Do
what Dad says, but think what you want. He is a shriveled,
jaundiced thing, and his phantom limbs are as corporeal as your phantom
sister, the pain of them proof that he will not be outlasting anyone as
predicted.
Take dictation – fluff his pillow in the morning, change the
channel now and then, turn out the lights when you see he’s
asleep, enact your revenge with double-knotted bows and dirty
linen. Every happy family is as corporeal as his phantom
limbs. The unhappy ones are like us. We are tired and angry
phantoms. Admit it. Just ask yourself when you do what Dad
says. Why are you so tired?
Take dictation – take your vitamins. No, the ones that make
you tired. Change the bedpan, bite your tongue. Next time
do it before you try to remind him that his arms and legs are attached
to his shoulders and crotch, respectively, respectfully enough.
Not for him. Bite your tongue again while he berates you for the
reminder, but think what you want. Think the bathroom is five
feet from his ass. Even his voice is shriveled and
jaundiced. Even as it tells you it is going to outlast you all it
is falling asleep. The process can take hours. Try not to
gag when the process has taken its time. Try not to jitter while
trying not to gag.
Take dictation – warm up something from a can, take your vitamins
and mix them in, take it to him, spoonfeed, wipe, repeat. Try not
to think of the airplane game. Try not to laugh when you think of
the airplane game. He is too tired to care, but don’t
push. Ask yourself while you do what he would say. Why are
you so sad?
Be your own dictator – turn him on his side so his phantom limbs
don’t get phantom bedsores. Ask yourself while you watch
him look like a sleeping baby. Will this shriveled baby outlast
us all? How will this jaundiced baby last with us all gone?
Is this phantom tired or is it another unhappy trick? Tell him
you were not talking to yourself. Tell him you were talking to
your corporeal sister. Tell him you do so have a
sister.
I’m sorry. This has been my fault, but you will have to do
what Dad says. Think what you want. Think we all thought he
would be more tired than he is. Think who is tricking
whom.
Take dictation – put him back on his back, change the channel, go
start a pot of coffee, take it to him, spoonfeed, wipe, repeat.
Apologize for the airplane game. Apologize for the laughter, all
laughter everywhere, and for babies who are children who will outlast
their parents. Apologize for being so dramatic. Apologize
for spilling about a drop of coffee on his shriveled, jaundiced
chest. Try not to spill anymore. Tell him to stop
screaming. Ask him to stop screaming. Plead. Try not
to notice how he fans the burnsite with his phantom arms, but if you
do, bite your tongue. You’re learning.
Take dictation – go get a bag of ice, notice the ice cream beside the ice cubes.
Be your own dictator – make up for it all with a bowl of ice
cream. Take your vitamins, crush them up and sprinkle them
on. Don’t be stupid, they don’t look like
sprinkles. Slather the ice cream in chocolate syrup, take it to
him, apologize, go get the bag of ice, apply, apologize again,
spoonfeed, wipe, repeat. Think what you want. Think how did
you ever think that the airplane game was funny. Do not do the
airplane game. Don’t be so sad. Your trick is
working, this time it is. He’s tired, so tired that he
doesn’t stop himself from pushing away your corporeal arm with
his phantom arm while dribbling the previous mouthful down his
shriveled baby chin. Wipe. Say there, there if you
can’t resist. Say Dad. Dad? Are you
awake? Poke him with a finger. Not in a phantom limb.
Poke him on the chest. Say are you awake.
Be the only dictator – turn him on his side. Don’t
think about the cold, rubbery feel of his baby body. Don’t
look at all. Don’t look back. Do what you want for a
while. Sit in a chair at the kitchen table and think what you
want. What do you want? Do you want an unhappy
family? A family is happiest when it wants what it has.
This family has any number of phantoms. Which phantom is
angriest, the chicken or the egg. Go be a chicken or an
egg. Take another vitamin if you’re chicken, but go do
it. Do what Dad wants. Think what Dad says.
Don’t look at him. Don’t think about how his skin
glows jaundice in the dark. Stop thinking.
I’ll be your dictator – reach under the bed for the soiled
sheets. They’re soiled. All the better. Say Dad
you soiled the sheets. When he doesn’t respond say my Dad
is a phantom shit factory, a big yellow armless legless baby with arms
and legs, my Dad is good for nothing but spoonfeed wipe repeat.
Keep it up, not louder but going. Check for rapid eye movement
while you lay the soiled bedclothes on the floor beside the
couch. It means he’s asleep but not too deep. It
means your monologue is being the dictator of his phantom dreams.
It means just a tweak in volume when the time is right and things will
go exactly as you want for once. Don’t talk to your
corporeal sister. Not now. Say you know as well as I do
that I believe in you but I’m in the middle of something
that’s not going to do itself and if you want to watch you can
but it isn’t going to be pretty.
You need a new dictator – get back to Dad quick. Tell him
you never ever believed he would really outlast you all.
Lie. Tell him you hardly expect him to outlast the night.
Separate the strips you ripped last night from the mostly intact and in
any case corporeal mass of the soiled sheet. Use the strips to
tie your father’s phantom limbs together, wrist to wrist behind
his back, go easy if he stirs. Grin when he doesn’t wake
up. Say What. What would you do about it anyway, baby
Dad? Your sadness is the last thing on your mind now, isn’t
it?
Try dictating for yourself again – raise the volume slowly as you
lift the soiled sheet to his ear. Go ahead and put it down to
double check the knots if you must. Continue to raise the volume
as you lift the sheet again.
Take Dictaphone – press record and lay it on the couch beside
Dad’s head. Lower your mouth to Dad’s ear and raise
the sheet. Talk while you tear. Say Dad this is the sound
of tearing, of anything tearing, a sheet, a skin, a limb from a
limb. Raise the volume as he startles awake. Tell him you
are tearing him to pieces as you start another strip. Throw the
first strip in the air and watch it flutter like a long, wrong
snowflake to your father’s face and laugh as he struggles then
whimpers, begs and finally cries saying he wants his arms back, his
legs, how he knows you are good and he is bad and how he can he fix
this. But he can’t, because for now you’ve forgotten
your sadness, and the memory of his miserable face and the sound on the
tape and the fact that you’ve left your father’s phantom
limbs bound on the couch with him will keep you company until you fall
asleep and wake to clean up your mess.