Fresh Air

 

Gary Busmont sucked down a gulp of air. He had taken to sucking his air, as if through a straw that had been spiked several times with a pin. His lungs were fragile paper in his chest, as if a breath too large, or a shock too great, would burst a hole once and for all.

In a bid to distract himself, Gary surveyed the room, taking in the pitiful surroundings that now rose over him, silently judging him. His eyes flickered to the wall nearest the window, past the IV stand, the beeping machines, and the wardrobe where his few possessions hung, mocking him as they rested. The fibres seeming to hang in reticence, sensing this as the end of the line.

At last, his eyes found their target - the irritatingly abstract painting. He wondered how many other old folks had met their bitter end in this room, staring blankly at that ridiculous image of nothing, all blues and whites moulded into each other. He curled his lip at the painting and cursed his pea-brained children for putting him in here, where they couldn’t even get a nice picture on the wall or a view out to anywhere.

He would ask that fool of a nurse again if she could change the artwork. She said no each time, but eventually she’d listen to reason, surely. Why couldn’t he get an Australian nurse, anyway? It was all the descendants of various countries he and his comrades had fought against who came to clean his unmentionable areas and top up the constant stream of liquids soaking in through the slice in the back of his hand. You couldn’t trust them.

Well, it hadn’t been his comrades that had fought them, necessarily, but his neighbours. Someone had to stay at home and drive the milk tankers from Marlo to Laverton, back and forth, day in and day out. Where was his medal?

Gary’s mind fell back through years gone by, smelling the sweet grass and lucerne, feeling the warm sun on his back. Automatically, he inhaled deeply. Those were the days. Responsively, the oxygen machine hissed next to him, pushing lifegiving gas into his nose through the tubing, the latest in a series of attempts by these doctors to prolong him for just a little longer. He was glad of the oxygen, when he wasn’t tumbling through disoriented whispers from the past, as it cut out some of that decrepit stench of disinfectant mixed with unwashed skin.

After 92 years, it seems this is how it ended.

Clearing his throat decisively, he observed the continuously empty chair that was placed next to the bed, straight backed and sympathetic, no doubt having held the weight of many a family member and a box of tissues as they came to bid some old coot farewell. It had sat empty, waiting, every day he’d been here.

“If I could see anybody again”, Gary muttered to himself, “it would be Bill, Pete and John from the pub.”

A smile broke through his lips as he recalled the good times - every night after work, and every Saturday and Sunday, Melbourne Cup, Christmas!

“And I deserved it too” he grumbled. Another image flashed in front of him, interrupting the memory of the fellas at the pub, so close he could almost reach out and touch her. His mother, farewelling him from the steps of the orphanage, his brother Ray waiting in the car. Tears soaked her blouse as she held his three-year-old frame to her, repeating over and over “I’m sorry darling”.

His heart swelling with pain, Gary shook his head and returned to the present. That damn chair.

Five children, and every last one of them a waste except for darling Suzanne, who had been taken too quickly. They never went without the way I had. Suzanne, with the beautiful golden head of hair like her mother, was the only one who appreciated what I tried to do.

Lost in his thoughts, Gary did not hear the door open, barely registered the presence of the younger man, as he heavily sat in the awaiting seat next to him.

Gary turned at the whooshing noise that emerged from the sides of the chair. At least his hearing was still intact.

“Hi Dad”, Jack greeted, calmly.

Gary squinted at the man. Ah, yes. That one.

Turning back towards the ceiling, Gary sighed. “Hello there” he wheezed. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I suppose you finally made time to see your old father, did you?”

Jack took a deep, steadying breath before responding. “Yes, Dad. I wasn’t sure if I was still disowned or not, but I thought I’d take the chance to say hello”.

“Before I kick the bucket, you mean?”

“Well, yes. I-”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t want to see you”. Gary attempted to roll over, but his sore ribs wouldn’t let him. He let out an involuntary strangled cry.

“Well,” Jack continued, accustomed to his father’s antics. “I have some things to say, and I’d like you to listen”.

“I suppose I can’t stop you then.” Gary grunted. “Be quick.”

Jack paused, probably practising his speech.

God, he always was the runt of the litter.

“Dad, I can remember you coming home from the pub every night and crashing through the house to your bedroom. I can remember every word you said about me. Fancy calling your own child a useless, worthless waste of space. I heard every word”.

Gary fixed his eyes on the wall. He’ll run out of steam soon.

