyway. He also lights a cigarette as he sits on the velvet couch by the big windows in the living room. They reveal a awakening metropolis still plunged in darkness.

            He feels now, at his twilight, so tired, so very tired. He fears that the fatigue will never go away. All the energy that he once possessed is now gone forever, lost into the nothing. And so will he, very soon. So will his memory, eventually. And all that he has lived and felt and thought, all will be lost to the darkness that surrounds us all in general and those like him in particular. The dead, the dying, those that fade away slowly into the shadows. There shall be no return from this darkness, for it is the only thing that is eternal. And it is coming for him in the form of a growing enemy hidden within him. There is no escape now, there is no redemption. There is only the wait. There is only the pain.

He had seen it before. The wait and the pain. What it does to a man. He had seen it in his own flesh and blood. He remembered seeing him wither, a sad day after another. The fear in his eyes raising with the growing proximity of death. The last time he saw his father he was but a pale shadow of what he had once been. Lying in a hospital bed, almost too weak to even talk. There was fear in his eyes but also a hint of relief. He know that it was getting closer and he feared the day when he would be no more. Nothing. Dust in the wind. Ashes of a past to be soon forgotten. He feared the nothing, no doubt, and yet the nothing would bring an end to all things alike. The joy, the pleasures of life, hope, ambition, love, all the things we live for. But the pain, the suffering, the fear, they would also come to an end. Finally, after months of sterile fighting, of constant frustration and disappointment. His body growing weaker and sourer at each step taken until he couldn't take any more steps. And the pain, that horrible pain consuming him from the inside, rotting his bones and his insides. The pain too would finally stop. A hint of relief amongst all the fear. The end of all things. Ultimate freedom.

            'Dad, is there anything I can do for you? Are they treating you all right in here? Do you want something to drink, some water? Something to eat? Hospital food doesn't have the greatest of reputations...'

            A smile. Small, but even the smallest of smiles in a hospital bed is a beautiful ray of hope getting through the thickest of darkness. It's hope at it's most beautiful. Victory in defeat.

            'You've always had a good sense of humor John. Unlike me. I was always too serious. I wasted too much time being too damn serious you know? It is a fucking shame that you don't get wise until it's too late and you're in a fucking hospital bed waiting to die... It's ungodly. The nasty food and the insipid clothes and the smell in this place... You know? Can you smell it son? It smells like hospital. Like disease. It's supposed to be the cleanest place in the world and it smells like shit. The cleanest, most sterilized piece of crap in the whole fucking universe. I'm way fucking beyond any fucking possible help sonny. I appreciate you asking though. It shows you care. I don't know why. There's no reason why you should.'   

            He spoke in a soft tone, simply because he couldn't speak any louder. He was too tired, too weak, too close to death. Moribund men whisper when they talk because they're already drifting away into the darkness. When they speak, they speak from a distance, whilst trying to cling to their bodies and their voices and to whom they once were. There was a sincerity in his voice that John had never heard before. All the lies had been washed away. There was no more time for schemes and deception. Only the truth remains when death comes knocking because only the truth matters. Only the truth, because it is the only thing that is real. No time to pretend. No time to fake. It is the time of judgment and in that last trial you don't want to commit perjury. Every conversation is like a confession, as if all men had become priests and had suddenly acquired the authority to forgive all your sins.

            'Dad, of course I care. I'm your son. If I don't care, who will?'

            'Nobody', he said, in the saddest of tones. John realized then that he was all he had left. The man had no wife, no girlfriend, no real friends. Some of the people he used to work with or who he had known in some quality would some times drop by, say a few words and then leave, maybe giving him some flowers or some chocolates before they did. An ex-girlfriend had made him a visit in order to give him a last kiss, to touch his hands and his face and his hair for the last time. Other than that, it was only the nurses and the ever-so-busy doctors and the waning strangers with whom he shared his closing days. Of his four children only John had bothered to pay him a visit. No, if he didn't care, nobody would.

            'It's going to be ok dad.'

            Another smile. A faint laugh even.

            'You have never been a good liar John. Never. Your siblings are good liars. They take after your mother. You don't. You're like me. A terrible fucking liar. We both know all too well that I'm going to die. That's why you are here isn't it? Cause this is too serious for you to ignore it. You have a big heart kid. I'm afraid you're a schmuck. I'm sorry, I didn't wanna pass that down to you.'

