THE LONG WAR

By: Andrew Neylon

For my parents, and the many battles we survived together.

ad is smiling for the first time in three days. Come on you two, we need to get a table quick! Then were off to the record shop, he says. Mom flashes a tiny smile at me and grabs my hand, leading me into Penns Table for brunch. Its been a weekly tradition since we moved to West Chester, Pa., last year in 2002. Ive just started fifth grade. Okay, pick whatever you want, guys. Andy, youll be 12 soon, you deserve something really good, he tells me. Well, Tom, lets not go overboard, Mom interjects. I stare down at my menu and try not to make eye contact. Dad just started talking to us again, and Im not sure why my mom feels the need to pick on him. Look, Mary, the moneys fine. Andy, get whatever you want, okay? Uh, okay Dad. When the waitress comes by I order a grilled cheese, plain and simple. Being fussy at a meal only upsets dad more and thats the last thing I need on a Saturday. Do you like working with Mr. Seland in your science class, honey? Mom asks about my new school schedule. You know, Andy, I was almost an ichthyologist. Thats somebody that studies fish. You should let me teach you about the

The Long War

fish sometime. We could get you a tank, a filter Yeah, Dad! Thatd be really cool. This is the sort of guy my dad is. Hes good at whatever he tries, and knows a little bit about everything. Hes really smart, so he gets frustrated when people dont understand things like he does. So, honey, any luck with the job search? she asks. Jesus Christ, Mary, dont ask me about that in front of him. Mom and I are both silent. I begin arranging the packets of jam in various piles to ensure that I dont have to make eye contact with anyone. First a pile of strawberry. I was just curious, Tom. Yeah, well, I want to have a nice meal with my son and my wife, and you have to go and fuck it up like you do everything else. Six raspberry packets. Tom, Im doing my best here. Were not working, and you just want to act like everythings the same? Mary, its stressful, okay? he says a little too loudly. I count nine orange packets. The couple behind us turns their heads to make sure everything is okay in our booth. Dad nixes moms look with a single hand wave. Im doing my best, all right? You know this is why I never want to take you two anywhere. I shouldve just gone out with the guys from work today and let you two stay home if youre just going to grill me over the... oh, hey, thanks so much. Youre sweet to bring us all this food. Cheri, is it? No, were fine, thanks. For a moment, as the waitress brings us our food, were a happy family again. Put those away and eat, Andy, Mom says. I want to start working on the grilled cheese, but its absolutely covered in pickle juice. I start nibbling at the side, hoping nobody will notice. I just wanted this to be a nice breakfast, like a normal family, Dad says. We are a normal family, Mom counters.

Andrew Neylon

You think Im a loser, dont you? No, Tom, please can we just eat? Andy Andy, what are you doing? Did she not teach you to eat all of your food? he demands. Yeah, yeah Dad, its fine. Dont worry. With his eye on me now I know things are about to erupt. This is the cycle. Days of silence. Morning of excitement. Afternoon of anger. Mary, make him eat that fucking sandwich. Did she not teach you to be grateful for your fucking food? He smiles at the waitress again. Does anybody need a box? she asks. I do, maam, I respond. Im sorry, I couldnt hear you, she replies. A box, maam! Oh, of course. I wish she hadnt done that. I dont want to look weak like that in front of him. I want to be strong and confident like my dad, but I always end up repeating myself. Give him a break, Tom. Andy, you did fine, Mom says. You need to learn to fucking speak up for yourself, Andy. Look, I know what its like to be picked on at your age, I was too, and you need to man up. Mary, why dont you tell him? Dad says. Honey, dont worry about it. Youre fine. Okay? Lets get that box and get out of here. The waitress comes back with the box and, while I pack the food up, I know mom and dad are eyeing each other for a grudgematch. We still have the ride for the rest of the day to get through, and sometimes she just picks on him. I dont understand why she doesnt realize that hes fragile, and you cant pick on him all the time like she does. As we head out the door dad is smiling again. He spots a record shop down the road and starts off toward it. Mom and I follow and I think to myself that this is what families do. They are always up and down. Well go in the record shop and hell show me a Todd Rundgren album he loves, and well

