by Dominique Dickey
As you’re submerged in a nightmare, memories of your father’s grasp still fresh, you awaken to find yourself on hold with Magnolia Assiding Living – the decision left to the mercy of their voicemail.
“I never taught my son to rely solely on his fingers,” your father says within the dream, as if all your deepest fears had been distilled into a single, waking terror.
As the incessant beeping of my alarm pierced the air, I became lucid, recognizing that I was stuck in a dream. Yet, I found myself unable to extricate myself from the grasp of my father’s hands. As he instructs you to hold your breath, he asks you to count aloud for the seconds that pass, and you struggle to keep track of time without a tangible reference point. To make sense of the fleeting moments, you’re forced to resort to a mental trick: mentally tallying each passing second on your fingertips. He pushes you down deeper. He walks away.
It always concludes with his leisurely departure.
The thrill of the quest concludes with a solitary splash in the depths, as you emerge victorious.
• • • •
As you stir from slumber, a map of your body’s contours emerges on the bed sheets, reminiscent of a police officer’s chalk outline at a crime scene. Your alarm has been going off for what feels like an eternity. how lengthy? Too lengthy. You’re running alarmingly behind schedule, and the anxiety is already suffocating you.
You name in sick. That’s sorted. What’s subsequent? The voicemail.
The automated voice of the message is straightforward. Although unforeseen, a plan emerged to grasp the situation’s nuances. The purpose of our work is to provide accurate information.
Properly, an extra hour in bed won’t harm? You crave the sensation of awakening to full awareness, whether emerging from a vivid dream or rising from a state of complete mental stillness. You set your alarm one last time and closed your eyes, but you couldn’t shake off the restlessness and find a way back to slumber. You find yourself genuinely serious about your father’s favorite belt – thick black leather, the buckle worn to a dull sheen from years of use. As a grown man, the situation nonetheless leaves him feeling uneasy with concern.
You haul yourself out of your sweat-dampened mattress. You bathe. Magnolia Assisted Living is an hour’s drive away from here. You arrive at the ATM just as you’re making your way to it, getting there well before 11 o’clock in the morning.
• • • •
As you turned six, your parents decided to go their separate ways. I often celebrated with my mother during holidays like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and her birthday. The couple took turns hosting Easter celebrations, a tradition that didn’t exactly excite either of them. Dad received each different weekend. Every Friday, you would discreetly transport your backpack to school, carefully stashing it behind the receptionist’s desk. Every other Friday, your father would show up at the school pickup line in his bright pink sports car.
Located a scenic two-hour drive from the city center, his bachelor pad awaited. As he navigated the midway level, he would often exit the freeway and take a brief detour onto the surrounding streets before finally arriving at a car park serving a mini-mart or gas station. As you finally got to stretch your legs, he’d discreetly slip a handful of cash into your pocket, granting you temporary freedom to wander among the rows of processed snacks. You’d eat collectively in silence.
When you were at your most vulnerable, that’s when he drew nearest. In his condominium, an uninviting space that lacked warmth, he found himself instead in a nondescript parking lot, flanked by overpriced snacks and the bitter aroma of burnt coffee wafting from the cupholder.
• • • •
Upon arriving at Magnolia, I was informed by the receptionist that my father could be found in the yard adjacent to the building. Amidst the lush foliage, you push aside branches and thorns until you stumble upon him seated at an ornate wrought iron desk, surrounded by the faint scent of old paper and ink. He sits intently, fingers moving deftly over the pages of his composition book as he scribbles with a ballpoint pen. As he appears to be waking up, there’s a fleeting moment – an extra second, really – where his gaze meets yours before he fully opens his eyes. Time’s fleeting nature may grant you a moment to ponder the essence behind the symbols he inscribes—or perhaps they’re cryptic codes, or abstract representations.
Regardless of one’s abilities, it is wise to learn from someone more intelligent than oneself. Someone possessing the specialized knowledge necessary to comprehend it. Your father’s intellect is truly impressive; he is indeed a genius. Whoever you consider to be the epitome of goodness, he likely tops your list of respected individuals.
After which, he appears to be staring fixedly at you. A fleeting expression of stunned surprise flashes across his countenance before he forces himself upright, his arms instinctively outstretched in a gesture that suggests a desire to envelop you in a warm embrace. “It’s a Thursday, isn’t it? “What achievements of mine justify this outcome?”