            That was the first time he saw tears in his father's eyes. One or two, almost too bashful to be noticed. They were still there though and John saw them. The man was naked. The most vulnerable he had ever been. No more lies or alcohol. No more time. Time of judgment. When everything artificial is gone only the very core remains. Only the truth. At that time the truth was a sick man in a hospital bed and his youngest son sitting beside him. It was coy tears and red eyes and so much regret. And love. A love so great that feels raw but that matters more than all the money in the world and all the bullshit that has gone over six decades of pretending. This is it. This is the fucking truth and this is what he sees before he dies. The most beautiful thing in the world is this kid and he will never be able to tell him how sorry he is for not loving him enough. For all the lies. For all the bullshit. For all the wasted time and the things that they never shared. He will never be able to tell him how sorry he is for being such a goddamn prick for so much fucking time. And now there is no more time. Now it's too fucking late. But the kid is still there. Right in front of him looking at him with those big brown eyes that look like his own. And that kid loves him. But he also hates his guts so much that in a way he must almost be enjoying this. And he should. He is entitled to at least that. All the years of being a lousy father, of being a huge asshole. The kid should hate him, it is only fair. And yet the kid's here, watching over him. When al the fake and the bullshit and all the lies fly out of the window only the truth remains. The core. All that matters. And the kid's still there. A silent protector. A loving guardian. A faithful son. Honor thy father even when he has fucked you over your whole life. This kid is fucking love, he's fucking beautiful. The most beautiful thing he has ever seen. The only thing that he is proud of. That kid with the big brown eyes that look like his own.

            'Thanks for being here kid. I appreciate it,' is what he said.

            'Of course I was going to be here dad,' John answered, but he was lying. It wasn't that simple. Flying to Europe to see his dying father was the right thing to do and yet it had been something extraordinarily hard to do. The Atlantic was a small obstacle compared to all the resentment that he had accumulated throughout his whole life.  

            His dad knew this all too well.

            'You don't need to lie to me kid. I'm done with the lies. I'm sorry I fed you so many of them. The truth is, it was all my fucking fault. I'm a horrible goddamn cliché and a failure. I drank too much and I fucked too many women that weren't your mother. I gambled too much money away. I've been a fucking coward my whole life, always afraid of the responsibility. I sent you all away. I killed my family, our family, I screwed up your life kid. I don't blame your brothers and sister for not being here. I hurt you more than anyone else. You got a big fucking heart kid. You're here. But you're no saint. You ain't Jesus. Don't tell me it's easy for you being here.' He coughs out the last few words and then just keeps coughing and John has to get him a glass of water to make him stop. He has to help him drink it because his body is bailing on him.

            'Look dad... these things are in the past. Whatever happened, it's all in the past. Everyone is to blame. No one's innocent.'

            'Listen to me kid, listen to me well,' he grabbed his hand hard, as hard as a dying man can grab someone's hand. 'Don't think that any of it was your fault because it wasn't. I screwed it up and I fucked it up for all you guys. I really regret all the mistakes I've made, how I hurt the people that I loved. I'm sorry your mom and your sister and your brothers had to deal with all my shit. But above all, I regret fucking your life up. I know you deserved better. You are special kid, you've always have been.' 

            'Dad, it's all in the past now. You did your best, I'm sure.' You'll say anything to comfort a dying man, even if he's your dad and you hate him.

            'I didn't do my best. I could have done so much better. I failed to see what was important in life and I blew it. I blew it to bits. No matter what happens John, don't be like me. Remember what's important in life. You're still young, you still have a long time ahead of you and at times you'll have to make difficult decisions. Make sure you do what is right and not what is easy. That's the difference between ordinary men and great men. You have a great heart. Maybe you don't know it, but I do. I've known it since you were a little boy. You can become a great man some day. Just remember to do what is right. Even when the darkness beckons and you find yourself attracted to it, even then, especially then, make sure you keep in mind what is important and stay under the light. Don't give up on yourself. Ever. You haven't had an easy life so far and a lot of it is my fault. I'm sorry for that, but if there is one thing I know is that you are good and that you are strong and that you're gonna make it. You are going to succeed where I didn't because you are a better man than I ever was. You just don't know it yet.'       

