Pa Would Have Wanted It This Way - Prologue
Truly, time is a wonderful thing. Here I was thinking the fall of 2022 was going to be a few light months and a chance for me to really dive into my writing. Little did I know the reality of working multiple jobs and projects meant I had little time to write or post much of anything. Apologies all. But, I will not end this year without one last post. So, join me as we journey back several years to a piece I began working on when I was in my last year of college. The idea took shape and I started drafting several chapters of a family drama. But, for that family drama to work, there needed to be a figure at the center. Enjoy the prologue to PA WOULD HAVE WANTED IT THIS WAY.
John Stevenson was never a man to think much about his health until it was too late.
Once, when he was a kid, he got pneumonia from playing out in the rain without his shoes. He woke up one morning with a runny nose and a cough, but his mother made him go to school anyway. If he was going to be foolish enough to run around barefoot, he’d have to suffer the consequences. John’s mother was always one for “tough love,” a lesson that would carry on through the generations.
By the end of the school day, John’s cough was worse and there was a fever spreading across his face, making him sunburnt and weary. The next morning was worse, and mother had to admit defeat. John was sick. But she was quick to learn that it was not a simple cold that was pulling John down. His fever worsened, running high despite the cool, damp cloth covering his face. His cough went from the high raspy cough of a child choking on candy to a deep cough that sounded like a train struggling to leave the station. John could hardly eat or drink, and his lips grew chapped and the skin cracked in painful ways. The doctor came to check on John often, giving him medicine of all kinds. They tasted like shit, but mother made him swallow every drop. After almost two weeks, things started to look up. Life slowly returned to John’s cheeks, and the room was no longer a sweat lodge just from the heat of his skin. Mother breathed a sigh of relief. Slow and steady, her baby was getting better.
And through this whole affair, through every rough night of coughing, vomiting, and medicine that tasted worse than the mucus in his mouth, John only had one question: “Can I go outside and play?” Mother smacked him on the head every time he asked. He still asked. John just wasn’t concerned about his health, only his happiness.
It was a common trend in his life. He didn’t get sick often, but when he did, the world came to a standstill as friends, family, and children had to take care of him and stop him from carrying on like nothing was wrong.
Now that he lived alone, in the vast and musty house his father’s money had built, the only person who was looking out for John’s health was John. So it came as no surprise to anyone that when John woke up on the late October day, the air filled with leaves changing and scents drifting, and his arm hurt, he thought nothing of it.
He crawled out of his bed and went about his morning routine. Shower. Brush teeth. Make some toast. Scrape the burnt part off the toast. Watch the news on T.V. Today was his dusting day. Felt short of breath, so he took some Tylenol.
John was in the living room, down on the first floor of his 4 story maze of a home, dusting off the photos that hung on the wall. When you looked at them, from the hallway to over where the doorway lead to the den, they told a story. A story that John often tried to ignore.
There was a man who looked like John, only about 30 years younger. Full of life and energy. Now John found himself feeling tired most days. Next to him in the photo was a young woman, bright and vibrant, a beauty that John never understood how the camera was able to capture. It was like watching the fire dance and trying to draw it. You could get a picture of it, but it was only a passing glance of what it truly was. Who she was.
Mary.
It had been Mary Bierman when he first met her. It was Mary Stevenson for about 10 years. Only 10 years. Lord knows what, if anything, it was now.
Her smile was wide and full. And she looked happy with John. No, they were happy, John thought. He was always happy when he was with her.
In 1984, when John was 26, he was at a bar in Cincinnati. Visiting friends off at college, they went out on a Tuesday night for a few drinks because they were young and reckless. Sleep was for the weak, and not being hungover on a Wednesday wasn’t as important as having fun tonight. From across the bar, John saw Mary, surrounded by her gaggle of school friends, and he was hooked. He introduced himself, they flirted, they drank, and they went home together.
The two soon became inseparable. Together, they traveled and saw the world through their rose-colored glasses. Mary had dreams of wandering, writing, of never planting roots. And John had dreams of being with Mary. They married within eight months of meeting. Pure happiness.
Then Mary got pregnant.
John took Mary back to his childhood home and together they had their first child: Elise. John promised Mary that they would still see the world, but the family came first. And year after year, more children came. First Elise, then Mordecai, Magdalen, and the twins, Russell and Sawyer. And John was happy. And the wall was filled with pictures of happy faces and growing families. But as he moved down the hall, the story changed, and not every player was the same. Mary’s smile faded, and grew distant. By the time he reached her last picture, it was hard to find Mary at all. Hidden in the back, behind John and the children, Mary sat smiling, wearing the mask of a happy mother. Only Elise, Mordecai, and Magdalen were in the photo though. Mary was very much pregnant with the twins at the time.
When they were born, things changed. Mary and John argued a lot. They fought over money, they fought over chores, they fought over the kids. They fought over tiny things that John never thought mattered, but added up over time to make bigger problems. Eventually, John woke up one morning and Mary was gone. Her things taken from the dresser, her half of the bed made up, her car no longer parked in the driveway. And that was that. She was gone, and John could never find her again. She left no note or word. She just vanished. The flame that had enticed John ten years ago had disappeared, and he never got a chance to finish his drawing.
There were no photos of John and Mary with all five of their children. She left before they could take a proper family portrait. The twins Russell and Sawyer grew up never really seeing their mother, and the other children had to adjust to her absence. The photos grew sadder after that. Eventually, they all moved away.
And John was left to dust the halls. He moved slowly, wiping the weeks and months of grey film from the old halls. He grew short of breath, and had to stop to rest. He took a seat on the couch in the living room and looked around. Through deep but short breaths, John strained to look around the room and see all the photos, his life’s work, all at once.
John Stevenson was never a man to think much about his health until it was too late. Living alone now meant that no one was there to watch over him except himself and John had never been one for that. He was far too concerned with brushing his teeth, making breakfast, and dusting to pay any attention to the pain in his arm, his short breath, and his growing pains and aches. By the time John had taken a deep breath and laid all the evidence out before him, it was too late.
A pain like a bullet the size of a baseball ran John through the chest. He grabbed his shirt fiercely, nearly ripping the fabric covered in sweat. He gasped, trying to call out for help or for anyone or anything, but only spit and raspy scratches echoed out. His muscles gave out with a mighty spasm that sent him falling out of his seat. The sharp corner of the coffee table broke the fall of his head, leaving a gash of torn skin and flowing blood across his forehead. He hit the ground with a thud of finality. He knew he wouldn’t get up. Pain seared in every inch of his body. And no breath of relief was coming to save the day.
John’s eyes glistened, his face was covered in blood, sweat, and drool. He laid on the floor, limp and immovable. No one was coming to help him up. No one was there to hear him fall. No one was there to hear his final words. He muttered them into the carpet. It was just John Stevenson, alone in the home that his father’s money built, surrounded by the old photos of the family he had created and the dust they left behind.
John Stevenson died of a heart attack on October 23rd, 2014. He was 56 years old.
