Pieces

-1-
He sits, unmoving, in an old comfortable recliner which rests in a corner of the room. The deep black coloring of the faux leather chair accentuates the paleness of his skin. Red stubble grows in patches across the shiny dome of his head. The incredible weight loss he has experienced has left his skin hanging loosely from the bone and muscle across which it was once stretched taut.
He wastes away as his wife fixes dinner in the kitchen.
His veins extend beyond the skin to machines that gather around the recliner like a small group of mechanical mourners. The “blips” and “bleeps” of the surrounding machinery mingle with the sounds coming from the television set. The sounds produced by the TV’s speakers are the result of a video game he bought for his sons two weeks before he had his first treatment, while the sounds coming from the machinery are proof that he is still among the living.
As his children lay waste to a colony of intergalactic spiders, he sits in a corner of the room being eaten alive.

-2-
I touch the brakes of the car and feel it begin to slide as I round the sandy turn. With a few quick movements I am able to regain control and steer the little Mitsubishi onto a forward course.
I watch as the trees on the right side of the dirt road bow to the left and make contact with the crowns of the trees residing on the other side, forming a leafy ceiling in the process. Darkness overtakes me as my tiny foreign car presses forward into the unlighted area beneath the trees.
It’s been almost a month since I saw my uncle and, according to my grandmother, he’s changed even more. The last time I saw him, his six-foot two-inch frame carried only a fraction of the weight it once did. He had dropped almost fifty pounds and his skin fit almost as loosely as his clothes.
But, when I spoke to my grandmother just a few days ago, she informed me that the weight loss had almost doubled. She said the doctors gave him only a few more weeks. In my opinion, the doctors had given him nothing and, instead, had taken away the one thing he had left – hope.
I blame everybody these days. I blame the doctors. I blame my family. I blame my faith. And sometimes I find myself blaming my uncle. I have absolutely no right to blame these people, especially my uncle. But I have to blame someone and when I can’t direct my anger in the direction of its main cause, I have to find other outlets.
Up ahead I can see where the road dips to accommodate a small creek. I press the gas and listen as the slight knocking made by the engine is replaced with a dull hum. The Mitsubishi picks up speed and cuts through the tiny creek, bathing the car in dirty water. The tires begin to sink into the wet sand, but the car pushes forward. When I feel like the rear tires have pulled onto dry land I take my foot from the gas pedal.
A break in the tree line signals my turn.

-3-
He hears glass shatter in the next room, followed by a soft whimpering. It is the sound his wife makes when she cries but doesn’t want him to hear. Over the past few weeks the noise has become commonplace around the house.
His eldest son sets down his controller and pulls himself up. He knows the drill. He walks to the kitchen, wraps his arms around her and lays a gentle, reassuring kiss upon her forehead. He leans back further in his chair and listens to his son’s supportive words.
Across the room his other son picks up the controller and resumes his brother’s game. His youngest son’s movements mirror his on-screen counterpart. The sound of lasers and explosions once again fill the room.
He reaches for his iced tea and realizes that it has worked up quite a sweat in the short time that it has been sitting there. The cold liquid rushes down his throat in a failed attempt to fight off the dryness and soreness his throat has suffered the past week.
The sound of the doorbell suddenly resonates throughout the house.