You smile. Despite having spent time with him, he still lacks a deep understanding of your true nature, thereby unaware of the subtle efforts you’re making to shape the situation to your advantage. Assuming we’d take a drive together.
• • • •
As you sat down to do your homework, your father, a renowned theoretical mathematician, loomed over your shoulder, his eyes scrutinizing every equation and calculation with a discerning gaze. You had been a toddler. As you counted on your fingertips, As he removed his belt, he carefully placed it on the desk beside him. He wasn’t actually planning to strike you with the object, but you couldn’t possibly have been aware of that at the time. Willfully ignoring the escalating stakes, he recklessly tiptoed closer to the precipice of his own downfall, unaware that mere minutes would separate him from the devastating consequences of his bluster.
He didn’t even come close to hitting you. The spectre of violence held you in its grip, exerting a subtle yet potent form of intimidation. As weekends went by, you consistently outdid yourself. Sitting at the kitchen table, he leaned back in his chair, his belt lying beside him, as his mind wandered to distant thoughts. You hid in plain sight. You responded solely through silence, neglecting verbal cues and communicating tacitly, your words weighed down by the heaviness of your tone. However, he never actually struck you, but rather grasped your shoulders firmly and gave you a gentle shake, as if that would somehow restore you to health.
You mastered addition and subtraction through repetition. You realized to swim. You realized to vanish. You began to grasp a myriad of problems that you had previously been willing to overlook with impunity.
Had he lashed out with the belt or forced you to endure repeated blows, it’s likely that you would not have risked injury by reaching for the numbers on your palms.
• • • •
As you cruise along for an hour, your conversation veers between trivial topics and your harmonious humming in sync with the smooth sounds of easy jazz pouring from the radio’s speakers. As you exit the freeway, you make a few laps around the block before spotting a well-stocked fuel station that also features a convenient marketplace. You hand him two crisp $20 bills. Inflation, you assume. That must cowl it.
You observe him inside. He appears less refined than others of his age, wearing his joy with an almost childish glee. His fist clenched tightly around the wad of cash, one finger from his other hand rhythmically drumming against his lips as he stalked up and down the store’s aisles. The store may be compact, but the proprietor meticulously curates his offerings, and you’re free to appreciate the fruits of his labor.
As the seconds tick by, you find yourself struggling to pinpoint your own personal treasure among the array of enticing options. Potato chips. A glassy condensation drips from a chilled bottle of gingery soda, glistening with dew-like freshness. A styrofoam cup containing a lingering aroma of scorched coffee, its contents freshly dispensed from the machine despite an unmistakable hint of burnt undertones.
As you wait on the registry, he glides up beside you with an air of impatience, having already made his selections and purchased them, before requesting the car keys in a curt tone. You hand them over. As you stand by the window, he slips into the passenger seat of your dependable SUV, his eyes fixed on the food in his hands while he begins to eat with quiet intensity. The acne-scarred cashier discreetly removes the bank card from your grasp, swiping it through the reader with a practiced efficiency before swiftly palming it once more, the transaction proceeding with minimal fanfare.
• • • •
You turned eighteen. He ceased returning your phone calls, and you were left with an unsettling silence as the last echoes of his attempts to connect faded away. Despite the lingering uncertainty, a significant portion of you exhaled in relief as he seemed to relinquish his pursuit. Each time you stopped at a fuel station or mini-mart, his name became synonymous with the experience – a constant presence in your daily routine.
As memories tend to fade, so did your perception of him; he seemed less significant with each passing day.
Twenty years handed. You barely gave his concerns a thought. It was peaceable. It was good. You possessed a tranquility-induced euphoria that defied verbal description. As you went about living your life, him was someone who wasn’t taken into account, while you found happiness in the midst of it all.
• • • •
He was named after your mother after she passed away. With a brand-new supply at hand, both he and you held identical quantities, yet you never inquired about the origin of his, nor did he volunteer the information, leaving the matter shrouded in mystery. He expressed a desire to attend the funeral, wanting to ensure it was acceptable to you beforehand, not wanting to surprise or alarm you by simply showing up. His unthinkfulness struck her suddenly – it was far easier to perceive him as the one who would impulsively disregard the consequences.
“Positive,” you mentioned.
“I’ll see you there,” he said.
