Short Story: War Within

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War Within

My mother, Bea, learned she was terminal six months before she passed, but it hadn’t occurred to her that someone would need to sort through and handle her belongings after she died, and that responsibility fell to my younger brother, Troy, and me. Our dad, Mark, had died from a heart attack five years earlier, avoiding the difficult task. Bea had been a hoarder, and sorting through her stuff was quite the challenge.

My taller and stronger brother carried boxes and furniture to his truck to be donated to local charities while I went through Bea’s bedroom, bagging trash and boxing the rest. After discovering the furniture under the rubbish she’d accumulated, it was time to open the steamer trunk at the foot of her bed and reveal what she’d hidden from us our entire lives. I hadn’t encountered the key while cleaning and sorting, so I used bolt cutters to free the latch from the padlock.

Troy took a break from loading his truck to join me for the reveal. He was just as curious as I was to see what was inside. The moment I opened the lid, the sharp odor of mothballs hit our noses. Covering the rest of the contents, which nearly filled the trunk, was an old Hudson’s Bay blanket. Removing it, we found many trinkets, mementos, and other seemingly worthless ephemera. Nothing was particularly interesting, except for the small black ring box I uncovered at the bottom.

Disappointed and bored, Troy leaned back on Bea’s bed and stared at the ceiling while I opened the box to reveal a diamond engagement ring—the ring I now wore on my hand. Something was engraved on the inner surface of the band: “All My Love Always, Greg.”

Who was Greg?

After finding the ring, I went to Bea’s sister, Laura. I knew if anyone would know who Greg was and where I might find him, it was her. We sat over tea in Laura’s kitchen; she made khrustyky just for me.

“Greg Domoshny was Bea’s first love,” Laura said quickly, as if she’d been waiting for the moment to finally reveal what she knew.

I listened carefully, trying to ignore Little Me’s cries to plug my ears or run out of the house screaming. Chronological Me, whom I nicknamed Chrony, also needed answers.

“Were they engaged?” I asked, showing Laura the ring I wore. Auntie examined it with a fond smile.

Yes, very briefly. Bea was sly and wanted Mark for his family’s wealth and ambition, but Mark wasn’t very interested because she was too eager. So, she started dating Greg to make Mark jealous. He was a kind man but dirt poor. Her plan worked. Mark and Bea eloped two days after she accepted Greg’s ring. It’s horrible how she treated Greg. Figures she never returned the ring.

“Is Greg my real father?” I asked with bated breath.

“… I believe so, yes.”

My next question was just as important. “What happened to Greg? Where can I find him?”

Laura placed a comforting hand on mine. “I heard he moved to Chilliwack not long after Bea eloped. He became an accountant. I think he married and had kids.” She shrugged. “I don’t know anything after that.”

I left her place with more questions than answers and spent the next week on my laptop, using Google and other search engines to hunt for Greg Domoshny, accountant in Chilliwack. I found an old webpage for Domoshny Chartered Accounting that hadn’t been updated in a couple of years. The business address looked like a residential address; he probably works from home. There was only one Gmail account and phone number listed.

Little Me argued that this wasn’t the man I was looking for and told me not to call. Chrony asked, “What can it hurt to try?” Since I rarely did, I listened to her calm voice beneath Little Me’s screaming.

First, I emailed him, but after a week with no response, I worked up the courage to call the phone number. After several rings, I was about to hang up when a gravelly male voice answered, “Domoshny Accounting?” He sounded uncertain. Was that about his business or concerning me?

“Am I speaking to Greg Domoshny?” I asked timidly, my mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton balls.

There was a long pause before he answered, “It is.”

This was odd. Was this how someone normally answered a business line and spoke to a potential client? Maybe this was also his personal number, and the business was already gone?

“Who’s asking?” he quickly added before I could respond. “I don’t recognize your area code. Alberta?”

I took a quick breath. I could hang up and dodge the risk of rejection, but then I would never know the truth for sure. I had to take the scary leap of faith.

“My name is Maeve Roberts. I’m Beatrice Hawrelak’s daughter.”