            That same night the wait came to an end. His father's strength had finally been exhausted and Death, perhaps taking pity on him, released him from his suffering. John got the news the following morning and even though he felt sad, he was happy because he had at least had the opportunity to say goodbye to the most important man in his life.

           

And now, as he looks down at the awakening city, still covered in slowly-lifting darkness, he sees the irony that has come to define his life. The mistakes repeated, the potential squandered, and those final words of advice ignored for so long, even if never forgotten. But now it's probably too late. Will Henry too come to see me before the end? Is the thought ringing in John's mind as the early risers cruise the streets wrapped in long coats and carrying round umbrellas above their heads to protect them from the rain. The heavy rain, which continues to violently hammer the city's asphalt in the dark, except now he's too far from the ground to hear it. Yet he hears it smashing against the steel walls and the thick glass windows, constant like the sound of a Swiss clock ticking into the ages. His clock however, won't tick for much longer. Someday the clock will stop for Henry too, but he hopes that won't happen for a long, long time. If the kid comes to see him in his deathbed, what will he tell him? Perhaps it is not important as all the words fade into the darkness eventually. The wait has started for him. The pain will surely follow. This is what he sees as he looks out of the rainy window while slowly sipping his morning scotch.   

Chapter 1: The News

The subway car is packed as usual, lined with a myriad of faces that echo cosmopolitanism. A white middle-aged man is sitting between a black man and an old Asian lady. His face is made up of elegant features that would make you think that this was a handsome man not so long ago. In fact, in his better days most would still deem him worthy of the label. In spite of his years his hair is still thick and smooth, dark-brown with hints of gold. His eyes are also brown, light brown to be precise. They carry a sad expression today, one of angst and gravity. The train meanders gracefully in the dark alleys beneath the ground, until gradually slowing down and coming to a stop. As the doors slide open the man stands up and leaves and an Indian man immediately takes his place.

            He walks up the stairs leading him to the surface and as he breathes the polluted air of the metropolis he finds himself in the centre of the modern world. He's surrounded by people and traffic lights and cars and motorbikes and buses and sounds and smells. He's surrounded by civilization. For almost any tourist in the world Times Square feels grand and chaotic, intimidating even. To him it's just a familiar place, he grew up here, he's lived here his whole life, this is what he calls home.

            He keeps walking. It's a rainy day and the rain falls heavily and incessantly on the concrete. Cars drive by, inadvertently splashing water on people who are trying to get home as fast and as dry as possible after a long day at work. All those skyscrapers, cutting through the rain, lurching for the gods up in the sky. Giant towers of concrete and steel who make mortal humans feel like ants. Minuscule, insignificant ants, ready to be crushed under the weight of commerce  and industry and entertainment and advertising.             He keeps walking, his pace slow and his expression grave. The wet jeans rub against his skin and his shoes feel increasingly less dry inside. Even so, his grey waist-coat does a good job of protecting him against the rain and the cold, until he finally walks into a bar.

            O'Neills, says the signing on the door.

            'Hi John. What is it gonna be today?' Asks the bartender. Light grey hair and deep rinkles place him in his seventies or early eighties. The accent is Irish. Not the American kind, but the real one. He's short but sturdy. Portly. There's something about him that tells you he's a nice guy.

            'Hello Rory. I would like a Guiness please,' says the man. Raspy voice. The accent is American, New Yorker. The tone is lugubrious, like the expression on his face.

            'Sorry to tell you this John but you don't look so good. Having a bad day? I Don't blame you. This weather will throw anyone into a sullen mood...'

            'I wish that was my biggest problem...' the man says, wryly.

            'Is it something serious?' Asks Rory, the old bartender.

            'No, don't worry about it. Everything's ok.'

            'Ok, but if you need anything you know where to find me,' Jack says, sounding truly sincere. 'By the way, Arthur came in about fifteen minutes ago, he's sitting somewhere in the back.' The old man point at a part of the bar that isn't visible from where they are standing. Noticing that John doesn't seem so happy about the prospect of seeing Arthur he asks:

            'Is everything ok between you fellas?'

            'Yeah, it's just that I was planning on having a drink by myself, that's all.'

            'I understand. We all have those days in which we just want to be by ourselves. You can drink your beer here if you want, I promise not to bother you anymore.'

