Comin' Home to You (4 page)

The last thing he remembered was a tear trickling down his cheek as the sky become fully black.

A black, starless void was his perception of the heavens above. Hints of a red smoke clouded his vision, as if an invisible sun's rays were evaporating a lake of blood. The ground below him could be perceived as loose chalk, and it was so thin and unsubstantiated that he worried he might sink to the bottom if he stood still for too long. Sudden gusts of wind would pick up the white dust and create beautiful ivory twisters that dotted the landscape. It reminded him of the ashes of bones being taken away by the wind. It was something he witnessed as a child, when he watched a distant relative's ashes being released across a shimmering lake. He couldn't even remember who the relative was, but he remembered the scene vividly. The land before him appeared to be an endless expanse of emptiness. There was no light source in the vicinity, yet he could see everything clearly.

As Owen continued to stare into the vast distance, a foreboding feeling came over him. The darkness of this world filled him with dread. A gust of wind carried some of the loose and white ground into his eyes, burning them greatly. As he rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, he expectedly heard crunching sounds behind him. Knowing they were footsteps, he didn't have to turn around to know who was approaching him. No matter the setting, be it the beaches of south Texas, the mountains of eastern Oklahoma, or even the current unknown wasteland he found himself in, the person was always the same. This person had been haunting his dreams for 15 years.

He took a shallow breath and turned around slowly to see the usual woman behind him. She was bleeding from the nose, her dirty blonde hair was tangled, her green eyes were glazed over and her mouth was slightly agape. Only in the realm of dreams could a woman like this exist. They locked eyes until he willed himself to break her gaze by looking elsewhere. What more could he do?

No matter if he was sober or completely inebriated, Owen had a strong ability of having lucid dreams. He was free to control most of his actions, though he did not have absolute power over every aspect of it. Yet, despite what actions he performed within the realm of his dreams, one thing was for certain. The woman's cold and lifeless eyes would never look away from him. If he were to throw a rock into her forehead, she would remain unfazed and unwavering. That was the one haunting constant of his nightmares. Even though he harbored a small amount of fear and apprehension in his dreams, he was glad to see her.

Owen was 23 years of age when his beloved Patricia died. They met as toddlers, as the two families lived close by and would spend summer nights on a porch drinking domestic beers and watching fireflies while the two kids tried their best to catch them. When they were old enough to talk cognitively, they each learned that they were born on the exact same day, forging a strange and everlasting connection. Growing up, their days were spent throwing rocks in the creek, wrestling, and sword fighting with sticks that looked the part. Unless grounded or away, they spent every single day after school together, regardless of the weather. As the two grew bigger and their bodies matured, their feelings changed. They knew that they were no longer simply friends. There was something more to their relationship. He would always remember asking her out when they were 13. It was by the same creek they played in as kids. He held her hand as he asked. He still remembered how sweaty his palm was. She said yes, with a smile that could make the most heartless man melt. They were meant to be together.

Get your fucking ass up.

Owen instantly looked upwards to the red clouded sky. This strange voice was something new. There had been only a dread quiet in this plane. But the sudden voice, which sounded like a female full of angst, echoed over and over again.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

There it was again. Owen scratched the back of his head furiously. Panic started to set in when he strangely felt the world shake. The white chalky ground exploded upwards, to the point where all that was visible was a thick white cloud that stung his eyes and made breathing near impossible. He was almost blind, but he was able to see Patricia's undead body vanish in the wind. Eventually, the white that had blinded him turned to black, and a world of nothingness was born.

“Wake your stupid fucking ass up!”

He could feel a set of hands shaking him from his slumber. Grumbling aloud, Owen rolled over to take a look at the culprit. He had hoped it was the sweet touch of Grace coming to apologize for last night and to make amends. As his eyes adjusted, however, he knew he was dead wrong. He should have recognized the voice anyway.

“Ali...what a surprise.”

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ Owen, I told you yesterday that I was bringing Austin over. But I guess that doesn't matter to you.”