Would using Bea’s maiden name trigger his memory, soften his heart, or harden it? Did time heal old wounds or leave them to fester?

Greg cleared his throat a few times. “I haven’t had anything to do with Bea in decades.”

At least I knew from his response that I had the right Greg. What should I say now? The truth—that I was searching for my real father and suspected he was him? I couldn’t think of a creative lie.

“I want to talk with you about my mother and you, sir. Bea died recently without telling me the truth about my paternity…. I found the engagement ring you gave her just a few months before my birth. I think… You may be my father.”

I held my breath and waited for his response. All I could hear was heavier, faster breathing before the click of him hanging up the call.

Disappointed, I cried for two straight days, and Troy told me to stop searching and accept that Mark was my father. Of course, my brother didn’t know that Mark had raped me repeatedly from when I was five until I was twelve. Nor would he ever find out about that, at least not from me. I could never accept Mark.

After I stopped crying and listening to Little Me cheer and jeer, I heard Chrony softly say over the chaos, “Don’t give up.”

Her voice was so calm and reassuring that I listened to her again. The next thing I knew, I told Troy I was leaving and found myself on the road from Edmonton to Chilliwack, not knowing whether my ‘99 Corolla would make it through the mountains of British Columbia.

I arrived at the well-maintained trailer park on the outskirts of Chilliwack fifteen hours later. An older red Ford F-150 sat on the small gravel pad next to the standard-width trailer with blue siding and white wood lattice skirting at its base. Plain beige curtains had been drawn over all the windows, hiding the interior from view. I parked my old beater on the street in front of number 143 and sat behind the wheel, observing the small trailer for nearly twenty minutes before gathering the courage to leave my car and walk up to the front door.

Greg answered his doorbell instantly, almost as if he’d been expecting me. I looked at him with wonder. Dressed in a t-shirt and faded blue jeans, both of which were too big for his gaunt frame, and aside from the age, gender differences, and sallowness of his skin, staring at him was like looking in a mirror.

He probably thought the same thing when he looked at me. A sigh escaped him, and he nodded resignedly. “I knew you’d come anyway.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He stepped back enough to let me pass and waved his hand, indicating I could enter his house if I wanted to. I did.

His home had an open layout for the living spaces and was decorated with older furniture, complemented by newer items mostly from IKEA. In his kitchen, I saw he had washed just one plate and glass. Two chairs sat at the small wooden dining table, with only a single empty coffee mug on it. Near the toaster, there was a plastic container filled with colorful tablets and capsules, and a pharmacy bag full of pill bottles was nearby. His walls were mostly bare, except for three photos of teenagers who looked remarkably like me, and a wall plaque above the front door. The photos showed the teens in high school graduation gowns and were framed in inexpensive gold-painted frames. The wall plaque displayed the Serenity Prayer hand-painted in black cursive. 

He offered me something to drink. I said ‘coffee,’ and he warmed me a mug in the microwave. We sat silently at his dining room table for several minutes before he spoke.

“Why’d you come?”

I examined his lined, jaundiced face. I knew enough pop medicine to realize he was very sick. His liver was failing—definitely not good. He didn’t seem to have much time left.

“I need to know,” I said with a single-shoulder shrug, “where I fit in. I never have.”

“Whaddya mean? You had your mom and dad.”

“I had Mark,” I said with a bitter taste in my mouth that showed on my face. “I didn’t look or act anything like him or the rest of my family. And he hurt me. Badly. Never wanted me. Neither did Mom, for that matter. They never hugged me or told me they loved me. Then Mom died before telling me the truth.”

I was embarrassed by how much had just spilled out of my mouth and avoided looking him in the eyes.

“And now you want that from me?” His tone softened, and when I looked at his face, it relaxed too.

“I don’t know what I want…. To belong to someone, I guess.” I pointed at the photos with my chin. “Your kids?”

“Yup. All grown.”

“You divorced?”

“Ten years.”

“Why?”

He chuckled, but it sounded more like a cough. “Because I’m a recovering drunk. Began drinking the day Bea married your dad. Never really stopped, and it got worse over time. I drove her and our kids away.”