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sit in the car. While they yell at each other about which restaurant we should eat lunch at, Ill read the paper and try to make myself invisible. At the end of the day Ill go upstairs where nobody will be angry anymore. My family is every family, and this Saturday is just like every Saturday. I run my fingers over the scattered CDs in the back seat. The Beatles. Genesis. Jethro Tull. Albums, I would come to find, with music that reflected the fractured psyche of the late 1960s. Songs about chaos, stories about failed prophets. This was the pattern for the first two years we lived in Pennsylvania. Down to the letter, we would make the same agonizing trip for a family day together. I never learned much about my father during these trips except the bits and pieces he would tell me about the music he loved, and his family. Dad didnt have the same structure as I have. He didnt have stability, or weekly dinners, or two parents who care about him. Sometimes he would off-handedly mention that his parents hadnt been there for him the way he wanted to be there for me. Even if it tore us apart, even if Mom and I couldnt see the story Dad was weaving in his head, we were like minor characters in one of the epic songs from his favorite albums. Eventually Mom couldnt hear the music anymore. She wanted Dad to see a doctor. To understand the battle in his head between the life hed been born into and the new one he orchestrated. *** A year after that lunch, in the winter of 2003, Mom finally convinced Dad to make an appointment. His behavior had become so erratic, and the cycle of anger and depression so regular, that the weekends all seemed to blend together. But the morning Dad left for the doctors office was different. In the years to come we called it D-Day. Every Saturday is a landmine, and my mother and I do our best to avoid the shrapnel. Theres no Penns Table this weekend, though. Theres no car, and no record shops, and the house is quiet,

Andrew Neylon

save for the sound of food being chopped in the kitchen. Im sitting on the couch in the living room while Mom cooks. Shes been making lunch for the last hour to keep her mind off Dad, and the doctor, and the home life she never expected. Mom, what are you making? Its chicken, Andy. Dont worry. My mother grew up in home full of quiet anger. Her parents divorced young, and as she spent her adolescence shuttled from family to family, she learned the danger in upsetting those you depend on for security. Instead, she became a practiced and efficient manager at disappearing into the calm of the storm. Everything was pressed beneath the skin like a bruise, and I can hear her frustration in the clangs and bangs of the pots and pans. Whens Dad gonna be home? Soon. Soon, Andy, just be patient. Just hold on, dammit. She presses her hand to her head. This is the face of a woman who compresses every scar, who hasnt felt comfort in her own body for decades. It wasnt supposed to be like this! she says. Most of her is obscured through the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. I can see her fingers trembling and the knife in her hand and the little cubes of chicken scattered around her fingers. The door flings open, and Dad trudges in. Dad! I run to him, but something is wrong. Hugging his leg, he brushes me aside and goes to talk to my mother. What did they find out, Tom? Mary, I need a drink. Im going downstairs. Please dont bother me. When your dad needs a drink at 1 p.m., something is especially wrong. But my dad is all thousand-yard stare. Theres a conflict going on that we cant see, an enemy we cant understand. Tom, we have to talk about it. I hide on one of the uppermost stairs, while Mom corners him in the basement.

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Look, what did you find out, Tom? Fuck, Mary, Im bipolar, okay? Jesus. I take care of this family day in and day out, and all I ever do is come back to questions from you. Do you think this is what I wanted? I wanted to take care of you, and provide for you, and all you two ever do is leech from me. Do you even want me anymore? Theres a cracking in his voice now. Its firm and gritty, and it shifts up an octave as he goes. For the first time in my life I can hear my dad terrified and alone and human. I cant even see his face, but I can feel the sting of the tears and before I know it Im crying too. Tom, Tom, its okay. Tom, please stop. Were going to be all right. Were going to go to the doctors, and get you medication, and were going to make it through this. He is in her arms and she is his Atlas. My mother holds up my father and their crumbling relationship, and promises to love him, even though people only agree to love broken things before they truly know them. Mary, do you still need me? Tom, I have to go talk to Andy. Ill be back soon. The question is left hanging in the air, and years later I will understand that you can hold someone in your arms and tell them theyll survive and not be in love with them anymore. I scatter as she heads up the stairs. Andy, stop hiding. I know you listened, and we need to talk. I look her in the eye and its clear that from now on shes running the household. She is my mother, and the rock, and she runs her hand across my cheek. Andy, your dad is really sick. Really, really sick. Youre going to have to be a really good son to him right now. Yeah, Mom. I want to help him. I just want everything to be okay. Even when its not, you need to be good to him. Hes your father, and you have to love him. Give me a hug, Andy. I can feel her bones against me and we are electric. Things are going to be different for a while, Andy.