-4-
My aunt, Sherry, answers the door. I can tell she’s been crying. “Hey hon,” she says in a cracked verbalization. “Hi Sherry,” I reply. I attempt a smile. She tries to return the smile, but creates something even more unconvincing than my own. Sherry moves out of the door and gives me a gesture to enter. I take my cue.
Her oldest son, Steven, stands behind her with a solemn look on his face. I would guess that he’s about twelve now, but he’s always looked younger than he really was. “Hey Stephen.” “Hi,” he answers with a southern drawl.
I turn to Sherry and ask her how my uncle is doing. “Not real well,” she answers. After hearing the difficulty with which she made that final statement I choose not to pursue any more questions. Sherry informs me that my uncle’s in the living room and turns around and retreats to the kitchen. I make my way towards the living room with Stephen in tow.
I feel my heart drop as I round the corner and catch sight of my uncle.
He lies helpless in the middle of a web of tubes and wires. His skin has become so loose from weight-loss that he seems to be sixty instead of forty. His eyes look upon me with a red coloring that goes far beyond being simply bloodshot. But the smile he gives me hasn’t suffered one bit.
“It’s about time,” my uncle tells me in a voice slightly above a whisper. “You know I have better things to do than sit around and wait for you.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I say as I try to return his smile. “Run any good races lately?”
“No need,” he says, “I’ve got a catheter.”
I lean forward and envelop him with my arms. I want to squeeze him, but I actually fear that I might break his fragile bones. The hug he gives me is still powerful, but nowhere near the incredible bear hugs I once received from him.
“You look good,” I tell him.
“Bullshit,” he replies.
A sudden explosion draws my attention away from my uncle to the television, in front of which my uncle’s youngest son, Gregory, sits playing games.
I give him a quick hello, and I am rewarded with a slight nod.
My uncle offers me a seat. I examine the layout of the room and opt for a seat on a nearby sofa. My aunt and uncle have had this sofa for as long as I can remember and it has seen better days. As I sit I feel my body sink into the soft cushions of the sofa. The springs have suffered in the years since Stephen was born and have taken on double duty in the five years following Gregory’s birth. Needless to say they offer very little support.
My aunt emerges from the kitchen and asks me if I would like something to drink. I suggest a Coke. She gives me my choices and I end up with tea.
I turn my attention back to my uncle. The initial shock of seeing him in this condition is beginning to wear off and suddenly I am able to look at him and see him as my uncle again. The body may be different, but some of his most distinguishable features still remain the same. His light, blue eyes still seem to relay the happiness that they have for so many years and his smile almost makes me feel as if everything is going to be alright. Almost.
Gregory turns off his game system, stand up, and reaches towards the ceiling in an attempt to rid himself of the soreness that can only be attributed to hours of nonstop playing. He turns and begins to walk in the direction of the kitchen, but a soft voice from the opposite side of the room stops him in his tracks. “Would you open up the window, Greg?” my uncle asks. His request is answered and soon the living room is bathed in a dull light. The light oozes in from a small picture window set in the wall to my right. I turn to the window and study the scene. My aunt and uncle’s house rests in the middle of a small wooded area that is somewhat alien to this part of West Texas. The clearing in which it sits is home to not only this house, but also a garden and a small fishing pond. All of the elements found in the clearing combine to form an image that I will not soon forget. The afternoon sun is dipping below the tree line as the light from the sun glances off the fishing pond. The orange-red glow coming off of the pond enters through the window and makes itself at home. The light gives the room and otherworldly feel.
“Is it always this beautiful?” I ask.
“Not always,” my uncle replies nonchalantly, but with a quick glance I am able to determine that he’s truly impressed by the magnificent scene taking place before him.

-5-
He watches his nephew with a smile. The young man’s done well for himself and in less than a month he will graduate from college. He can’t help but think how hard this young man has had it over the course of his lifetime, but you wouldn’t think it from his normally happy demeanor. He blames himself in a way, because it was his brother who walked out on his nephew when he was only two years old. He’s spent a great deal of his life trying to make up for his brother’s mistake.
Thoughts of his brother make his stomach begin to knot. It seems so unfair. He will never see his oldest child begin high school, he won’t be able to be there to congratulate his youngest son when he begins the first grade; but most of all he will never see his children grow into manhood the way he has seen his nephew do so. He wants to witness these milestones in his children’s life, but he can’t. His brother had his opportunity, but passed it up. The knot tightens.


