Fluid Thoughts

wadepaterson (68)in #writing • 8 years ago

You do your best thinking in the shower, or with a cup of coffee.

Or at least that's what my father—a maniacal self-proclaimed writer who never actually published anything other than his embarrassingly left-wing letters to the editor of our local newspaper regarding international imbroglios the newspaper never offered any editorial coverage on—used to say. And I never cared to agree with him, which is sort of how our relationship worked. He'd cheer for the Montreal Canadiens while I sat in front of the living room television with my Leafs jersey on; I'd wilfully leave Glenn Beck Youtube videos open on the kitchen desktop computer. Devil's advocates we were, but by testing the other's beliefs, we counteractively weakened them—or so I remember thinking one morning, a few years back, while shampooing my hair.

My father, the only Grade 8 history teacher in our town of 4,000, used to write a lot of letters. And, for as long as he was alive, I never understood why. He tried to explain it to me plenty of times; unfortunately, there was usually something more interesting on the television, or the computer, or my phone. Every goddamn night my father would sit upstairs in his makeshift office—his bedroom—spending hours communicating the archaic way he loved to. He'd mail his letters to old friends, relatives, even former co-workers and acquaintances. He wrote me letters, too, usually on my birthday, instead of cards. The pages of cursive were nice, but never had a $20 bill tucked into them. He also wrote letters that will never be read—to my mother. She killed herself when I was three.

"What's the point?" I asked my father one afternoon, several years ago, when I noticed an envelope with Susan written on it.

"The point is—" he began, then paused and took a sip of coffee.

"There are a lot of things I wish I told your Mom when she was here. There are still things I need to tell her."

My father didn't ignore ubiquitous technology. He had an e-mail address and checked it daily. He used a hand-me-down iPhone—mostly for phone calls and the odd photograph—given to him by my uncle, a Vancouver-based web designer, three years ago. He even created a Facebook account one evening, after I told him how horrified my classmate was when his father sent him a friend request. He deactivated it later that night, after he noticed me glaring at him: the desired effect.

After dinner one evening, before retiring to his bedroom office for quotidian writing, he showed me a photo on his phone.

"What do you think about this?"

From what I could make out, three 20-something women, none of whom I recognized, were sitting at a table in my father's favourite coffee shop. All of them were looking down, at their phones.

"I think it's creepy you took this photo," I said.

I assumed my father would roll his eyes, or continue the banter. Instead, he continued to stare at his phone.

"Why?" I asked. "What do you think about that?"

It was a long pause before he spoke.

"It worries me."

My father's death, last year, was unexpected.

I got the call one month and one day after moving into my shared downtown Toronto apartment; it was also one month and one day after I met Samuel. Samuel's father and my father went to college together and kept in touch over the years. Samuel—also a University of Toronto freshman—was looking for a roommate to help share the modest rent cost his father was charging. When I got my acceptance letter to U of T, my father convinced me to get in touch with Samuel; he said I wouldn't find a better deal on accommodation. In a rare moment, I agreed, without questioning his advice.

My father was on his way to the coffee shop when he was killed. A Grade 11 student who recently moved to town—not one of my father's former pupils—crashed her car into him, while he was using the crosswalk. He died instantly; she was taken to hospital with minor injuries. Witnesses told a local news reporter the lone occupant of the vehicle appeared to be in shock—but not impaired—as she opened her car door, stepped outside and began to realize what had happened. Police didn’t find any bottles of beer in her car. They did find a cell phone though, near the gas pedal.

Samuel was staring at me when I hung up the phone. The television was muted and his eyes were red. He didn't say, "I'm sorry," which I appreciated; in fact, I don't remember him saying one word to me that entire evening. Instead he sat beside me, put his arm around me and gave me his shoulder, which I needed, that night.

It was unsettling, looking at Service Canada webpages and death advice forums in the days that followed my father's demise. A few of my relatives flew out to help take care of the paperwork and funeral arrangements, but I insisted that I be involved in the process. I wanted my voice to be heard before any decision was made. My uncle from Vancouver suggested I should visit with some of my high school friends who had been stopping by with flowers and baked goods. Or at least, he said, I should rest. He also offered to pay for bereavement counselling in Toronto. I told him I was fine.

While going through my father’s possessions one afternoon, I found a letter with my name on it, in the bottom of a shoebox, which was buried in the corner of his closet, behind old text books. At first, for reasons I'm still not sure of, the letter made me upset. I wasn't surprised to find it. I think I may have even been looking for it. But when I found it, that letter with my name, written with ink from his pen, it was overwhelming.

The letter stayed in its envelope for months. Part of me assumed I'd never be ready to open it. But I did, one night, when Samuel was at his girlfriend's condo and I didn't feel like turning my laptop on and I walked into my room and saw it sitting on my nightstand.

I use a hand towel by the sink to wipe off the steam fogging my bathroom mirror. I put on deodorant and get dressed, but don’t bother doing my hair, and walk out of the bathroom to see Samuel putting his shoes on near the entranceway. He tells me he's staying at his girlfriend's place for the weekend and reminds me his beloved Habs play the Leafs Tuesday. He closes the door and I stand still in the hallway for several moments. I walk into the kitchen and remember there is a half-full pot of coffee on the burner, so I pour myself a cup and set it on the kitchen table. Before sitting down, I dig a pen and notepad out of a miscellaneous drawer, and set them beside my cup of coffee.