Short Story: War Within

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Here’s a short story I wrote. Please enjoy and comment!

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War Within

My mother, Bea, had learned she was terminal six months before she passed, but it hadn’t occurred to her that someone would have to sort through and deal with her stuff after she died and that responsibility fell to my younger brother, Troy, and me. Our dad, Mark, had kicked off from a heart attack five years before Bea, avoiding the onerous task. Bea had been a hoarder, and sorting the wheat from the chaff was quite the undertaking.

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 finding 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 and then some. I hadn’t encountered the key while cleaning and sorting, so I employed bolt cutters to liberate 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 pungent odor of mothballs stung our noses. Covering the rest of the contents, which half filled the trunk, was an old Hudson’s Bay blanket. Removing it, we found many trinkets, mementos, and other seemingly worthless ephemera. Nothing was interesting except the small black ring box I uncovered at the bottom.

Disappointed and bored, Troy lay back on Bea’s bed and stared at the ceiling while I opened the box to find a diamond engagement ring—the ring I now wore on my hand. Something was engraved on the band's inner surface: “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 awaiting the day when she could finally reveal what she knew.

I listened intently, forcing myself to ignore Little Me’s cries to plug my ears or run out of the house screaming. Chronological Me, whom I nicknamed Chrony, needed answers, too.

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

“Yes, very briefly. Bea was wily and wanted Mark because of his family’s wealth and ambition, but Mark wasn’t all that interested in return because she was too eager. So, she took up with Greg to make Mark jealous. He was a sweet man but poor as dirt. Her scheme worked. Mark and Bea eloped two days after she accepted Greg’s ring. 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 crucial. “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, employing Google and the other search engines in my hunt for Greg Domoshny, accountant, and Chilliwack. I came across an abandoned webpage for Domoshny Chartered Accounting. It hadn’t been updated in a couple of years. The address for the business appeared to be residential; he must work out of his home. There was only one Gmail account and phone number listed.

Little Me argued that this wasn’t the man I sought and not to call. Chrony asked, “What can it hurt to try?” As I rarely did, I listened to her calm voice under Little Me’s screaming.

First, I emailed him, but after a week without a response, I gathered 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, timid. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls.

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

This was odd. Was this how someone answered a business number and talked to a potential client? Perhaps this was also his private number, and the business was no more?

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

I took a sudden breath. I could end the call and avoid the risk of rejection, but then I would never know the truth for certain. I had to take the terrifying 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 couple of times. “I haven’t had anything to do with Bea in decades.”

At least I knew from his response that I had the correct Greg. What was I to say now? The truth—that I was looking for my true father and suspected he was him? I couldn’t think of a creative lie, so I was honest.

“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, quicker breathing before the click of him ending the phone call.

Disappointed, I cried for two solid days, and Troy told me to give up my search and accept that Mark was my dad. 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 learn about that, at least not from me. I could never embrace Mark.

After I stopped crying and listening to Little Me cheer and jeer, I heard Chrony say softly 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 if my ‘99 Corolla would make it through the mountains that made up British Columbia.

I arrived at the well-maintained trailer park on the outskirts of Chilliwack fifteen hours later. An older red Ford 150 sat on the small gravel pad next to the standard width with blue siding and white wood lattice skirting all around its base. Plain beige curtains had been drawn over all the windows, hiding the inside from the outside. 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 I found the courage to leave my car and walk up to the front door.

Greg answered his doorbell immediately, almost as if he’d been expecting me. I gazed upon him with wonder. Clad in a t-shirt and faded blue jeans, both of which were too large on his gaunt form, and aside from the age, gender differences, and sallowness of his skin, staring at him was like looking in a mirror.

He must have thought the same thing looking at me. A sigh escaped him, and he nodded with resignation. “I knew you’d come anyway.”

I didn’t know what to say.

He stepped back enough to allow me past and waved with his hand that I could enter his home if I wanted to. I did.

