Doesn't He Look like His Father?
As the man drifted back into consciousness, he painfully turned over
his left hand which had been resting, palm down, on the bed. His
partner reached out and placed her hand in his, distressed by the
coolness of his skin. As their eyes met, she shook her head, answering
his mute question.
The man knew that death wasn't far away, but he couldn't die yet.
He had set himself one last task and had to live just that little bit
longer. Despite the drugs and the pain, panic rose within him that he
might fail and die too soon. His son was on his way, flying from the
other side of the world, and the man desperately wanted to see him just
one more time. Nothing else would make his last moments peaceful.
His eyes closed and he drifted off once again into semiconsciousness.
Scenes from the past opened and closed so vividly he
could swear he was actually there. He walked into the room where he
met his lifelong partner and saw her for the very first time. He saw the
blood and water as his son shot that last short distance out into the
world. The midwife picked the baby up, identified his boyhood, and in
the next breath remarked how much he looked like his father. Then he
was wrapped and placed in his father's arms, his tiny, wizened face
pointing upwards, bottom lip quivering as he sucked at a non-existent nipple. It was the most emotional moment of the man's
life, his own flesh and blood there in his arms.
The man opened his eyes again. Still all he could see was his
partner. After their son had been born, she had never really wanted
any more children, but he hadn't minded. Just having the one child
meant that they had never needed to stint on their son's comfort,
development and education. At the same time, they had found it
relatively easy to become modestly wealthy. Their investment of
time and money had been more than repaid by their son's successes.
Three times, as his son was growing up, the man was almost
tempted into infidelity. But each time, at the last moment, he had
resisted for fear it would break up his home. He would have been
sad to lose his partner, but he would have been heartbroken to lose
his son. The two of them had always been close. They had shared all
of those things that a father and son can share, even through the
boy's difficult adolescence. He relived the pride he had felt at seeing
him graduate, then watched once more as his career went from
strength to strength. He met again the succession of pretty girls who
clamoured for his attention, and the beauty who was to become like a
daughter to him. He remembered the surges of grand-paternalism as,
one by one, they had given him five grandchildren.
As real as if it were actually happening, he felt himself lift the
photograph which was now by his hospital bedside but which for
years had had pride of place in his lounge. After his son's
emigration, prompted by a career move apparently too lucrative to
refuse, the picture had taken on a special significance. It was of his
dynasty, as he called it; a professional photograph of himself, his
son and the five grandchildren. As he never tired of saying, the
picture showed his contribution to the world and to future
generations, a contribution more lasting than any work of art. His
son and his grandchildren had already inherited his genes. Now,
very soon, they would inherit a large part of his wealth.
His heart skipped a beat as he thought he saw a young man come into the room. He was sure it was his son, and he looked so
well, so successful — and so strangely young. The man smiled. He
had done it. He had hung on just long enough.
His partner knew he was dead. She had felt his hand growing
colder and colder. Now he was gone. She thought she had used up all
her tears, but more came. After a while, she called for a nurse; then,
after a few more moments of contemplation, left the room to wait for
her son. He finally arrived two hours later. After she had broken the
news to him, the pair of them went in and stood over the man's body,
now totally cold. The woman tried to console her son by telling him
that in the man's last hours, during his few moments of
consciousness, he had spoken of nothing else but of him and his
family.
While openly weeping, her son cursed the airport delays and
heavy traffic that had made him too late. Then, in an outburst he
would later regret, he turned on his mother and swore at her. He
cursed her infidelity and lamented the day that she had saddled him
with her secret. For ten long years she had made him keep up the
pretence until, in the end, the burden had become too much and he
had felt driven to emigrate. But most of all, he cursed her for making
him hate himself today. During the long flight home, a single thought
had plagued his mind. Why am I bothering? — he's not even my real
father.