            'No, it's ok, and you're not bothering me Rory, don't worry. I have something to discuss with him anyways. I might as well do it now,' says John, standing up and walking towards the rear part of the bar.

'Do you mind if I seat down?' Asks John.

Arthur looks up at him, mildly surprised. Arthur is in his seventies and his hair is the colour of silver. 'I went by your apartment before coming here. You weren't there. Where did you go?' He asks.

            'I had to go somewhere. Nothing important,' answers John, sitting down and placing his guiness on the table in front of him.

            'You're lying,' says Arthur after staring at him for a short moment.

            'How do you know?'

            ' I've known you for thirty years. I can see when something is bothering you, and I can see when you're lying. You can tell me.'

            'I always thought it would be different. I guess I never thought I would be sitting here today, in a day like this, in a place like this, having you in front of me and looking at me that way... I'm dying Arthur. It's cancer. I'm dying and there is nothing I can do to stop that from happening.'

            'Are you sure it can't be cured? Medicine is so advanced these days...'

            'I went to the hospital today. There isn't much they can do. They want me to subject myself to chemotherapy and a bunch of other shit but all it's gonna do is delay the outcome. You don't just walk from something like what I have. You suffer and then you die.'

            'Did you find out today?' Asks Arthur, without really knowing what else to say.

            'Why does that even matter Arthur? I'm telling you that I'm going to die and you ask me if I found out about it today?'

            'I'm sorry John. I just don't know what to say, that's all...'

            'Don't worry about it. There isn't much you can say. It doesn't matter what anyone says, it's not gonna make it any better... I've known it for about a month, I just didn't know it was this bad.'

            'I'm really sorry. If there's anything I can do to help I'll do it John.'

            'You could give me a cigarette.'

            'A ciga... of course.'

            He hands him the cigarette and lights it up for him. The he does the same thing for himself. As they smoke in silence for a short while he notices that John seems more relaxed now, he's almost enjoying himself now, in spite of his condition.

            'You know, not everything is bad about this whole situation,' John tells him. 'I haven't had one of these for six years. I forgot how good it feels. I feel stupid now, for having stopped smoking for so long. Everyone used to tell me that smoking would end up killing me if I didn't stop. I finally stopped and look at me now. It's ironic, to say the least.'

            'Maybe it will kill me' says Arthur, 'I've been smoking for forty years after all. Maybe it will give me lung cancer.'

            No. It won't. It's enough that one of us got sick. You'll die of something else. Something more pleasant hopefully...'

            'John... I wish we could trade places...'

            'Thanks Arthur, but you can't. I wouldn't tell you anyway. You know that. This is how it's gotta be. This is what the man upstairs wants, that is, if he's even up there.'

            'How long... do you have left?'

            'Six months. A year maybe, if things go my way.. They don't know for sure. It depends on a number of factors. Not very long though.'

            'John you have to... you have to do what the doctors tell you to do. You've got to fight this thing with everything you got!'

            'I don't have to do anything!' shouted John, letting out some of the anger that had been building up inside him since he had left the hospital earlier in the afternoon. 'Look... even if I do my very best, do all the treatments available to me, this thing will still kill me eventually. The doctor was very clear about this point. It's just a matter of when and how I go now, it's not about if anymore.'

            'If you... if you need money I can try to help you out. I don't have a lot of money but...'

            'Arthur, we both know you are penniless, but I appreciate the offer nevertheless. You're a good friend. My best friend.'

            'You're gonna have to tell Henry about this John...'

            'I haven't spoken to him in three years.'

            'Even so. He needs to know.'

            'Yes... I suppose he does.'

Back at his apartment, John stares at the black telephone lying on a small round table in front of him. He does this for at least five minutes before finally picking up the phone book and looking up a number. He dials it slowly, his finger shaking slightly.

            Someone answers. A female voice. 'Hello?'

            John instantly recognizes the voice on the other side of the line. Yet he says nothing.

            'Hello, is someone there? Is this a joke? Hello?'

            No words come out from John's mouth.

            'I'm going to hang up unless you...'

            'Joyce... it's me, John,' he finally finds the courage to say.

            A moment of silence and then she finally greets him back 'Hello John.'

            'You have a British accent now. I thought you might be someone else. I thought I had the wrong number.'

            'No you didn't' she says.

            'No I didn't,' he admits.

            'What do you want John? It's very late over here. Did you realize that before you decided to call me?'