Clearing his throat, Jack continued. “And, when those people from the school came to ask if I could come to join Athletics competition, you closed the door in their face and said I couldn’t go. Could I not go, Dad? Or could you not be bothered having children at that hour of the morning? Before your first glass of whisky?”

Gary remained silent. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Making up lies as usual.

Frustrated, Jack stood.

“I know that you won’t listen. I just wanted to let you know, while I still had the chance, that my children love me, and it has absolutely nothing to do with you. I have only ever tried to be a good son, to make you proud.” Jack’s voice wavered, before he cleared his throat and continued.

“Do you know how freeing it was when I gave that up? My parenting skills are all my own. My greatest achievement in life was being nothing like you. I just thought you should know, so I can say it to your face and not have to lie to people at your funeral”.

Gary was resolute. Even in this moment, all the boy can do is beat me when I’m down. This was how he wants to leave it? Fine.

“Jack”, Gary sucked in a big breath of air and waited for the other man to bend in closer. He did so, the predictability quite unbecoming.

“Go to hell”.

“Right.” Jack stood. “Goodbye, Gary”.

 

Later that night, as Gary twinkled in and out of dreams, he let out a long, pleasurable sigh. As he did so, he felt a queer sensation at the end of his feet, as they began to lift upwards for the first time in months. Soon, his shoulders followed suit, easing out of the painful casing that had housed them in position for years. A wonderful sensation of floating took him over, and before his eyes appeared a young woman with golden hair and a touch that felt effervescent as she reached out to grab his hand.

“Come with me”, he heard her voice within his mind, though her lips never moved. Gary’s mind sent signals to pump arms and legs, though the effort was not necessary. He glided next to her, her gentle vanilla perfume sparkling inside his nostrils.

Looking below him, he startled as he recognised a figure bent over a tiny baby. The same woman who would later choose one of her children over the other. As she cooed to the tiny child and offered him a half full bottle, which was accepted hungrily, Gary felt a deep pang spread throughout his senses. He realised the woman was crying. “I’m sorry baby, that’s all there is” she wept softly.

As they soared, Gary became aware of a wedding taking place below them. Julia looked radiant, the man with her a younger and more plumped up version than the final edition that had greeted him in the mirror every day. Gary stopped a while to take in the scene – the ‘I Do’s turning into a reception, he with a bottle in his hand, a constant accompaniment as he danced with other women, laughed with his mates, and immersed himself in a night out. As the stars rose over the scene, Julia stood to the side, wringing her hands, her shoulders slumped. The hope in her eyes fizzled out, watching the men stumble, the man in his shiny new suit challenging her brother to a fight. The hurt in her eyes hit like a punch to Gary’s celestial stomach.

The golden figure next to him nodded her head in a different direction, and he felt a sense of being tapped on the shoulder, drawing him into yet another memory. A father, slamming doors and smashing glasses, a little boy in bed, holding the pillowcase over his ears to block out the screaming.

Gary’s breath caught in his throat as he recognised the voice, and the cruel words. Julia’s voice, pleading, begging him to stop, as he tossed her aside from the bedroom door she was blocking. Guilt seared through Gary’s chest, emanating out through the tips of his ghostly fingers. He felt bile rising through the back of his throat, and wished he could vomit.

The same little boy, looking barely older than 7, tries to mow the lawn. The disturbed looking father stands by the door, swaying and calling loudly about what a mistake the boy was, how he’d missed a spot. What an idiot. The stench of stale beer and Jameson-soaked clothes cloyed at Greg’s nostrils.

A series of birthdays flew by in quick succession. Five a year, for twenty years. Each a beautiful scene with cake, ice cream and a happy birthday song, taking place at a table with every seat filled except the head of the table. Over the road, three men slumped over the bar, bordering on comatose, still able to lift their heads just enough to order another.

Sickened, Gary turned to the woman with the golden hair, panic rising in his chest. “What can I do?” He wordlessly exclaimed, the thoughts trapped within his mind, as if he was trying to scream underwater. A chair appeared behind him, and he descended into it, a cloud rising behind him as he tried to take the load off.

The golden child rose before him, expanding fully until her eyes became level with his, her enlarged saucer eyes making him dizzy.

Thundering through his head, louder than anything he’d ever experienced, a thousand knots of wind pressed the words into him,

“It’s TOO LATE”.

She put both her hands to his chest and pushed hard. As he fell, he saw her loom above him, not a hint of regret in her enigmatic eyes, watching unflinchingly as his lungs expanded fully, screaming soundlessly as he plunged into no man’s land.