Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Come on, Dorsie.” He tugged at the leash as she obsessed over a telephone pole that was no doubt painted in another pooch’s piss. “Let’s go.”
Off they went until they reached the bottom of the street, then turned around to return to the old house. Nikolai did this once a week. It was never on any set day, but whenever he could squeeze it in. With his eldest brother living in another state, and his youngest a nomad and unreliable, it was up to him to do good on his promise to their mother: Watch after the family. Including Dad.
Dad had declined fast, mentally and physically, after Mom passed. His world had centered on Mom and now that she was gone, he was a shell of his former self. Dad kept her items on her vanity dresser just as she’d left them. Old, pretty bottles of perfume that had gone skunk over the years. Pink lipsticks. Fluffy makeup brushes. Fragrant face powders. Chalky peach blushes. There was even a yellowed Danielle Steele book, ‘Safe Harbour,’ lying off to the side. It was creased on page 212, gaping slightly due to a floral print bookmark in it. It was never moved since the last time Mom cracked it open. Sometimes Nikolai wondered what was on page 212. What was the last scene Mom had read? Maybe one day he’d look. Today was not that day.
His mind wandered as he kept walking Dorsie, thinking about Mom’s vanity for some strange reason. Obsessing over it the way Dad did.
There were wooden, plastic, and ceramic hairbrushes, one of which had bristles that still clung to several strands of dark red hair. One strand though was stark white. He had picked up that white ceramic brush and studied the hair, intertwined and wrapped around the black barbs. He imagined Mom running it through her hair as she sat at her vanity, preparing for her day. He had placed it right back where it was. If it was not where it always should be, Dad would have absolutely noticed. He hadn’t put it back for his sake though, or even his own. He had done it for Mom, who’d been neat and orderly.
Just recently, his father had allowed him to rid their shared bedroom closet of her belongings. Robes. Dresses. Jogging suits from over ten years prior. Worn out shoes, socks, stockings, and church hats. He’d donated some of it to a local charity. The worn pieces were tossed in the trash. He cried a little as he did that, shoving the garments in the can out back as if it meant nothing, but he didn’t let Dad see him discarding the items and crying his head off at the same time. There was no point in them both being miserable and weighed down by the one thing that they could never get revenge on: Death.
Death was a weak whisper with a hearty punch. A croaky sigh of a ghost, wielding a crooked knife. It was shifting floorboards from the weight of a cloaked intruder. Putrefying, bubbling black water in a beautiful crystal glass. It was suffocation from contaminated air on a warm, sunny day at the beach.
Back at the house, he filled up the dog’s food bowl and water. In the living room, Dad looked the same. He hadn’t moved an inch. His sallow eyes rested on the television while he loosely held the remote in a quivering grip, as if he were in the middle of deciding whether he’d cut off the tube or not, but hadn’t quite made up his mind yet.
“Dad, Dorsie needs to see the vet. I think she’s got a bad tooth. Really bad breath. You should take her in, or I can in a few days when I have time in the morning. She probably needs one of them pulled.”
Dad nodded, then slowly placed the remote down on the arm of the chair.
“Yeah… Don’t worry, Nik. I’ll take care of it.” Dad sucked his teeth and shifted his weight in the timeworn chair. “I’ll call Dr. Jones tomorrow.”
“Alright.”
Dad talked even less now, and had lost a considerable amount of weight.
The tall, hefty man, who once had been about the same weight as Nikolai in his younger years, had dwindled down to skin and bones. His health issues mounted, and despite the medication clearly stating that no alcohol should be taken with these prescriptions, every now and again, Nikolai found empty beer cans and liquor bottles in the bottom of the trashcan, flasks squirreled under Dad’s bed, and even cheap unopened wine bottles in the basement, under the stairway. If he found any that were brand new or half full, he’d get rid of them. Empty them in the toilet or sink, then toss the bottles in the trash. Dad never asked him about their removal, and never offered a report. What was understood didn’t need to be explained.