On that blistering hot day, the funeral took place. He swiftly departed from the pew once the service concluded. He seemed to blend seamlessly into the background, yet his familiar features still managed to register a faint spark of recognition within your mind. Did you notice that he wore the same weathered belt, its tarnished silver buckle and worn-out black leather eerily reminiscent of a bygone era?
Two weeks after the funeral, you finally found the courage to call him. You invited me to come over for a cup of espresso. It seemed you were uncertain whether the gift was intended for him or for yourself? With nothing holding you back, you made your move anyway? Your impossible, wordless happiness had long since shattered into a million irretrievable pieces. What could he possibly do to you that hadn’t yet been achieved? What extra might he take?
He arrived at your residence on a Saturday afternoon. He was a well-recognized stranger. He wrapped his arms around you firmly, whisking him away in a fit of tears that left both of you mortified. Though his memories had begun to blur at the edges, he was certain that he knew you; the past and present already merging in his mind. He missed you. You had arrived punctually.
• • • •
While driving, you often take a break to enjoy a snack or meal. You rarely engage in conversation – your eyes hardly meet – yet an inexplicable sense of closeness draws you to him.
Perhaps that is sufficient. What was left unspoken would surely have been profound.
• • • •
Two years since buying my father back, I’d endured two years of strained, biweekly coffee meetings with him – stilted conversations that tiptoed around the topics we really wanted to discuss – until finally, the inevitable conversation about our past ignited into a blazing inferno.
As the passage of time seemed to blur, he found himself entangled in conversations with familiar faces from his past, struggling to recall the nuances of his former self and the stories he’d previously shared. Despite acknowledging the flaws in the proofs, he attributed their nonsensical nature to a perceived lack of mathematical knowledge on his part? He was left stranded in front of his neighbor’s house, which happened just as his neighbors kindly escorted him back inside, prompting him to chuckle as he retold the story to me.
As he lost himself in the rhythmic sizzle of the pan, he momentarily forgot that he was cooking – and the world outside melted away, leaving only the gentle dance of egg and heat. The stove had been left unattended, the burner still lit as he stepped away from the counter? As he wrestled with the complex equation on his desk, his gaze drifting between the scribbled formula and the intricate diagram, the sudden whoosh of flames engulfing the nearby kitchen towel startled him out of his concentration. As the drapery parted, it unfolded majestically. Had he acted promptly upon the warning of the smoke alarm’s insistent beep, he might have emerged unscathed from the inferno; instead, he endeavored to quell the flames on his own.
When I paid a visit to him at the hospital, you gave him his first taste of fuel station espresso. His arms were swathed in bandages, and a decade’s worth of weariness seemed to have settled on his face during the short interval it took you to arrive.
“I’m not going to get upset over this,” he said. “I refuse to force you into a desperate situation; I won’t let you suffer through an ordeal unless absolutely necessary.” I finally understand that I should no longer isolate myself.
In the oppressive quiet, you wondered whether his words were an invitation to present a proposal – perhaps you had ample space at your disposal, considering the vast expanse of your childhood home inherited from your mother. You failed to deliver what was requested, and he remained silent about his expectations.
He offered to send me a link. I’ve chosen a location. Magnolia Assisted Residing. Located forty miles outside of town, we specialize in providing expert care for individuals with dementia and other age-related memory impairments through our comprehensive reminiscence-based programs. Simply . . . You’ll say you’ll come and go to me.
“I remember you mentioning ‘I’ll come to you’.”
Saturday’s awkward espresso now boasts a brand-new location. He donned long sleeves to conceal the disfiguring burn marks. He devoted himself tirelessly to theorems that he was only beginning to recognize as the fallacies they truly were. Memories and nostalgia swirled around him in a turbulent tide. He was adrift. He was drowning.
Though you’d long since acknowledged the inevitable, you still made a habit of visiting each week, uncertain whether your visits were motivated by a desire to save him or simply to acknowledge his presence.
• • • •
“There’s this factor,” he said, but you had already completed your own research. “A service they provide. An implant. The countdown to your last truly great day might just begin informing you when that moment arrives? If the affected individual is cognizant of their imminent mortality, the medical professionals surmise that this realization can lead to. . . unfavourable remedy outcomes. That assumption seems reasonable in this context. Medical professionals are often unaware of the complexities surrounding certain health issues. He absently scratched his arm above the cuff before continuing. You envisioned his charred pores and skin tightening, contracting into a network of wrinkles and crevices. “I gave them your quantity. I hope that’s all proper.”
