As a Father

A Story by skeetwood

His knobby, crooked fingers creaked in protest as he reached for the phone beside his bed, each second outstretched multiplying the agony that wracked his withered form.

Hands trembling, he finally managed to grasp the ancient telephone and brought it near to his ear. His throat croaked as he practiced speaking, that long forgotten concept that had abandoned him ages ago, along with people in general.

A smile graced his lips when an intelligible sound escaped his mouth, and the corners of his lips were scratched by the shaggy whiskers that had masked his face ever since he moved to the retirement home.

He began dialing. Entering the number was so quick, so familiar, that the action belied his age for a moment.

The phone kept ringing, and ringing, until he felt like another seventy years had gone by.

Then, he heard his voice.

Hi, you’ve reached Nick Amari. Please leave your name, number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!

The old man’s vision swam as he listened to that voice. That beautiful, beautiful voice he’d been waiting to hear from for ten years.

Then the harsh dial tone cut through him, bringing him back to earth.

“Hi, Nicholas. It’s me. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I almost forgot what you sounded like, if it weren’t for your voicemail.”

A soft chuckle, mostly just to remind himself what it felt like to laugh, to feel the years lift off of his chest.

A long, heavy sigh, as though breathing could rewind time, cure him of his sickness.

“I won’t waste your time. I know you haven’t been listening to these, and that forgiving me is probably the last thing on your mind, but this could be my final message. I know I’ve made mistakes. I know I’ve wronged you. But I never once stopped loving you. I’ll always love you. If nothing else, remember that about me. It breaks my heart that I can’t give you anything more, but I’m starting to realize that maybe you don’t want anything more. But I love you, and that’s all I ever want you to know. Goodbye, Nicky.”

His hands trembled as he firmly grasped the ancient telephone and carefully laid it back in the receiver. His throat tightened as he felt tears brimming once again, trickling silently down his leathery face.

They traced well-worn wrinkles as they descended, splashing inside his mustache and beard, the stream of tears gently ending as they dripped upon his outstretched palm.

And then they stopped.

Asbad Amari had to have been the happiest man in the world. Well, he was going to be the happiest. Right now, he was the most stressed out man in the world, as he enthusiastically cheered his wife on, yelling “Push! Push! Push!” at obnoxious amounts of noise.

Mira sent him a murderous glare before howling up at the ceiling; the doctors around the table wrestled with her thrashing body as the midwife called out, “It’s crowning! The baby is crowning!”

For a second, Asbad forgot how to breathe.

He rushed over to where the midwife was heroically helping his wife, his swan, his joy, bring a new life to this world.

And then he heard it.

Years from that moment, when people would ask him what his son’s first cry sounded like, Asbad would puff out his chest and declare that a lion’s roar mixed with the thunder of heaven couldn’t compare to the cry of his child.

But for now, everything seemed to stretch and shrink all at once. Time became a series of snapshots.

The midwife holding his son, who looked very red, before passing him to Mira.

Mira smiling, beckoning Asbad over with one arm, the other tightly wound around their baby boy.

And finally, Asbad, proudly holding what he had created, what he had given to the world, and grinning so broadly he thought his face would split in two.

Asbad would teach his son how to be a man. A man who was brave, who never cried, and cared for his family above all else. Just like his old man.

Several hours later, as Mira recovered, they had a quiet but passionate discussion about what to name their child.

Asbad had insisted on Khan, after his father, but Mira vetoed that emphatically.

She looked over at the nursery and gazed at the beauty that was her son, her future, before finally saying, “Let’s name him Nicholas.”

And Asbad looked at baby Nicholas, sleeping ever so gently, and cried for the first time as a father.

Mira was the perfect mother.

She quit her job at the university and immediately was hired as a full-time mother. She was so good with Nicky, made him so happy, that Asbad’s heart ached every time he left them to go to work.

And then, Nicky was five years old, and Asbad’s life went to ruin.

The first thing he noticed that night, as he’d approached the mass of sirens lining the street, was the groceries strewn everywhere. Mira would never have allowed food to be wasted, yet this was this biggest waste of life food he’d ever seen.

They said that it happened so fast that she wouldn’t have felt a thing. Asbad knew better. He knew that doctors were exceptional liars-he had to do it on a daily basis.