Rubbing his eyes vigorously, he noticed he was wearing the same clothes as the day before. He was partially amazed that he even made it to his bed. Many nights had been spent passed out on the couch or the floor.

Clearing his throat, Owen looked over his daughter. His head still felt a tad hazy. “How long you going to be gone this time?”

Ali shrugged her shoulders mordantly.

“Okay,” said Owen. “What are you going to be doing?”

“It's none of your fucking business what I do.”

Placing his feet on the ground, a sharp pain from his stomach combined with a throbbing from his forehead kept Owen from responding. This pain was absolutely excruciating, but no matter how bad it was, he was not about to show it to his daughter. He refused to show signs of weakness in front of her. Perhaps it was a father's duty to always look strong, even though she could care less about his parental responsibilities.

When his pain was finally manageable, he commenced speaking. “It is my business, Ali. I have to know whether you are going to be gone a few hours or a week. I still have to work, you know.”

“You've brought him to work with you before. Shouldn't be too hard on you.”

“Yeah, but then he starts asking questions about where his mommy is and my boss ain’t exactly too kind on a kid just hanging out in the waiting room. It's getting hard lying for your ungrateful ass!”

Ali put her right hand on her hip. She had long dark brown hair, and was wearing a black tank top with cut-off blue jean shorts that left little to the imagination. “Oh? Fine. Tell him. Tell him what his mommy does. He knows, Owen. He's nine years old. He's fucking figured it out. His mommy likes to smoke a little somethin’ somethin’ every once in a while. Big whoop.”

She hadn't called him Dad in years, but it always bugged him when he was called by his name. “The fuck is wrong with you, girl? You're fine with that? You are fine knowing that your son knows that his mother is a drug addict!?”

“For one thing, I ain't no addict. And I don't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks. And I definitely don't give a fuck what you think, you hypocrite.”

She could have taken an empty bottle of Jim Beam and smashed him across the face, and that still would have hurt less than her piercing words. It wasn't the first time his little girl called him a hypocrite, and it wouldn't be the last. Yet, knowing his recent knowledge of his mortality, it very well may be the last time she called him that word. He wondered if death would be preferable than having to be reminded of the painful past.

He shook his head and changed the subject. “So where is he at now?”

“Outside. Waiting for you. He’s got his glove on and everything.”

Owen was willing to bet that his parents never played with him. It was always up to him to play catch with his grandson. Not that he had a problem with it, but he wished his mother was more involved with him. Of course, she never had much of a childhood. She went through puberty early, and had Austin at the age of 13, thanks to the popular wiles of one Clint Grayson. He still remembered the sneers and grimaces he received from the good people of Adrienne as he walked down the street or bought beer at a local store. He hated being judged by anyone, but he especially loathed when it wasn't his fault to begin with. The girl had been dealing with emotional scars for years, and for her to seek out attention in the form of sex wasn't too surprising. But even so, her attitude for her son was unacceptable in his eyes.

Noticing a glass of water by his bed, Owen took a large drink of it. It had more than likely been sitting there for days, but he didn't care. It didn't taste any different.

Ali's impatience had run its course. “Alright, I'm outta here. You should clean your kitchen. Fuckin' beer cans everywhere. Austin doesn't need to see that shit.”

Oh, now you care about what is good for Austin. You are just as much of a hypocrite as I,
thought Owen. He wanted to yell that at her, but screaming such insults was beneath him, especially to his only offspring. Nevertheless, she was probably off to stay up late, drink, and do drugs with Clint and whoever the hell else showed up there. Owen hated every member of the Grayson family, but Clint was something else entirely. He was a couple of years older than Ali when he got her pregnant. What pissed Owen off the most was that Clint never took it seriously. He would have likely impregnated most of the female population of the school if his mother and older brothers didn't keep him on somewhat of a straight path, since his father wasn’t around to do such things. Owen even found Clint drunk and laughing about knocking his daughter up outside of a bar. When he caught his gaze, Clint continued laughing in an aggressive manner, clearly mocking him. Owen would have killed him, but he was still a juvenile, and he didn't want to start a war with the rest of his family. Even though Clint was now an adult, Owen kept his composure when around him. Austin didn't need to see any further violence, even if his father was a mighty large piece of shit.