My eyes scanned his house, especially the kitchen. I saw no signs of alcohol bottles or cans anywhere. Everything was spotless. “You don’t drink anymore.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Sober two years, three months, seventeen days, all thanks to Jesus.”

“Good for you,” I said sincerely.

He nodded in acceptance of my praise. “But I killed my liver. Now it’s killing me. You came just in time to get your answers. A few more days or weeks, and….”

“Cirrhosis?”

He nodded.

“You need a transplant?” Another rhetorical question. I looked at the photographs on the wall again. “What about them?”

“They match but aren’t interested in helping the drunk who ruined their lives. Can’t blame ‘em. Why do you care?”

“I told you why.”

Again, there was a minute of silence. I tried to hide my discomfort behind sips of stale coffee. Little Me knew what I was thinking before I did, and she was already squawking.

“Best matches are family, right?’ I asked, my hands trembling as I set my mug on the table.

“I told you, they were tested—”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I asked. Family is still your best chance, right?”

He nodded, staring down into his empty mug again.

“Well then,” I said and swallowed hard. “Could I… might I be a match?”

I held my breath, waiting for his answer. His dark eyes locked onto mine, knowing exactly what I was asking. 

“Could.”

It was the answer I’d been waiting my entire life to hear. Little Me screamed, of course, and Chrony was strangely silent. It would have been so easy to get up and run from his trailer and never look back. But I didn’t.

“Where do I go to be tested?”

His eyes narrowed, and I saw the same distrust in them that I saw every time I looked at myself. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

“That’s the point,” I whispered before extending my hand and showing him his ring. “Because there’s a good chance I could be a match... and it would give me the time I need to find out from you who I am and where I came from. It’ll be worth it.”

His eyes lit up with something similar to hope, and I silently told Little Me to shut her yap. After some more convincing, I got Greg on the phone with his doctor, planning for the tests.

I stayed at a Best Western that night, and the next morning I drove him to the hospital in Vancouver, where I was tested to see if my markers matched his well enough for a living donation. The tests were relatively painless for me, but as they were conducted, Greg collapsed in the waiting room and was taken to the hospital’s emergency room. His clock had just wound down. I’d arrived just in time. I sat with him while waiting for the doctor to return with news.

“The results are in,” Dr. LeRay said. “You’re a perfect match.”

Most people hearing those words would have jumped for joy and immediately planned with the hospital and surgeons, but I wasn’t like most people, never had been. The news, although half-expected, filled me with a strange mix of relief and dread, joy and sadness. Genetics hadn’t made the decision, so now it was up to me.

As usual, Little Me screamed, “Run!”

And, so, I did.

Before anyone could approach me with consent papers, I abandoned my hope of connection in Greg’s ICU room, got in my car, and headed for Highway 1 and home. Little Me congratulated me by easing my anxiety, but Chrony weighed me down with guilt and shame. The two argued nonstop between Vancouver and Hope, and finally, I had to pull off the highway into the small town to pause and think. It wasn’t a decision I could make while driving.

I stopped at a small family restaurant as it was nearly lunchtime. I hadn’t eaten much in the past couple of days. My stomach growled, and I had a headache. There were eight tables in the small dining room, six of which were occupied by locals. A take-out counter, which also served as the host station, and the cash register were beside the door. Seeing no sign telling me to wait to be seated, I sat at a Formica two-top near the window and the emergency exit at the back. The only person I saw working was a lone server who was carrying four plates from the kitchen to another table of senior citizens. 

Despite Little Me’s insistence that I get back behind the wheel and return to Edmonton quickly, and Chrony’s urging to turn around and go back to the hospital, my stomach settled the issue for now.

I spun the engagement ring around my left middle finger, watching the square-cut diamond sparkle in the sunlight. The white-gold band was too big for my ring finger and was never meant to fit me.

The server came to take my drink order; I quickly chose the special from the menu board, not wanting to waste time. Little Me and Chrony still battled in my mind. I didn’t know who would win or how soon I’d have to leave. It occurred to me that an outside perspective might shift the balance of power and help me make a decision. 