He stood there, marooned on an island of yellow caution tape, and all he could see was her crumpled, broken form. She was still beautiful, swimming in a crimson ocean, the little flecks of glass around her twinkling like the constellations of heaven itself. She was beautiful. Death could never take that from her.

He stared at her flightless body, and lamented at how awkwardly and disgracefully she lay. So unlike the swan she was.

Drunk driver, they had told him. Classic hit-and run. Ran a red light, hit her as she was crossing the street. No pain, no pain.

Perhaps she genuinely hadn’t felt pain. Perhaps Asbad was meant to receive it all instead.

Coming home to Nicky was the hardest thing in the world. The teenage baby-sitter, Isabelle, was curled up on the sofa, bawling. She knew what happened. Asbad gave her an extra twenty and told her to go back to her parents' house.

Nicky was in the kitchen, trying to find a napkin to “make Isabelle’s face stop raining.” Asbad felt so empty, so fragile, that when he pulled Nicky up onto his lap, he was worried he would shatter into a million tiny pieces.

“Nicky.”

“Yes, daddy?” God, those eyes. Those innocent, round, sparkling, childlike, perfect eyes. Mira’s eyes. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this to his son.

“Mommy’s gone.”

“When will she be back?”

And that was the second time Asbad would cry as a father.

It had been five years since Mira had passed.

Five years since Asbad had been ordered to leave his job at the hospital. Five years since meaning had drained from his life.

Only five years, and he had already completely given up.

His neighbors avoided him, though whether it was out of pity or disgust, he couldn’t tell. He’d lost weight, so much weight. His clothes all the way back from high school were baggy on him, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

Nicky was in fourth grade, and was a much stronger soldier than Asbad was. Just like he’d raised him. He could smile, he could laugh, hell, he could run around the playground just as happily as the other kids.

Asbad often found himself envying his son.

They managed to get by, mostly on unemployment benefits and random donations from the little family that he maintained a relationship with.

Asbad hated himself for not being better to his son. He loved Nicky so much, so so much, that he thought his heart would burst just from looking at him, but he could never find the energy to show him he cared.

To most parents, Asbad came off as an aloof, selfish father who had all but abandoned his son, and he constantly wondered if, maybe, they were right.

Then one day, Nicky came running home from school.

“Dad! Dad!”

Asbad crawled out of bed, loathing himself for not driving to school to pick up his own son.

“What is it, Nicky?” He asked with a tired smile.

“We had to write reports on who our heroes were. Look!” and Nicholas thrust the paper into his Asbad’s stomach.

My hero is Asbad Amari. He’s the kindest, bravest, and greatest dad there ever was, and he loves me very much. He used to hold people’s hearts and shock them and bring them back to life. He’s the coolest!

Asbad looked down at his son. Nicholas beamed up at his father, waiting for his reply.

And suddenly Nicholas was giggling and shouting, “Dad, stop! You’re embarrassing me!”

For Asbad had picked up his son and hugged him so tightly that they both couldn’t breathe, and he simply couldn’t help that he was crying for the third time as a father.

Asbad had gone back to work after that. Six years, and the memory was still so strong.

Nicholas was sixteen and almost Asbad’s height, and was plenty old enough to manage without the constant care of his father.

In fact, sometimes it felt like he didn’t want his father at all.

Asbad worked long hours, and often found himself coming home late at night. He worried tirelessly over his son, whether there was enough food, water, or anything else that Nicky might need. But whenever he came through his front door, he would hear loud music blaring and a few goofy teenagers laughing with Nicholas as they enjoyed their teenage things.

After his friends would leave, Nicky would lock himself in his room and stay there until the sun was high and Asbad would be pounding on the door, telling him to go to school.

It was funny how it was just the two of them who lived in that house, and yet it was never the two of them spending any time together.

Funny, Asbad would think on his commutes home. That was the word.

Asbad would often knock on Nicky’s door with a small smile, calling out enticing things like “I brought home that movie you wanted to see!” or “Let’s watch the game tonight!”

Nicky would always call out that heart-breaking reply, “Go away, Dad. I’m busy.”

Asbad ended up doing all his father-son bonding by himself.

One day, Asbad decided he was sick of living alone in a house meant for a family. He had a son, d****t, and to hell with all those sympathetic parents who shrugged their shoulders in false pity and said that wretched word, teenagers.

