Ghost of Christmas: Past

Winner of 2009 Wells College Rose Hill '98 Prize in Creative Nonfiction

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! -yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:
- From “Mutability” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

When I stood on the threshold of the common room, I held my breath. I’d forgotten the way it smelled. It wasn’t the smell of people that startled me, rather, the odor which tried to mask it: sharp, sterile, and clinical. I tried not to flinch, but my cousin Ross saw and tried to hide his self-satisfied grin. Serves you right, he was saying, for never visiting.

            My grandfather – my Bimpa – sat talking with a much smaller withered looking man. Bimpa was still barrel-chested and wide, something all of his family inherited. His hair, while being somewhat whiter, was all still on his head. He sat in his wheelchair now, but his knees had never been that good.

            “Hi, Dad!” My father had lingered in the doorway, holding bags of Christmas presents; he was smiling, but there was something too tense about his jaw.

            When Bimpa looked up, my stomach dissolved. His eyes had the glassed-over look of a baby – seeing everything bright and new. It unsettled my brain to see that look on a face I’d only ever know as old, tired, strict, and controlling – on a face that two years ago had been telling me to keep my nose clean and not to disappoint.

            What was I supposed to do? I watched my father and cousin walk over to the person with my grandfather’s face. I followed suit, sitting on the nearby couch. The old men smelled vaguely of baby wipes. What was the proper way to start a conversation with someone you’ve always known, but looks at you with the pleasant smile of new acquaintance?

            Bimpa answered that question. “Hello!” He shouted once we’d sat. Even his voice was different; it was lighter. The gravely tone of control I had always heard as a child, telling me to get to bed, get out of the lake, or get off the roof, had faded. His voice was almost musical.

            “Hey, Dad,” my father said.

            Bimpa looked around to the withered man and nudged him with an elbow. “You’ve got some visitors, chief.”

            My father took Bimpa’s hand in both of his own. “No, no. We’re here to see you, Dad.” Bimpa stared down at them and glanced back. His eyes were shimmering; but he blinked and looked out past my father to me. And then he winked. My grandfather definitely wasn’t behind those eyes.

            Where did he go? Where was he then? I like to think it was somewhere warm. Somewhere in his past that made every corner of his chest expand with potential and feelings of possibility. Two weeks leave in Italy after VE Day, with the weight of duty lifted from his ribcage. The oranges ripe on the trees of Naples, the air pressing fresh and fierce in his lungs as he rode the borrowed motorcycle down narrow dirt roads.

            “Merry Christmas!” Ross chimed, as my father leaned in and placed a kiss on Bimpa’s whiskered cheek.

            “Oh, already Christmas, then?” Bimpa asked, stammering every word.

            “Yup.”

            “Where’s Bertha at, then?” He learned forward, either excited or confused. There were too many lines in his forehead to read clearly. A hiccup of dread caught my chest.

            “She’s not coming, Dad,” my father said clearly.

            Bimpa’s lips narrowed, hiding themselves in his frown. “Why not? It’s Christmas!”

            “Because she’s not here anymore. She’s dead.” My father’s voice didn’t waver.

            “No – she can’t be. She’s just gone out for a run. She has to be back soon.” He didn’t stammer on a single word. It was absolutely certain; wherever he was, she was there too. They were still arguing in their house by the lake, over what was the best way to cook a chicken – do a crossword – pack a suitcase. He was sighing as she kissed him on the forehead when they went to bed. He was holding her hand beneath the table at dinner.

            “No, Dad.” My father strained to say the words: “Mom died five years ago.”

            Everything about Bimpa paused. Then, with a quick burst, his eyes grew sharp and hardened. His mouth narrowed, squeezing lips white. “How?” was the only word which snuck through.

            “Cancer.” My father hung his head, his eyes squeezed tight. How many times had he had to do this before? Ross and I both shifted on the couch. “She had leukemia, don’t you remember?”

            A sob cracked from Bimpa’s ribs; shaking his face, frame, and wheelchair. He emitted no other sound, but his body continued to convulse. My father tried to touch Bimpa’s shoulder, but he was shrugged off.

            “I’m going to go get you some water,” my father said, standing. He turned to my cousin and me. “Stay with him.”

            I saw him pause at the door, roll tension from his shoulders, and disappear.

            My stomach shoved itself close and closer to my lungs. What were we doing now? Ross twitched his legs, tapping his fingers to a song in his head. Bimpa slowly breathed, still shaking. Ross slapped his knees and stood.

            “I’ve got to go take a piss, ‘kay Jess?” And he scampered without waiting for a reply.

            Seconds elapsed, and I was fully aware of the years I had spent simply not coming to this ward. The two years since Bimpa had been officially diagnosed were filled by my cunning plan of avoidance coupled with passive excuses. I did not want to see him and be reminded of her loss. It had been easy to side-step any hint of him with long semesters away in college. But now – now I saw what I had never known was missing. Where was I supposed to be? I scooted closer to my grandfather. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair suddenly, digging his too long fingernails into the hard plastic. His bottom lip had disappeared beneath his teeth.

            “Bimpa?” I called. He didn’t move; he didn’t even turn. Perhaps I was too quiet, too timid. “Bimpa!” The withered man sitting next to us looked over and gave me a toothless smile.

            I sucked air into my lungs and shouted: “Al!”

            His eyes snapped open, crisp and clear, looking directly into mine. “Jesus Christ, Bertha, what do you want?”

            My hands shook as I reached for his. He wasn’t here. He was sitting in his living room, the sun had just set, reading the paper as my grandmother vacuumed the rug. She’d asked him something about plans to go out for dinner the next day and he hadn’t heard her. He was losing his hearing. But he didn’t want to tell her that, weakness wasn’t what he was built for, so he yelled at her for mumbling – Who on earth would mumble when they had a vacuum going? Jesus Christ, Bertha, didn’t you have any sense? – But she knew. She yelled the question at him, clearing her throat and using all of her lungs: Can he hear her now? Yes. Yes he can.

            “Merry Christmas,” I said, brightly, leaning in and kissing his forehead.

© 2009 Jess Gleason