Mom Sent Me by Tom Gumbert

​Mom Sent Me

   With trembling hand on the doorknob I’m transported thirty years into the past, a seven-year old returning home from school, eager to change from my school clothes and play outside with my friends. I can hear Mom’s warning—“Don’t wake your Father!”
   I enter and stand just inside the door, the roar of silence deafening until broken by the sound of a single drop of sweat falling from my chin and exploding on my shoe. He doesn’t move and immediately it feels as if the air, stagnant when I entered, has been sucked out. I unbutton my collar and breathe through my mouth, trying to force oxygen into lungs that feel squeezed by the hand of an invisible giant. I glance at the bed and he’s there, eyes closed, lying on his back, the quilted comforter folded down below his knees. “Dad?” I whisper. No response.
   It’s been ten years since I have set foot in this room and my eyes drink it in; same mint green walls, same pictures of my sedentary siblings and their offspring—but none of me, adorning those walls. Even the furniture, double bed, circa 1965, blonde wood finish with bookcase headboard, and Mom’s sewing machine are exactly as I remembered them.
   I hear shuffling feet and muffled voices downstairs, reminding me that Mom sent me to do a job. I walk softly to the closet and open the door. Mom’s clothes are on the left, Dad’s on the right, everything has its place, their universe one of order, built from over fifty years of marriage. New are the nylon pants with matching jackets, the slacks with elastic waistbands and on the shoe stand, sneakers with Velcro straps. Missing are the blue work shirts with his name tag on them. I remember as a kid, being so impressed with those shirts, equating name patches with importance. I shake my head at my naiveté.
   Next are the shirts, all of them buttoned to the top with buttons facing left, and I run my hand across them causing them to sway, the plastic hangers clinking softly against each other. At the end of the shirts are a dozen pair of pants in various shades of blue, black, and gray, and finally in the corner, pushed back behind the bi-fold door, are three suits covered in plastic dry cleaning bags.
   It hits me without warning, and I teeter. The blood drains, and the black curtain descends, temporarily blinding me. As my vision slowly returns, my heart races, taking its turn at punishing me. I slump against the bed, wincing and clutching my chest. With practiced measure I inhale sharply, hold it for five seconds, then slowly exhale, feeling the rhythm return to normal. After a few seconds I stand, test my balance and satisfied that I’ve recovered, let my eyes return to the room, looking anywhere but at him.
   I spot something new on the dresser and cross the room to get a better look. A group photo, with him in the middle, smiling. I pick it up and it feels unnaturally heavy, like a block of lead in my hands. Behind him a banner proclaims, “Happy Retirement, Jim! Thanks for 45 years of service!” With the precision of a watchmaker, I set it back in its original place. Forty-five years…longer than I’ve been alive. “Loyalty and commitment,” I remember you telling me, “that’s what’s important in life.”
  I return to the closet and my task. I give him a sideways glance, not sure what to expect. Did his eyes flicker, or was that my imagination?  “Mom sent me,” I tell him as I pick out the blue suit and inspect it. “She said we should pick out your clothes for your big event. You always liked blue,” I remind him as I set the suit at the foot of the bed. “The gray one looks nice. I like the lapels and the boutonniere. Classy.” He says nothing. Is he angry; giving me the silent treatment, or is he stunned that after ten years of self-imposed exile, the prodigal son has returned?
   “And what about black? It’s dignified and will look nice with almost anything.” I place it next to the others and shift my gaze between each and him. I try to conjure images of him in each—this exercise evoking memories…and I smile.
  “I remember the first time I was aware of you in a suit. I was maybe five, and we were going to church for Easter service. You were wearing black trousers and a gray sport coat, not technically a suit I suppose, but certainly our Sunday best. Mom dressed me in black trousers and a striped red, black, and gray jacket. I protested that it wasn’t the same as yours, but Mom insisted it was the best she could do. This was years before I could appreciate working class family budgets. Man, you were so handsome, and I remember how proud I was holding your hand as we entered the church.”
