My Father Is Younger Than Me

THEN

My father never looked serious, even when he gave me the most serious news in his life.

“They say it’s terminal.”

I didn’t answer. There didn’t seem to be anything I could say in response.

“Not short term,” he added, “but I’m unlikely to survive another two years.”

I let it sink in. We had never been close – he had split with my mother when I was very young – but he had always been there, or thereabouts, and he was a very rich man who had made sure I had a comfortable life. He smiled. It seemed inappropriate.

“But I’m doing something about it.”

“What?”

“Going into suspension. I’ve signed the forms. It will happen in about a month.”

Again I struggled to respond. I had read and watched reports about suspension – a sort of cryogenic coma available to people with a lot of money with terminal conditions – but like most people I hadn’t worked out if it was a good or bad thing.

“Is it safe?” I asked.

“Safer than hanging around to die within the next two years.”

“How long will it last?”

“Until they find a cure and can bring me back. Or two hundred years, whichever comes first.”

“And what will you do if they bring you back?”

“Exactly what I’ve done for the past fifty-four years, make the most of life, whatever it involves when I come back.”

His smile broadened. He could pass for ten years younger, thanks to weekly facial massages and some very expensive dental work, and he had a knack of making his enthusiasm for anything contagious. But at that moment I wasn’t sharing it.

“This is weird.”

“I know, not exactly the normal run of life, but it’s progress. The wonders of modern science. I know it’s only available for a tiny number of us, but I’m one of the lucky few, so why not take advantage? It’s a big adventure.”

I stayed quiet for a moment. He took my hand, gave it a gentle squeeze and kept smiling.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be well provided for. I’ve made rock solid financial arrangements that will keep you comfortable for life; and if you have any kids it will give them a good start. It’s the same for your mother.”

“Does she know?”

“I’m going to tell her tomorrow.”

He held the smile, a mighty effort at reassurance, but an awkward thought popped into my head.

“What if they bring you back after I’ve gone?”

There was a momentary twitch, a vague hint of discomfort, but he quickly recovered.

“That’s one of the outside possibilities. The way medical science is going they should have a cure for me within five, ten years. You’ll be middle aged. We’ll have plenty more time together.”

Really?

“Another thing,” he said. “I’d like you to be there at the moment they put me to sleep. It’s an emotional thing.”

That was another surprise.

“Me?”

“Of course. You’re my oldest, and the closest.”

Now I felt a little confused. I had never considered us to be close, but I suddenly realised that, after his three broken marriages and five kids, it would be me he felt closest to.  It was the first time I had ever felt he needed me. I agreed to do it.

 

NOW

I feel it won’t be long. My mind still works but I’m shrinking, my skin is growing thinner, limbs are weakening and my bowels are restless. I’ve lost the energy to read and although they turn on the TV in the evening I’m losing interest. The carers are professionally kind and, while I have no children and my wife and siblings are all gone, I still receive occasional visits from nephews and nieces, with smiles and chatter for me to enjoy for a short while. But I tire easily and I’m sleeping more. It might be weeks or months but I’m not expecting another birthday.

Marcelle enters the room, takes my pulse and ensures I drink some water. She’s the senior carer, a personal employee and working for me long enough to be a friend. I notice a hint of anxiety.

“What’s got to you?” I ask. “Still fretting about that football team you support?”

She smiles, then sits in the chair facing mine.

“I don’t know how you’ll take this,” she says. “I told you a few months ago that the government had decided to bring those people out of their suspensions.”

It had fallen from my mind but immediately came back.

“I remember, and they expected most wouldn’t survive. It hasn’t worked very well.”

“A few have come back. One of them’s your father.”

“He’s alive?”

She nods. My mind struggles to grasp what it means. It had been more than sixty years, and at least forty since I had written him off as a casualty of the fragile science and politicians’ battles over the ethics of bringing them back. Most of the first few revived had quickly died, the arguments flared up again and continued for decades. They never told me he would die, but I didn’t expect him to live again.

“Do you know how he is?”

“I understand he’s doing OK. He wants to see you.”

She doesn’t press me for a response, but holds my hand in an understanding silence, allowing emotions to settle. I feel a vague fear, but remember the comfortable life that he gave me and agree to see him.

 

He arrives the following day, looking much the same as I remember him; a little thinner and paler but with same self-confident smile and in a sharp blue blazer and black shirt and trousers. He says ‘Hullo son’ then stops and stares, realising the absurdity of what he has just said. I reply.

“That’s weird, given the way you look and the way I look.”

He recovers the smile, with a visible effort, and speaks quietly.

“How do you feel? I heard you haven’t been good.”

“What do you expect? You haven’t seen me for over sixty years.”

“You’re right. I didn’t think it would be that long.”

“Do you know what’s happened? All the others who died and all the legal rows?”

“I’ve been told. I suppose nobody expected all that.”

It was nonsense. The rows had begun before he went into suspension and there had been plenty of warnings, ignored by the corporations and a compliant government, that it wouldn’t work.

“What about you?” I asked. “I know they developed a cure a long time ago.”

“That’s right. I’m going in for the treatment the day after tomorrow. I’ll be recuperating for a while, then we can spend some time together.”

“You had better recuperate quickly, because I don’t have long.”

He forces his smile a little wider.

“We’ll see.”

We talk for a few minutes more: I tell him about the lives of my mother, brother and sister and what I know of his other wives and children, but it soon wears me out. He squeezes my hand and says he’ll be back.

 

I’m little changed when he returns. I notice that he has put on some weight, the colour has returned to his face and he moves more easily. It seems he’s a fit man in his fifties again.

“So it worked?”