            'Uh... no. I'm sorry. Did I wake you up? What time is it over there?'

            'It's past one, but you didn't wake me up. I've been having some trouble sleeping lately...'

            'Is something wrong with you?'

            'No it's fine, I'm ok. What about you? Why are you calling?'

            'It's... it's sorta hard to say it.' He takes a deep breath and says it. 'I'm not ok. I'm dying.' He doesn't hear anything for a few seconds. Then he thinks he hears a soft sob. 'Are you crying?'

            'No, of course not', answers the woman. Her voice sounds different now, she's lying. 'What's wrong with you? Your liver?'

            'No. Cancer.'

            'I'm sorry John. I'm really sorry,' she says after another brief moment of silence.  

            'I know.'

            'Is there any chance you might survive? Maybe with all the treatments they have available these days...'

            'No,' he says, interrupting her. 'The doctor said I'm done for. Six months to a year. No way out.'

            'John... I'm really sorry. I know some people who work in that field... Maybe you can come over here and get a second opinion. Please do. It can't harm to try.'

            'Actually in this case...'

            'I can't believe you are joking about this.'

            'Why not? I can't change what is happening to me. I might as well accept it.'

            'You always were strange John...'

            'I still am. Look Joyce, is Henry home?'

            'He hasn't been home in a long time John. You should know that.'

            'Maybe I would if you hadn't moved to another continent.'

            'That's not fair John. That's not fair and you know it!' yell the woman, pity replaced by anger.

            'Who's on the phone dear? Is everything ok?' Asks a voice in the background.

            'Yeah, it's fine. I'll go back to bed in a minute hun.'

            'You woke him up huh?'

            'Look John, I'm very sorry about what's happening to you, but it's not my fault ok?'

            'I know it's not. Look, I didn't call you so we could argue. I just want to know where Henry is.'

            'He's in France I think.'

            'You think?'

            'Well, our relationship is a bit strained these days. Last time I talked to him he was in a small town somewhere in southern France.'

            'When was that?'

            'It was about three months ago. I think he's still over there. I would like to think he would have told me if he had decided to move somewhere else. I'm not sure though'. The woman's voice sounds sad and melancholic now.

            'You should call him', says John.

            'John, I should call him but so should you! You're his dad and he needs to know what is happening.'

            'I can't call him Joyce. Please, I'm begging you. Tell him what's happening to me. Just let him know. I can't call him to tell him something like this.'

            'Fine... I'll call him.'

            'Thank you Joyce.'

            'John... I'll call him tomorrow ok? I have to go to bed now.'

            'Ok Joyce, goodbye.'

            'Goodbye John.'

            Joyce is a good looking woman, even in her late forties. She has long and lustrous dark hair. Her brown eyes twinkle with tears.

            'Are you ok? What happened? Was that John on the phone?' Asks her husband, who has now joined her in the living room.

            'Yes'

            'What did he say to you?' He asks, anger present in his voice.

            'He's dying of cancer. He wants me to tell Henry.'

            'He shouldn't have asked you that. It's not fair on you. Why doesn't he tell him himself?'

            'He's dying. He's weak. He's scared. I don't know for sure, but I couldn't say no to a dying man.'

            'Are you sad because he is dying? Even after the way he treated you and Henry?' He asks, now wrapping her in his arms in an attempt to comfort her.

            'We all make mistakes in life. I can't help but feeling bad for him. I know that deep down he's a good man and I know that in spite of everything that has happened in the past he has always loved Henry...'

Calling his ex-wife wasn't easy for John. In the last five or six years in particular he had been avoiding as much as possible any contact with that part of his life. Hearing the sound of her voice again reminded him of what had been and made him wonder about what could have been but never was. Pacing around his three-room apartment in New York he felt like he had never been as miserable as he was now. He didn't have much time left, so the past became more important than it had ever been before. He didn't keep any photos around him in plain sight, so he had to open more than a few drawers before he could find the one he was looking for, even if sub-consciously.

            Seating on his bed, he looks at the framed memory that he now holds in his hands. He sees a time when he still smiled in pictures, when he still had a family. Henry and Joyce are also smiling in the picture. He had fought the tears throughout the day, indeed throughout the week and even the month, and yet now he cannot hold them in anymore as he looks at all he has lost.