   I savor the memory and wonder if he is doing the same. “Did I ever make you proud?” My voice is much smaller than I expected, and I realize that I’m clutching the comforter as I wait for his answer. He remains silent. “I know that you wanted me to be an athlete, and instead I joined the band; that you wanted to teach me to work with my hands—repair cars, build things, like you. Instead I wanted to read or write. I know this frustrated you, but it was not an act of rebellion, it was just me wanting to be who I am. Did you take my need for self-identity to be a rejection of you?”
   When I get no response, I rephrase my first question. “Did I ever bring you joy? Mom, well, she made it obvious that a good report card or a band award made her happy, but you…I could never tell, and you never told me.” When it’s obvious I’ll get no answer, I stand and return the gray suit to the closet and pick up the blue suit.
   “You wore a blue suit to my high school graduation and I overheard you telling Mom that blue was your favorite color. You grabbed her hands and pulled her to the center of the room so you could dance. “How does it feel dancing with a man dressed so snazzy?” you asked her. “Snazzy. You actually said that. Who on earth other than you says that?” I chuckle, stopping when I realize you did not.
   Placing the blue suit back on the bed, I pick up the black suit. “I have to tell you, I really like this one. Nice cut, classic look that’s easy to accessorize.” I hold it up to his chest and allow my eyes to travel to his face. It’s serene, which surprises me. I expected sternness. How many times had he railed against my use of ‘fancy’ words, and to him, ‘accessorize’ would qualify. “Mr. Bigshot trying to show off his big vocabulary. So, Mr. Bigshot, are you embarrassed by your parent’s lack of education? Is that why you try to beat us down with your fifty-cent words?”
   Those conversations irritated me and any attempt to explain myself ultimately led to a shouting match. In the end, it seems that’s all we did, shout at each other. Politics—shouting match, Sports—shouting match, Mom—shouting match. We could never find a subject where we could have a normal, respectful conversation. He always had to be right, and I always wanted the last word. So, when I told them that I was leaving, moving across country to work in marketing for a solar energy company, he replied, “Figures, I always knew you would abandon us.”
   “I’m not abandoning you, I’m pursuing my dream, working to make a better life for myself and for the world.”
   “Oh, so Mr. Bigshot liberal is abandoning us to save the world. I guess that makes it okay.”
   “Whatever, Dad. I’ll see you at Christmas.”
   “Don’t bother, we don’t need you here. Your brothers and sister will look after us. Have a good life.”
   “Right, I said, picking up the suitcase.” I let the screen door slam behind me, and satisfied that I had the last word, climbed into the taxi bound for the airport. Ten years ago.
   “Let’s see what shirts and ties you have, maybe that will help in the decision making.” In the closet I go to the dress shirts and see that he has five—all white. Well, that makes it easy. I find the tie rack and remove it, noting three variations of red, two blue and one blue-green striped. I lay them on the bed on top of the suits and return to the closet, reaching to the shoe rack to select his black wingtips.
   As I hold them, I feel the stirring of a memory, something Mom had written in my Memories book. “He took his first steps trying to get his daddy’s shoes. It was as if he wanted to walk in his daddy’s shoes.”
   A soft knock comes from the door and Mom opens it. “All done? It’s time for him to go.”
   I look from her to him and back to her. “One minute.”  She nods and pulls the door closed.
   I set the shoes next to the blue suit, return the black one to the closet and remove a white shirt. I take the blue-green striped tie and drape it over the shirt hanger. “This is it Dad, your cerement. I hope you like it. I hope I made you proud.” I take his hand, cold and stiff and hold it as tears spill down my cheeks. “All my life, that’s what I wanted—to make you proud, to walk in your shoes, to be as good a man as you were. I’m--.” The words are stuck in my throat, mixing with thick saliva and choking me. I swallow several times. “I’m sorry I could never tell you…I honestly don’t know why. But I love you Dad. Always did and always will.”

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Operations Manager by day and daydreamer by nature, Tom co-authored the anthology, “Nine Lives,” and is the winner of The Sunlight Press 2017 Spring fiction contest. Tom’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in fine publications, including Riggwelter Press, Figroot Press, Dodging the Rain, Porridge Magazine and formercactus. When not reading or staring at the Ohio River, Tom works on his writing.

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