Standing before him was the individual who would recklessly thrust you into an uncomfortable situation, forcing you to confront responsibilities you never wanted and struggled to shoulder. Actuality closed over your head like a toxic shroud.
I’m all for that.
• • • •
With an air of nonchalance, he wipes the muddy residue from his fingers onto the back of his chip bag, before settling into a prolonged gaze that borders on unnerving intensity. Isn’t this just?
You avoid tensing up with deliberate focus. “What do you imply?”
“Oh, come on. My final lucid day.”
You shrug. Since he doesn’t have a deep understanding of you, he’s unaware of your subtle cues and mannerisms. “I took it for granted that you wouldn’t have attended.”
“Don’t give me that. All necessary checks were conducted by them. Despite being still in clinical trials, all implants are equally noteworthy for their potential impact on improving patient outcomes. Complete.”
You shrug once more. Are you sure you’re keeping track of your consumption correctly?
I’m sorry, but as a professional editor, I must take issue with the profanity used in this text. Here is an alternative version:
“Of course, I make sure to keep track of my consumption—”
“Actually? As a natural consequence, we tend to misremember things frequently. The rugged landscape unfolds before us, accompanied by its every twist and turn.
His face contorted with a fury that was almost palpable, yet he remained stubbornly silent. As the anger builds, you feel diminished, causing you to focus on his belt slung carelessly across the kitchen desk in the condo that had never truly been your own sanctuary.
As his ire dissipates without warning, his expression sagging, he rummages in the floor mat for another snack. For a fleeting moment, he appears vulnerable, his expression suggesting unhappiness and a heightened sense of anxiety.
As you bask in the fleeting pleasure of having exacted retribution, the weight of your own moral accountability begins to bear down upon you, tempering the triumph with pangs of regret. Are you feeling as lowly as someone who thinks they’re on the same level as a monster? Whatever he needs to reveal from him—it cannot possibly be a deathbed confession. If he’s cognizant of being out of time, the dialogue’s value diminishes significantly; his words would merely be a desperate attempt to seize the last opportunity for action, devoid of sincerity. To make it truly feel natural, wouldn’t you think that adding a few personal anecdotes and examples would help readers connect with the content on a deeper level? To make it truly immersive, let’s amplify the sensory details and create a stronger emotional connection with the reader.
As I gaze back on my formative years, is there a moment you regret not seizing?
“No,” he replied curtly, suggesting he hadn’t given the idea sufficient thought to warrant a more thoughtful response.
“Actually?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Wow.”
“Does that shock you?”
“I simply assume—”
“I believe that I gave it my all and achieved my best.” I supplied. As there was no father figure present in my life.
that regard. I did my greatest.”
“However what about . . “You’re attempting to discuss a relatively straightforward scenario that isn’t too difficult to grasp.” “What do you remember most about learning to swim with me?”
“You realized.”
You could quite easily have killed me.
“Eh,” he says.
You considered his sudden toss into the water as a lesson in breath control, where he pinched your nostrils shut and held your head underwater, forcing you to learn the art of holding your breath. As he walked away, you were left struggling to break the surface, feeling the crushing pressure of the deep. Do you genuinely feel a sense of urgency, as if the situation is unfolding in real-time? The scent of chlorine and sunscreen still lingers on your skin, a tangible reminder of an unforgettable experience. Can you truly imagine sharing this tale without a twinge of melancholy in your gut and heart?
Because of this, you had gone several years without giving him a thought. You have been avoiding that which you needed to confront. You’re unsure about your own requirements, it seems. Please provide the original text so I can revise it for you. It’s essential to have him acknowledge his imperfections directly. You retain pushing.
As you share the news with him, your words are laced with a hint of incredibility: “I might have died.”
“You didn’t. Didn’t you realize that’s what I had been trying to teach you for weeks?
“It’s not simply that. As I was once a child.
“You turned out okay.”
“Did I?”
“You likely did,” he remarks, his tone exuding unwavering conviction, as if he’s oblivious to the flaws in his own perspective.