He was enduring crippling pains in his abdomen, but they were manageable. Sitting up from his queen-sized bed, Owen entered his closet, changed into a shirt and shorts and pulled out his baseball glove from a shelf where he put miscellaneous items. He bought two new gloves just a few weeks ago; one for his own personal use and the other for Austin. His grandson had taken a keen interest to baseball at an early age, which was a true delight to him. Even better was watching his grandson's face light up like fireworks as he presented him with the gift. He had a glove, but it endured a lot of rain and wear and tear, and his parents didn’t really want to waste any of their unearned money on it. Baseball was Owen's first love in life. One of his first memories as a young boy was watching Willie McGee smash two home runs in the 1982 World Series. He remembered afterwards begging and pleading with his father for a glove, a ball, and a bat. It took two weeks, but his father finally presented little Owen with a cheap glove and a previously used baseball. He didn't complain, even if he didn't receive a bat as part of the gift. He at least had something to start pursuing his dream of playing baseball.

It was obvious from the start that Owen had real talent. He could throw the ball harder and hit the ball farther than the other kids. Even after having Ali at the young and irresponsible age of 15 and in the middle of his high school sports career, his recently widowed mother stepped up and raised her during the day so that Owen could continue his schooling and baseball career. Patricia's parents had passed away from a car accident, so his mother was the only one who could do the day-to-day babysitting. During the spring of his senior year, he hit sixteen home runs; something he still brags about to this day. Junior colleges and a couple of universities wanted him on a full scholarship, but he politely declined, mainly because he wanted to be there for his woman and toddler daughter. Also, the prospect of a college degree didn't appeal to him. Instead, he took a job as a mechanic at a local shop. The pay was meager, but was enough to rent a two-bedroom apartment for Ali, Patricia, and himself. The first few months were simple enough, with the three of them scraping by. Even with the scanty living, there was nothing but love and contentment in the family. Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Owen would make the discovery a year later that would inevitably allow the dominoes to fall to its current state.

Owen remembered that night vividly, while strongly pulling the laces on his glove to tighten it. Still sweating after a hard day of fixing flats, oil changes and repairs, he opened the door only to be met with the pungent smell of marijuana. While both Patricia and he were no stranger to the occasional blunt every now and then, there was one ground rule that he demanded from his girlfriend: No drug use with Ali present. He walked to his daughter's room to find her playing with dolls. Hints of Lysol could be smelled throughout the house in an attempt to cover up the dank odor. Immediately, his eyebrows arched and his hands became tight fists. He wanted to scream and yell furiously. Immediately, he called out Patricia's name, causing his daughter to jump in surprise. He could hear some mumbling coming from the closed bathroom door. Still very tense, Owen opened the door with force, causing the door to slam hard into an oddly placed towel rack. Sitting on the closed toilet seat was Patricia. She was holding a glass pipe that held cashed marijuana, but there was still a fair haze in the room, even with the exhaust fan running. On the floor, however, was a small stack of cash that had to be at least $500. With the angry eyes of Owen staring down at her, the baked Patricia calmly stated to let her explain. He remembered the pulsing feeling of his veins in his head almost exploding in rage. She expressed her frustration about being so poor and how she was tired of not contributing. She confirmed that the same friend that they had been buying their weed turned her on to the idea of selling it. Pointing to the floor, she confessed that she could make this amount of cash and more every week just by selling marijuana. He was almost mad enough to hit her, but he couldn't deny the allure of more money, nor disallow her desire to contribute and not be cooped up in the cramped and cheap apartment. They were getting by, but they weren't comfortable. He was sick of living from paycheck to paycheck. There were times where he had to tuck his tail in between his legs and ask his mother for a few bucks. After stomping into the kitchen and taking a shot of whiskey to collect his thoughts, he had it in his mind that no was the right answer. Patricia would eventually see the light and realize she was acting on an impulsive whim.