He was gonna take it slow. Ask Nicky how his day was, and see where things ended up from there.

Fortunately, that Thursday was Asbad’s early day off. He got off at five p.m, and was nervous at the fact that the sun was still up when he was driving home, but smiled with determination at the thought of finally conversing with Nicky.

He pulled into the driveway, and entered the house. Luckily, Nicky was already there at the dining table, playing some game on the computer that Asbad didn’t really care to learn about.

“Hi, son!” cried Asbad, his arms flung wide open.

“Hm,” grunted Nicholas, still immersed in his fantasy world.

Asbad was hurt, but undaunted. He went upstairs, to where he kept the router, and unplugged everything. That would get results.

As expected, the stomping up the stairs that threatened to deafen poor Asbad heralded his son’s angry arrival.

“Dad, what the hell?”

“We’re gonna have a nice, old-fashioned talk, Nicky. That’s what’s gonna happen,” Asbad smiled, glad that the first phase of his plan had succeeded.

He took his son’s sullenness as a sign to keep talking, so he asked, “How was your day?”

That was good enough. Open-ended, but still room for details.

“Fine,” Nick replied, turning his back on him.

“Did you have a good time at class?”

Nick huffed impatiently. “Yeah.”

“What game were you playing?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you finish all your homework? Do you need any help?”

Nick shrugged.

Questions about his friends and classmates yielded similar answers. Then, feeling a bit more playful and hoping for any sort of genuine response, Asbad teased, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

Nick froze, then turned around, face bright red. “God, shut the hell up, dad! Why do all our conversations have to sound like some f*****g interrogation? Can’t you just talk to me normally?”

Asbad was speechless. An interrogation? Was that what this was?

His son stalked back down the stairs, growling about his annoying father and how Mom would never have been such a pest.

Asbad stared blankly after him.

“Nicky,” he whispered. The name felt forbidden to say, off-limits. Tears welled up in his eyes. “Nicky.”

And then he felt his voice crack and he ran into his room and locked all the doors and plugged in the router and screamed into his pillow because nothing mattered to him anymore.

The beautiful baby boy that had been the love of his life was replaced by a monster and was never coming back.

He saw his neighbor from five years ago, wearing a pitiful expression as they talked about their children. My Isabelle’s forgotten about me, his neighbor had said. And then, the worst part, the part Asbad had nightmares about-

Teenagers. Make sure your Nicky never becomes one.

The weight of his failure nearly crushed him upon his bed, and he found himself reaching for Mira instinctively. It had been eleven years.

The word teenager echoed in the empty chambers of his mind as he cried for the fourth time as a father.

When Nicky had called him up to say he was coming to visit with Rosa, Asbad’s first question was how Nicholas was going to get to him.

“Dad. I can rent a car now, you know,” Nick had said teasingly, and Asbad swore he could hear the cocky smile on his son’s face.

Nicholas was twenty-seven. He’d graduated college, gotten a job at one of those tech companies that Asbad swore was going to take over the world someday. He was getting senile.

This was going to be the first time Asbad would meet his son’s girlfriend, Rosa. He was so happy for his son, and yet so petrified with worry too. He’d talked to some of the other old folks around the community about these feelings, and they all laughed and told him that he suffered the classic symptoms of parenthood.

He’d given the house to Nicholas. It was better for him, closer to the big businesses, and Asbad needed a change of pace. The hospital claimed his vision was too poor to perform surgery anymore, so he’d tried his hand at gardening, instead. He found himself thinking of Mira a lot more, too, but it wasn’t anything that a few beers couldn’t solve.

His friends told him that sixty was too young of an age to retire, but Asbad thought he deserved some peace.

When Nick had gone to college, Asbad could do nothing but stress and stress that his son would be okay. But Nicholas had realized how important his father was to him at last, and they often spent weekends catching up by phone.

And now he was coming, with a nice girlie to boot. Asbad’s heart swelled with pride.

It immediately deflated when he saw his son pull up to his gate and escort the lovely lady out of the vehicle. In the sunlight, it was impossible not to catch the glint that flew off both of their fourth fingers.

He’d pulled Nicky to a side, seething, “You got engaged?”

Mirth filled Nicky’s eyes, and he hugged Rosa tight against him. Asbad glared at her pretty face, because he knew what was going on.