“It worked,” he says. “They reckon I’ve got another thirty, forty, fifty years. They tell me a lot of people are living past a hundred these days.”

“True, although I think quite a few wonder if there’s a point to it.”

“Not you I hope.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze and smiles again.

“Be serious.”

There’s a twist in his smile, a moment of embarrassment, then I push it away.

“So what are your plans? I suppose you’ll be getting laid as soon as you can.”

It gives him an excuse for a quiet laugh, then to remove his hand from mine and sit beside the bed.

“I’ll have some nights out, see what happens.” He has the money to ensure something will happen. “But I’ve been looking into my business holdings. Most have done well while I’ve been away, but some could do better, and a few have died out.”

“I’ve been watching. You had some good people working for you.”

“I know, but I want to be active again. I’ll take some time to grasp details then get stuck in.”

“It’s a different world.”

“I know, but I’ve always been adaptable. I’ll make it work.”

That’s true; it’s a big part of his talent for making money. I want to say something else, can’t think what, close my eyes, and when I awake he’s gone.

 

A couple more visits. He talks about the business, what he thinks of the new world he’s woken up to, where there could be new opportunities to make new piles of money. I suspect that he really is capable of doing it all over again. I ask about his nights out, how much fun he’s having. He acknowledges that he’s been enjoying himself but glosses over details. It’s the same when I ask how he’s feeling physically. He’s clearly in good shape but seems reluctant to say it openly. It would emphasise that big freak of nature between us: my father is much younger than me.

Meanwhile I’m growing weaker, feeling sustained shots of pain. I can’t walk any more, eating and drinking is an effort and any conversation tires me out within minutes. I’ve still got control of my bowels but once that goes I don’t want to stay here any longer.

 

Now it won’t be long. My breathing is laboured, a tube is inserted into my arm and the pains are spread more widely and last longer. I’ve asked for assistance in passing away but they say I still haven’t reached the threshold to qualify. I guess I’ll have reached it five minutes after I die. They tell me my father is coming to see me again. It’s late before he appears; the window blinds have been drawn, the lights dimmed and I hope he doesn’t expect to stay for long. I don’t have the energy for a conversation.

I notice that he is dressed differently, no blazer but a black bomber jacket, T-shirt and chinos. He’s accompanied by a nurse who looks at me, checks the monitors beside my bed and tells him to keep it to a few minutes. He responds with a gentle smile, says “That’s all we’ll need”, and as she leaves the room pushes the door so it is slightly ajar. Then he slips off his shoes and sits on the bed beside me. He holds the smile, but there’s a heavy sadness behind it. I’ve never seen it in him before.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Exhausted.”

“I’ve heard that you’ve asked for an ending.”

“I have. They’ve said not yet. I’m feeling impatient.”

“I can imagine.”

“You’re not going to cheer me up.”

“I’m not going to lie. You look terrible.”

It makes me laugh, and that wears me out more. There are moments of silence, then he speaks again.

“Have you enjoyed your life?”

“Overall, yes. It helped that you left me with a lot of money.”

“Well you’re my son.”

“No-one would guess.”

His smile broadens for a moment, then disappears.

“This weird,” I say. “I know some people watch their children die, but not like this.”

“I know.”

He looks away from me. I can’t see his face, but he lifts his spare hand to his cheek, as if wiping away a tear. That’s another first.

“More than weird,” he says. “Unnatural. Wrong.”

I’m surprised.

“Don’t think that. You did what seemed right at the time. And everybody thought you’d be back much earlier, before my age had caught up with yours.”

“Well, I …..” He trails off. I think to myself that nobody has had a conversation like this before, and it’s hard to find the right words.

He stands, walks around the bed then slips a hand under my back and eases me to one side. Then he goes back to the other and sits on the bed with his feet up.

“If a nurse comes in you’ll be in the shit.”

“It won’t matter.”

He takes my hand again and we sit in silence for a couple of minutes. Then he quietly asks a question.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Of course.”

“I can help.”

I don’t reply, but turn my head to see him remove something from the pocket of his jacket. It’s a small metallic tumbler, the type that comes with a hip flask, and a vial of clear liquid. I realise it’s for me.

“This will get you into trouble.”

“No it won’t.”

“Your money won’t protect you.”

“No need for that.”

He releases my hand and takes the tumbler, and it’s only then that I realise he has two of them and two vials. I realise what he’s doing.

“Don’t tell me the other one’s for you.”

“Why not?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“It’s what I want.”

I struggle for a moment, then find the words.

“No. You don’t have to.”

“Please son. I want to.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been thinking, and I don’t want to be here once you’ve gone. And doing it like this I can make it easier for both of us.”

“You could have another life.”

“I don’t want one. I had a very good life and that was enough. I should have thought about it more, that I might have come back to this.”

He turns towards me. There’s a tear on his cheek and the smile is still there, but now the sadness is gone. He looks happy. Suddenly, I feel better; not physically, but in my soul. I manage to move my hand to touch his.

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

He moves his face towards mine and places a gentle kiss on my cheek. Then he takes one of the tumblers, opens a vial to fill it with liquid and places it on the cabinet by the bed; then the other, and moves it carefully towards my lips.

“It works quickly,” he says. “A minute or so.”

I drink the liquid, just a couple of sips but hopefully enough to take me away. Then I watch as he takes the other tumbler and without hesitation drinks, before placing both back on the cabinet top.

He slides downwards to lay beside me, lifts an arm over my head and pulls me gently towards him. My forehead rests against his cheek, I hear him breathe and catch the scent of his body.

I close my eyes.

We breathe in time with each other, becoming slower and quieter.

Then together we fade away.

 

Image by Almonroth, CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons

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