Andrew Neylon

She heads back down to the basement and all my parts are tugged in a jumbled mess. I know I should not listen, I should go to my room, but I still creep down to the basement doorway and listen intently to the two of them. I dont know if I can do this, Mary. I know, Tom. I know. Before I run up to my room, a single sound emerges clear and distinct. My father is sobbing in my mothers lap, the gasps echo off the basement wall until Im afraid theyll fill the whole house. My father once told me my grandfather died when he was just a little boy. He had been a pilot in World War II, a farmer whod died from a heart attack a decade after the war and who had never gotten over the horror of combat, the quiet of returning home. Alone, and fighting for himself, Dad vowed that his family would always be provided for. Even as my father gripped the bottle or selfmedicated, he always believed that by staying he could finally win the war. People break, but families try and pick up the pieces. This was the beginning of a very long war. *** The next six months passed by in a messy haze. Tensions ran high as my father began to cope with the complexities of medicated life. His mood swings, which had only intensified in the preceding years, began to dominate our family life. As ever, my father wanted us to feel normal. Our family, even when neither parent was working, always made it a point to take regularly scheduled vacations each season. We were cruising down a lane in Chincoteague, Va., when something set Dad off. I just need to know where the goddamn hat is! Dad screams. Mom is sitting in the front seat with her head in her hands. Dad is searching through the mess of things in the trunk of the car. David Bowies falsetto on Young Americans warbles through the windows.

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It has to be in here somewhere! Why dont you two fucking help me out? We both move grimly to the back of the car and start looking through the clutter. Mom and I glance at each other and know this is an episode. Tom, have you been taking your medication? Fuck off, Mary. Dont baby me. We dont find anything, so Dad ambles into a field and lights up a cigarette. He runs his fingers through his slowly thinning hair. The tips have started to turn gray since the diagnosis. My mom puts her hand on my shoulder and we both watch the gaunt man, who just a year earlier seemed invincible, chainsmoke over a hat. Tom, I need to know, are you not taking your medication? No, Mary! Im not. I feel foggy on it, I dont want to do anything, and I cant think. I know it must be so easy for you to just sit there and judge everything from your fucking high-horse, but Im in the trenches dealing with this. Chincoteague has one of the most beautiful beaches in the U.S., and we are on the side of a dirt road arguing about a hat. In the months following the diagnosis, the rampant manic-depressive cycling has sapped my mothers strength. My father no longer feels useful, or relevant, and fixates on minute details like the hat, another key piece in the ever-evolving story we cant see. Tom, if youre not going to medicate, we cant do this. I didnt sign up for this, and Im not going to help you get better if you dont want to get better. What? Take my son from me? Youre gonna leave me like some broken down car, Mary? With what money? Who the hell is going to take you in? I am looking in the left corner of the trunk when I find it. I cant do this forever, Tom. This isnt what I agreed to. I want to be myself, Mary. Part of me wants to climb up on the roof and jump off because I dont know how to do this, and I dont want to be this anymore, and Im scared. I need you to take care of me.

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I found a different hat! I yell. Both parents turn to look at me, and for a moment they dont look like two people in love. They look like two strangers standing in a desert looking for water. Dad walks over and hugs me. He kisses me on the cheek, and the bristles sting. He takes the hat and slings it on. Well hey, lets head to the beach, he says. We all pile into the car and drive, silently, down the road to the beach. I bet theres a pony out there munching on the hat right now, he says. The sun is clear and bright, and even though this doesnt feel like a sunny day, we do our best to smile. Even as we run away from our responsibilities stable father, loving mother, devoted son we understand that there just isnt room for these old roles anymore. My father tells me his family was one of the wealthiest in Peoria. One time, he says his step-father ran for Senate. When they lost their money in the mid-60s after a string of bad planting seasons, his attitude changed. He became a worker bee, spending his teenage years hard at work trying to win back the financial stability thatd been stolen from him. To him, a hat was a reminder of an age where survival wasnt guaranteed. We all huddled back into the car and got on the road again. For the moment, at least, the episode had passed. *** As 2004 closed, little had changed. While the diagnosis was supposed to make my fathers life easier, it seemed to have just made his frequent episodes the new norm. Even so, some bipolar episodes are legendarily bad. When my father threw a dish at my mother in January 2005, she hit her breaking point. Typically bipolar individuals arent physically violent they like to intimidate psychologically. That outburst set something off inside her, and she gathered me from my room in a rush and moved us into a hotel