Rosa was digging for gold, and had settled on Nick.

The wedding date came much too soon. Asbad had his tuxedo all set, and he was going to show his son his utmost support. His hands were shaking as he tied his bowtie, so he took a few more swigs of his beer to calm his nerves.

They wouldn’t be serving drinks till after the wedding, so Asbad downed a few more for the road.

The next thing he remembered, he was at the altar, shaking a fist at Rosa while bellowing, “You’re not good enough for my son! Do you hear me? He deserves better than you!”

He was escorted out of the service and blacked out in a hotel room.

When he woke up, he found a note from Nicky, telling Asbad that he was ashamed to be his son, that their relationship was over.

The fifth time Asbad had cried, he didn’t feel much like a father.

People marveled at how he could look so old at only seventy years of age. He blamed it on the incessant drinking, but anyone who knew loss could tell Asbad was a liar.

Nicky had never contacted him again. He’d heard from others that his son had started a family, with two beautiful children that adored their father as much as Nicky had once adored him. He’d tell Nicholas to cherish that time period, when the father was a superhero, unbeatable, unstoppable. That’s what he’d tell him, as soon as he was ready to answer his father’s calls.

Asbad lay in his room, fully aware that he was dying. He was dying because Nicholas had never given him a second chance. He was dying because he was eager to join Mira. He was dying of a broken heart. But he had to give it one more try.

He began dialing. Entering the number was so quick, so familiar, that the action belied his age for a moment.

The phone kept ringing, and ringing, until he felt like another seventy years had gone by.

Then, he heard his voice.

Hi, you’ve reached Nick Amari. Please leave your name, number, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!

The old man’s vision swam as he listened to that voice. That beautiful, beautiful voice he’d been waiting to hear from for over a decade.

Then the harsh dial tone cut through him, bringing him back to earth.

“Hi, Nicholas. It’s me. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I almost forgot what you sounded like, if it weren’t for your voicemail.”

A soft chuckle, mostly just to remind himself what it felt like to laugh, to feel the years lift off of his chest.

A long, heavy sigh, as though breathing could rewind time, cure him of his sickness.

Nick Amari was swamped at work, with mountains of paperwork at his desk, and the phone was ringing so often he thought he’d go deaf from its shrill tone. Then he felt a buzzing in his pocket, from his personal cell.

He flipped it open, and saw it was a single voicemail from that number he’d tried so hard to forget. It was odd how it was only one voicemail, in comparison to the fifteen or so he usually received, but Nick paid it no mind. It was funny how a number could carry so much history, flashbacks of piggyback rides and laughter and movies and of old age and alcohol and sadness.

He marked it for deletion.

And alone in his retirement home, somewhere miles away from his son, Asbad cried for the last time as a father.

© 2016 skeetwood

Author's Note

This is my first stab at creative writing, so let me know what you think! Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Also, regarding the unusual name, it was just a funny idea I had born from a typo in a message I sent long ago. If it detracts from the impact of the story, please let me know!

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Featured Review

Michaela Moerke

Quite a remarkable story, touching deep into another's perspective and allowing any reader to question his or her's willingness to forgive. Truly sometimes we must forgive for if we didn't, the grudge would be the very roadblock to creating new memories. Your writing on this matter is truly amazing and I cannot wait to hear more from you!

Posted 7 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

7 Years Ago

Thank you for this kind review! Your interpretation is spot-on, and I'm glad you were able to apprec.. read more

Reviews

Michaela Moerke

Posted 7 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

7 Years Ago

Thank you for this kind review! Your interpretation is spot-on, and I'm glad you were able to apprec.. read more

Nanie La Rose

Your story is great. The first part kept me reading. I almost cry at the second part.
I think if you break it down in few sections it will affect the overall story as some might miss a section.
Actually when you like a text it's never too long.

Congratulation for bringing tears to my eyes.

Posted 7 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

7 Years Ago

Thank you so much, this means a lot! I'm really glad you were moved by this; I definitely was very e.. read more

Cobblestone Traveler

This is amazing. At first I thought it was going to focus on how when one person dies, one is born. But I picked up on it soon enough. You paint the picture extremely well. So much history was told in just a few sentences about his thoughts as he dialed the number.

I really enjoyed it. Can't believe this is your "first stab at creative writing".