He remains largely oblivious to your presence, a state of affairs precipitated by the fact that you’ve deliberately withheld significant information from him. In his mind’s eye, he is forever lost in the labyrinth of failed connections, convinced that every mistake lies squarely at your feet – a burden he shoulders with an air of martyrdom, conveniently forgetting his own culpability. Because of societal expectations and family ties, the bond between a parent and child is often the most resilient and enduring of all relationships.
goddammit you tried. His uncertainty surrounds his recurring nightmares. You would never convey to him the extent of his damage until he confronts the devastation he’s wrought, thereby forcing him to acknowledge the hurt he’s caused.
You won’t be telling him about the injuries.
He’s unlikely to apologize.
Why did you even hassle? Why did you even hope? He will undoubtedly disregard you, and remorse will forever elude him.
Time’s tyranny reigns supreme, remorseless in its recall. Sometime you’ll neglect him too.
• • • •
I was still in school when my father’s passing occurred for the first time.
When the conversation turned to household matters during your freshman year, you mentioned that your mother is an architect.
“What about your dad?”
“You didn’t mention having a dad.” Without a moment’s pause, the words flowed effortlessly from your lips, accompanied by a complete lack of remorse for the deception’s seamless execution. What brought pride to your heart? What’s your story, huh? I take a look at the life I’m building without him. What wonders await us in this extraordinary existence?
As replaying the conversation unfolded on your narrow dorm bed, a slow-motion sorrow seeped into your chest, akin to crimson tendrils unfurling through calm waters. Now you comprehend that it was applicable. As soon as you lost sight of him. You still grasp how to let him slip away once again.
• • • •
The familiar drive to Magnolia unfolds in comfortable silence, an hour’s journey marked by the gentle hum of the engine. He shows no signs of being offended; perhaps neither are you? You assume you’re principally unhappy.
He sips his shitty espresso. He activates the radio. Smooth saxophone riffs waft through the airwaves, emanating from the audio system with effortless cool.
As we idle at the curb outside Magnolia’s doorstep, I turn to you and query, “Back to the backyard again?” The weather remains pleasant, albeit with a gentle breeze. As his ultimate day approaches, there’s no denying the importance of devoting time to refine and finalize his work within the solar system – I won’t be an obstacle to that process.
As he prepared to jot down notes, he retrieved his pocketbook and ballpoint pen from the backseat, where he had stored them for easy access. Crushed and discarded, a trail of metal wrappers and a hollowed-out styrofoam cup lingers in the footwell, a testament to thoughtlessness left behind. As you notify the receptionist that your workday with him is concluded, you lead him back to his designated workspace. As he pulls out his wallet along its worn edge, he turns to face you.
Ready.
Properly, what do you do?
Your eyes lock with his, holding a steady, unbroken contact. That is your dad. As his son, I’m torn between the love I have for him and the anger that’s building inside me because of everything he’s done in the past. The fact that he’s crumbling before my eyes is unbearable, and the thought of losing him is almost too much to bear. Without fail, you’ll inherit a regrettable father, notorious for his poor behavior during his lifetime, who had the unmitigated gall to depart this world without making amends for his transgressions.
You don’t realize how much you’re missing out on having a father figure in your life. You missed the years of quietly acknowledging his presence, then gradually building a life around him. The notion that grew more convincing with each repetition of your command. Once you’ve grasped the narrative, you’ll never again succumb to its former allure, now that it’s been irreparably broken.
Will he ever regain his true self? You hate him. You miss him already.
As you cling to him tightly, tears streaming down your face, you’re embarrassed by the public display of emotion, mortifying both of you.
Dominique Dickey is a multifaceted creative individual who excels in both the realms of speculative fiction writing and sports game design. Given the creative vision of Sly Robotic Video games, their team has designed and developed. They received contributions that helped win the Nebula Award and the ENNIE Award. A new novella by them is expected to be published by Neon Hemlock Press in 2024. Their short fiction has been published in various outlets, including Fantasy Journal, Lightspeed Magazine, and Nightmare Magazine. Operating exclusively within the DC universe, these characters are perpetually driven to pursue their next intellectual conquest. Their work can be found at.
Visit online platforms to discover exceptional science fiction and fantasy content. The original publication of this story was in the June 2024 issue, featuring contributions from authors Varsha Dinesh, Andrea Kriz, Megan Chee, Dominica Phetteplace, and Deborah L. Co-authors: Davitt, Oyedotun Damilola, Shanna Germain, and others. This month’s content will be serialized online, or you can purchase the entire issue now in convenient eBook format for just $3.99, or subscribe to receive the digital edition.