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room for the week while she figured out if her marriage was beyond repair. Mom and I watch the phone buzz on the night-stand. This is the 20th time this hour. Arent you gonna answer it? I ask her. Just hush. Mom heads to the bathroom to chain-smoke, even though she deliberately bought us a non-smoking room. She always says it relieves her stress, but I think its because harming her body is the only thing she can control in the family. The six months after the diagnosis have pushed her to her limit. The phone vibrates again the 15th voicemail. I want to pick up the phone and check it, but I already know what Im going to hear. Dad has two main tactics. At first hell come on softly, like the whole thing has been a misunderstanding. When it doesnt work, hell go for a more aggressive approach. He figures if he can tear her down, keep her from outgrowing the cage, shell come back. She always does. Meanwhile, Mom will spend the days trying to keep everything under control. Her at work, me at school, and a rolodex full of people who cant, or wont, take us in. Meanwhile, I didnt realize wed be leaving and all of my school books are at home. While she lights up next to the bathtub, Im working on a particularly difficult math problem. I missed a lot of school when I was younger because I would make myself sick to get my parents to stay home, and its finally starting to catch up with me. And I dont have the book. The teacher doesnt even like me. Mom! I need help! Whats wrong, honey? Oh, honey, I havent done this in years. Its fine, uh, I guess Ill just ask tomorrow. My mother barely registers my disappointment. Instead, she heads back into the bathroom to call my dad again. Even though the door is closed, it doesnt take long for the shouting match to consume the entire hotel room. No, Tom. No. You fucked up. You lost your job, and you

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treated us like shit, and I cant do it anymore! Okay, Tom? Im exhausted. Stop calling me, Im tired of this shit. This isnt the first hotel room weve stayed in, and its not the last. Even before the diagnosis, during the mid-90s when both parents were overworked, Mom and I would sometimes escape to a Hilton to avoid the constantly mounting pressure. Its a temporary bandage on a permanent wound. I can imagine Dad turning on his best, most charming voice to try and win her back to the house where hell have two more good days, then a depressive episode, and in another month well be living in a different room in a different local motel. Tom, Tom stop crying, please. Its not fair to put me in this position. Shes pacing around the room like a lioness. Calm, fierce and independent, but I can see her wearing down. Im pretending to do fractions and hanging on every word when I hear what sounds like a whimper. Hes crying. He has a lot to cry about. He has no job, a mental illness, and he came home today to an empty house. Fuck you, Tom. I took him because hes my son, and hes smart, and Im not gonna let you treat him like shit. Ive been doing my homework under the covers, but I pop my head out to see her, hand pressed to her forehead, crying. Dont call me tomorrow, either. Im serious, Tom. She looks over at me and knows instantly Ive heard the whole thing. Listen, honey, dont worry about that. Lets look at these problems. We start to work on compound fractions. Mom only really gets them her way which isnt the teachers way, but it still makes sense. After were done, she presses her head into my shoulder and kisses it. Look, Andy, its not just about these problems. I love you so, so much, and I just dont want you to fall behind. You can be anything you want, and your dad and I love you. He pushes you because he knows youre smart everybody does. We just want you

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to have everything you need to succeed. I want to tell her that I have everything I need right here, with her. Ive never seen her cry before. Do we have to go home, Mom? I dont know, honey, but we cant stay here forever. You wont be with us forever; you have to work really hard to go somewhere else. I need you to know that no matter how he acts, youre the most important thing in our world. The phone starts vibrating again on the table. Moms words echo in my head. Someday I wont be with them anymore. The world looks very big outside the hotel window. We ended up back home just four days later. Mom, despite her best efforts, couldnt get anyone to take us in. We were forced to rely on my dad financially, and for my mother there wasnt any way out. Each time we left we hoped it would be the last battle, but solemnly we would return home to repeat the cycle. *** After a certain point, you just check out. The year between 2004 and 2005 included some of the bloodiest battles in our family. I put all of my focus into my schoolwork, and dreaded the weekends I was forced into the adult conflicts which waged endlessly. My father, who had been such a vibrant fixture in my life, disappeared into the oblivion of alcohol in his basement. Even with child-like eyes, I could see the stress and fractures maintaining the house placed on my mother. I was searching for a way to tell her that this cycle had to stop. During a late night screaming match between my parents in January 2005 an opportunity found me. You know what I did today, Mary? I sat in my fucking cubicle and thought I should buy a gun, and shoot myself in the head. Almost two years since the diagnosis, and everything has been steadily ramping up. I watch their feet pacing through the railing on the third floor of our house. I dont know what sets this one off. I shouldnt have asked for a raise in my allowance, forgotten to turn in a homework assignment, left my shoes in the wrong place.