His home was that of a neat and tidy bachelor. It boasted an open floor plan for the living spaces and was simply furnished with older furniture supplemented with newer additions, mostly purchased from IKEA. I saw in his kitchen that he had washed a single plate and glass. Two chairs were placed at the small wooden dining room table, but only one empty coffee mug sat on it. Near the toaster was a plastic sorter filled with colorful tablets and capsules, and a pharmacy bag full of pill bottles rested next to it. His walls were bare except for a triad of photos of three teenagers looking strikingly like me and a wall plaque above the front door. In the photographs, the teens wore their high school graduation gowns and were framed in cheap 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 rewarmed 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 studied his lined, jaundiced face. I knew enough pop medicine to be aware that he was very ill. His liver was failing—not good. He didn’t look long for this world.

“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 itself 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 come bubbling out of my mouth and avoided looking him in the eyes.

“And now you want that from me?” His tone had softened, and when I scanned his face, it had 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 searched his house, particularly the kitchen. I didn’t see any evidence of alcohol bottles or cans anywhere. Everything was spic and span. “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 captured mine and held them; he knew what I was asking.

“Could.”

It was the answer I’d been waiting my entire life to hear. Little Me shrieked, of course, and Chrony was oddly 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 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 an excellent chance I could be a match… and it would buy 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 akin to hope, and I silently told Little Me to shut her yap. After a little more convincing, I had 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 in the nick of 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 planned with the hospital and surgeons immediately, but I wasn’t like most people, never had been. The news, though half-expected, filled me with the odd combination of relief and dread, joy and sadness. Genetics hadn’t decided, so now it was up to me.

As usual, Little Me screamed, “Run!”

And, so, typically, I did.

Before anyone could approach me with consent papers, I abandoned my hope of connection in Greg’s ICU room, hopped in my car, and headed for Highway 1 and home. Little Me congratulated me by lowering my anxiety, but Chrony burdened me with guilt and shame. The two argued non-stop 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. It was nearly lunchtime. I hadn’t eaten much in the past couple of days. My stomach growled, and my head ached. Eight tables were in the small dining room, six taken by locals. A take-out counter-slash-host station and the cash register were beside the door. Seeing no sign instructing me to wait to be seated, I sat at a Formica two-top near the window and emergency exit at the back. The only person I saw working was a lone server 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 post-haste and Chrony’s urging to turn around and return to the hospital, my stomach settled the issue for the moment.

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

The server came to take my drink order; I ordered the special on the menu board immediately, not wanting to waste time. Little Me and Chrony still waged war in my mind. I didn’t know who would win or how quickly I would have to leave. It occurred to me that an outside perspective might tip the balance of power and help me decide what to do.

I’d filled my brother in on the liver transplant situation. Now 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 more than five years old. She beamed with trust and enthusiasm up at the man, who I assumed was her dad, and he stared back down at her with an expression of pure indulgence. It was sweet and wonderful and drowned me with envy. They took up the table next to mine.

My iPhone chirped at me, catching my attention.

It was Troy. You a match?

My hands trembled as they 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 return to the hospital and give Chrony 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, like usual.

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 graduated 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 knew I had to decide. I couldn’t loiter 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 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 know 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 determine if I was prepared to proceed with the procedure. Greg was quickly failing and would soon be too weak to survive the surgery. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, uncertain of what to punch in.

As I paid the server for my meal in cash, I never felt so ashamed. I’d failed not only Greg but myself, too. Again. Tears leaked from my eyes as the little girl in the dining room giggled when her father teased her.

“You okay, Hun?” the server asked me, offering me 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 room at the hospital to Greg Domoshny’s ICU room. I felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck, but my eagerness to see him was stronger than my body’s protests—or Little Me’s. I’d only been begging to be taken to see him from the moment I woke up in the post-surgical recovery room. I sat next to his bed, where he appeared to be sleeping, but when I took hold of his hand, his eyes fluttered open and looked straight at me.

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

“Thank you,” he whispered. He was fed oxygen through the cannula in his nose so he could speak, but he was too weak to offer 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 be caught up. I’ve missed a lifetime already. I don’t want to miss anymore.”

“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 my own, and finally felt a connection with someone I barely knew but shared so much with already. A literal physical bond connected us now, not just DNA.

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

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