Raul searched obituaries and wrote down names of funeral homes and cemeteries for almost a year. He tried making sense of it all but couldn't. Instead, Raul created a twisted reality where he could be kept safe from the truth, and the exaggerated fabrications he told his co-workers and family became a narrative prescription for what ailed him. Raul ingested his reconstructed existence daily to stave off the smell and sound of burned rubber and shattered glass. But sometimes, his drug wore off, and memories of his son reinfected his heart like a virus until it unleashed bits of truth from his mouth as suddenly as a cough.
Today, Raul arrived to work late again, and he rummaged through his brain for one of his usual lies, like:
1. My battery died,
2. I had a flat,
3. I got stuck behind...
• …a school bus,
• …a trash collection truck,
But, feeling exceptionally exhausted this morning, a little truth sputtered out:
• …a young boy's funeral procession.
Later, Raul put on his headset and pretended to make the same collection calls on his list from days and weeks before. He dialed numbers on his call sheet, and when someone answered, he put them on hold just long enough for the office switchboard to register his call, and then he hung up. Raul often exaggerated his progress and fed his co-workers his made-up lines for lunch, like:
1. I already hit my quota,
2. I gave her an extension,
3. Had a doozy of a call today,
But, feeling particularly frustrated this afternoon, a buried resentment poked out of Raul's self-imposed shell, and a bit of cruel reality slipped out:
4. I told her, "Ma'am, if you don't pay by the end of this week, we're coming for your dead son's car."
Raul timed his arrival home with precision, careful to avoid any version of truth his wife might serve him for dinner. Tired, he placed his hands over his ears as he went upstairs and passed by Mikey's bedroom door but failed to block out the sound of emptiness inside. Sometimes, he paused by the entrance of the bedroom he once shared with his wife and whispered through the crack of the door excuses for his tardiness, like:
1. There was a rollover on I95,
2. The boss took the team out for drinks,
3. I stopped at the mall to pick up a gift for my mother's birthday,
But this time, a sadness so heavy dragged his heart back down to the second-floor hallway where Mikey once crawled and later, ran and jumped, when Raul revealed a rare, painful truth to his wife:
4. I stopped by Mikey's grave.
Most nights, Raul grabbed onto his lies like helium balloons and floated away, depriving reality of oxygen. But tonight, Mikey's framed face looked out at him from the walls, and a familiar scent from a sweatshirt that hung on a hook in the hallway filled up his senses and tethered Raul's broken heart to the truth.
Comments