-6-
“Your dad came by the other day,” my uncle says in an edgy voice.
“How is he?” I ask, not really caring.
“He seems to be doing okay,” my uncle answers. “He asked about you.”
I really doubt that he asked about me, but I acknowledge his statement with a slight nod. It seems like my father is responsible for many injustices to this family, the least which being how he treated me. My father, or my “sperm donor” as my cousin Kara refers to him, decided shortly after his divorce from my mother that he wanted nothing to do with his own family, and subsequently cut off communication with his mother, father, and two sisters. He talked off and on with his baby brother for the past few years, but their closeness suffered due to this rift. I never gained any true insight into what went on between him and his family, but the stories I have heard concern his belief that the family looked down on him after he traded in his son for a new wife and two stepdaughters. My father also felt that his parents and siblings refused to accept his new wife and kids into the family. I may have been able to muster a little sympathy for his situation had it not been for the fact that his wife played a large role in keeping him away from me. But this was only one side of the story, and since my father wasn’t there to defend himself from these accusations I just automatically bought into their side of the story. Even if he was there I still don’t think I would listen.
My father had found his way back into the family on two occasions in the past ten years. The first time he came back was after the death of my grandfather. His involvement with the family seemed to last only until the reading of the will, and he once again wanted nothing to do with his family. I talked to my father at the funeral for a few, awkward minutes and I could tell that he was truly heartbroken. He hadn’t spoken to my grandfather for five years before his death and I could tell that it was tearing him apart. I feel like my grandfather’s sudden death led him back to the family almost five months ago when my uncle was first diagnosed with cancer. He still refuses to communicate with my grandmother and my two aunts, but he has called and visited my uncle regularly for the past few months.
The remainder of my visit consists of small-talk and patches of uneasy silence, none of which come close to equaling the highlight of the visit – the picturesque sunset. When my aunt and cousins retire to their bedrooms I see my opportunity to tell my uncle what I had been working up to over the course of the evening.
“Thank you,” I spit out, ending a moment of soundlessness.
A smile splits my uncle’s face and he asks, “What was that for?”
“I always hear people talk about how you need a father figure in your life; how it’s impossible to have a normal life without someone like that present. I used to think that was such B. S. I mean I’ve had such an incredible, happy life without any true father figure present. A lot of it has to do with having an incredible mother. I used to think that that was the entire reason for my happy, healthy upbringing. But ever since we found out about you being sick, I’ve been thinking. And I’ve determined something. I may not have had one man to look to for that kind of support, but instead I’ve had three: my mother’s father, and Papa, and you. You’ve been there for as long as I can remember. I remember you taking me to father-son functions; I remember all the times you called to see how I was doing; most of all, I remember your kind heart. I’ve know a lot of people who’ve lost their fathers, and it devastated ‘em. But I feel like I’m losing my father piece by piece and its tearing me apart. First Papa, now…”
I get so caught up in my speech that I’m not paying attention to the direction that it was beginning to take. I look to my uncle to see if he has noticed my near slip. The look on his face surprises me. I expect disgust, sadness, fear, but what I get catches me off guard. He’s smiling. And at that moment I come to the conclusion that my uncle knows he’s going to die, and he doesn’t need me or anyone else to sugarcoat the truth. He had accepted his fate. And with this final revelation comes the sudden realization that this will probably be the last time I see my uncle alive. He might live for a few more weeks, but suddenly it seems like this might very well be his last night on earth.
“I just want you to know how much you’ve meant to me over the years. That’s all,” I tell him. I glance at my watch and tell him that I need to be going.
I lift myself from the couch and make my way to my uncle’s chair. I bend down and wrap my arms around him. I squeeze him with all my might, no longer worrying about hurting him. He brings his mouth to my ear and in a whisper tells me, “You’ve made us all very proud. Even him.”
I don’t want to let go of him, but after a few seconds I pull away. I sweep the back of my hand beneath my eyes, wiping away any tears that might have escaped my watering eyes.
I turn and walk to the door. I open it and stare out into the darkness.
“I love you,” my uncle says in a strong voice not unlike the one he once used.
I turn back to him and tell him the same. A quick wave signals goodbye. I turn and walk through the door, letting the night take me into its cold, comforting arms.