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Tom, I dont want to fight anymore. You want to be a child? You want me to pay attention every time you scream? Its exhausting. Youre fucking pathetic, and you know it. Listen, cunt. I realize youre probably too stupid to understand this, but I run this family. I keep it going. You want to play saint and doctor and take care of everything all the time? Go get a fucking job and tell me what thats like. Tell me what its like to do one day of work in your life. His weight has fluctuated in the last round of meds, but his mind is all over the place. For someone who lives by control, by being a man and being recognized for it, his mental illness has taken every scrap of masculinity he has. This is his arena. I know exactly what youre gonna do. Youre gonna run up to your little fucking son and try to take him from me. Then in the car youll call your dad, who still doesnt give a shit about you, and youll stay at a hotel. Exactly how long do you think itll be before youre home? Huh, Mary? Tell me the days. Tell me how many more fucking times youre going take him away from his father, and his school, and a normal childhood? Fuck you, Tom. Hes mine. She heads upstairs and we lock eyes as she rounds the bannister. Im not supposed to be listening, and normally Id be dead, but thats not the issue tonight. Andy. Andy, honey. Its okay, she says. I grab her legs and pull tight. I dont think about comfort or bruising her, I just want to feel someone against me to keep myself from shaking. I need to get you to bed. If we wait much longer, hes going to come up here, and we dont want that. Why is he like this? The drugs were supposed to make everything better, and theyve exposed the whole thing as a lie. There are wrinkles on her face I have never seen before. Shes gotten old, and it occurs to me she was a 13-year-old girl with the world before her. Nobody dreams this up as their future, to find their son clutching their leg in tears while their manic-depressive

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husband smokes and drinks himself to death in the basement. He just doesnt know how to love us, Andy. We are looking at each other now, and she is my mother but not my mother. She is a woman in her mid-40s who had everything slip out from under her, and I am 13-year-old boy who has to become a man right now because my father has disappeared. I start crying into her lap. Her fingers run through my hair and I can hear myself speaking. I want you to get a divorce. I can feel the prick of her fingernails on my neck. She leans her head down against mine. Andy, I love you. Im so sorry. I love you, but I cant do that. We dont have the money. Nobody will take us in, God knows Ive asked our entire family, and nobody wants us. She wraps her arm around my shoulder. Were trapped. For now, at least, were trapped. You have to be patient. She grips my arm and helps me up the stairs. She tucks me in, even though she hasnt done it in years, and kisses me on the forehead. Im sorry honey, just not yet. As my mother heads down the stairs to fight with my father, I fall asleep knowing that something, even if its infinitesimal, is changing. Weve said it out loud, and I want to make it real. Freedom will come. *** I waited another year. Amazingly, the tide started to turn. My mother got a job in Fishers, Ind., in May 2006 and suddenly she was the bread-winner. Moving my father out of our new home was a slow, incremental process. As he lost his purpose in the household the episodes became less frequent, and the depressive side of his bipolar disorder took hold. It wasnt unusual at that time to only hear my father speak a few times a week. Then as we neared the end of the year, my mother started dropping hints. She didnt just want my father out of her room

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she wanted him out of her house. My father was foggy by then and couldnt seem to grasp that the marriage had slipped away from him. She gave him the eviction notice on March 16, 2007. The end was in sight. I peered under the door-frame of my room while he moved his boxes and trinkets out of the room. Mom and Dad hadnt slept in the same bed for the last few years, the guest bedroom transformed into his nightly hide-away. Now he was the one leaving. For him, with no job and virtually no status or skills, it was the lynchpin in his fall from grace. I couldnt believe that just a few years earlier, even when hed been out of a job or on a bender, hed been the one in control. Whether the years or circumstances shifted, someone in our family was always leaving. When I was 9 years old the family moved to North Carolina on a whim. Though both of my parents had successful jobs in Chicago, my father decided he wanted to move out to the east coast to pursue something greater. For him, the promise of a new career was always on the horizon. My father was a man always battling between two ambitions, the desire to be normal and the desire to be a star. We ostensibly moved to North Carolina so we could spend more time together as a family, but the move was really motivated by his desire to be the star worker of the family. When the job stalled, he set his sights on turning me into a child actor by surprising me one weekend with a commercial audition. We entered the room, a large auditorium, and watched lines and lines of kids sing the same song Happy Birthday for an eagerly appreciative commercial director. Dad prodded me into line. He seemed giddy and excited, after all I liked to sing, and this could have been my big break. His smart son could become his talented son, or his famous son. This could be the moment everything changed, and for the cameras he was a doting father. Everyone would hear my high, sweet singing voice and applaud. Except I was afraid. So, when the line got close, I started to panic. I wailed, embarrassing him in front of scores of focused