I had filled my brother in on the liver transplant situation while still at the hospital. Then I took out my phone and texted Troy again. Hey.

I sipped my Diet Pepsi and watched the iPhone screen for his reply. As I did, a man in his mid-to-late thirties entered the diner, holding the hand of a towheaded girl no older than five. She beamed with trust and enthusiasm up at the man, whom I assumed was her dad, and he looked down at her with an expression of pure indulgence. It was sweet, wonderful, and filled me with envy. They took the table next to mine.

My iPhone chirped at me, drawing my attention.

It was Troy. You a match?

My hands trembled as I cradled the phone, and my thumbs tapped, Yup.

Gonna do it?

That was the million-dollar question. Would Little Me win another battle? Or would I end up back in the hospital and let Chrony take the victory this time? Little Me almost always won. She kept me safe by steering me away from risks that could sink me or let me soar. Security had its trade-off. I may have always been safe, but I’d never learned how to fly, and my wings were mighty itchy.

I took another long sip from my straw. Don’t know what to do.

You won’t do it, he replied. You’ll come home, just like always.

Little Me cheered, and Chrony wanted to tell him to go to Blazes. He had every right to feel confident, though. I hadn’t gone to my high school graduation banquet because I hadn’t had a date, and I’d had no date because Little Me told me I couldn’t trust the cute guy who had asked me to go with him. Little Me didn’t trust any man. I’d listened to her. Now, I was graduating in a month with my degree in education. I’d dreamt of becoming a doctor since childhood, but Little Me had convinced me that I couldn’t handle the pressures of medical school. Consequently, I was going to be a teacher instead. And I hated teaching.

The server brought my food and refilled my drink. As I ate, I watched the second hand on the kitschy Dairyland Milk Jug wall clock as it ticked away the time. Greg’s time. How many seconds could he possibly have left?

I finished the last French fry on my plate and realized I had to make a decision. I couldn’t stay in the diner all day. One of the ‘MEs’ had to win the debate, and I was the judge.

But because of Little Me, I still hadn’t ever had a serious boyfriend. I was going into teaching instead of medicine. And a man lay dying in the hospital while I battled myself in the dining room of a small-town greasy spoon.

Chrony didn’t want me to miss out on life anymore. She told me to stop running away like a five-year-old. I needed to take risks because only then could I truly understand what it meant to be alive. But she spoke so softly that I had to strain to hear her most of the time.

My iPhone beeped again. It was Greg’s internist. He texted to check if I was ready to go ahead with the procedure. Greg was quickly deteriorating and would soon be too weak to survive the surgery. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, unsure of what to type.

As I paid the server in cash for my meal, a wave of shame washed over me. I had let both Greg and myself down—again. Tears welled up in my eyes as the little girl in the dining area giggled when her father teased her.

“You okay, Hun?” the server asked me, handing me the change.

I told her to keep it, then whispered, “Yeah. I just gotta go back where I belong.”

#

Two days later, my nurse wheeled me from my hospital room to Greg Domoshny in the ICU. I felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck, but my desire to see him outweighed my body’s protests — or Little Me’s. I’d been begging to see him since I woke up in the post-surgical recovery room. I sat beside his bed, where he seemed to be sleeping. But when I took hold of his hand, his eyes fluttered open and looked directly at me.

He smiled with both his eyes and mouth when he saw me. It was the first time anyone had looked at me that way. My chest tightened, and I blinked back tears.

“Thank you,” he whispered. He received oxygen through the cannula in his nose so he could speak, but he was too weak to say more than a whisper.

“You can thank me when you’re better,” I assured him with a wink. “I expect full repayment. Lots of stories about you, your family, my family. I need to catch up. I’ve missed a lifetime already. I don’t want to miss any more."

“It’s a deal,” he said before his eyes fluttered closed again, and he went back to sleep.

I sat with him, studying the face that was so much like my own, and finally felt a connection with someone I barely knew but already shared so much. A literal physical bond now connected us, not just DNA.

And for the first time in a very long time, Little Me remained silent.

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