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parents with thoughtful, diligent kids. Now I wasnt just mediocre, I was damaged. The weak, broken son began to embarrass the proud father and, recognizing he was losing control over the situation, he grabbed my arm and dragged me into a hallway. Dont you want to be famous? Do you want to live like this for the rest of your life, in a tiny house with no money and no respect? I didnt understand money or respect. I understood comfort. In that moment, as concerned parents shuffled by and offered up sympathetic looks for the boy on the edge of tears and his infuriated father, his eyes bore into me. White, hot, cyclical rage poured out as he burst out of the building. He went for his car, and I waited for him to pull around to pick me up. I kept waiting. After 15 minutes I realized my father wasnt coming back. Hed driven away, surely a sign that Id pushed him too far by not singing the song. I began looking around for people to ask for help, for someone I could stay with, for a place to sleep. I sat down and hugged a fire-hydrant. I stifled my tears, worried a stranger would try and claim me and Id have to begin my new life as someone elses kid. For an hour I watched the people go by and the cars drive and realized this is what happens when you cant love someone right. Then I saw the jeep pull up. His eyes were red and puffy. He jumped out and hugged me close to his chest. Im so sorry, Andy. Itll never happen again. Then it did. Slowly, the boxes in the hallway disappeared out the front door. I watched, rapt, body aching on the ground, wondering what our last words would be and thinking about freedom, and quiet, and leaving for good. After 10 minutes of quiet I realized everything was gone. Every box, every trinket, everything had been packed. Dad left. Id spent my entire adolescence waiting for an apology from him. Hed spent his entire adulthood trying to find the words to tell me he didnt know how to speak. On the day my dad left, he didnt say goodbye. He never learned how. He packed up and out of my

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life as silently as hed dropped into it. It was the end of that campaign, but hardly the end. My mother came home that night to what we both hoped would be the end of a long war. Instead, the most difficult fights were still in front of us. Id longed for freedom, but now I had to figure out who I wanted to become once I got it. *** As the next two months passed I started to come into my own. I finally felt comfortable being myself at home, and I started making friends for the first time in years. Mom was busy working long hours to keep the two of us afloat, but the calm and quiet of the house was therapeutic for both of us. That summer of 2007 my grandfather developed a blood infection. In a rush, my mother and I flew out to visit him for what we worried might be the last time. At the airport I was met by a surprise; a stranger named Charlie arrived to pick us up. We headed to his home in Bristol, just a short stay away from hospital where my grandfather was resting. Something about it all seemed off. On our third day there, I walked past the two of them making out in the laundry room. Mom is kissing a man who is not my father in the hallway of an unfamiliar house. Shocked, I rush into the room Id been staying in and start screaming into the pillow. Everything okay, Andy? Katie, Charlies daughter, calls from the hallway a few minutes later. Shed been my new friend, and as the only other teenager, the person closest in age to me at the house. Now I wasnt sure who I could trust. Yeah, just leave me alone, thanks. For years my father had implied my mother was a cheater. In truth, his mental illness exacerbated his life-long fear of abandonment. This was horrific proof of his suspicions. After stewing for half an hour, I leave the room and head up the stairs to where shes been staying only then does it click that, of course, shes been staying in his room the whole time. Can I come in? I ask her.

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No, honey. What do you want to do that for? Fine. Come to my room. I need to talk to you right now. Mom never told me about her earlier marriages. Dad forbade her from speaking of them to me, and in doing so built up the image of my mother as protector, defender, but never woman. Shed married young during her time as a student in England during the 1970s, and again during the early 1980s once she was back in the states. She was a woman who had always wanted to get the fullest out of life, but her vivaciousness had faded in the 20 years since shed married my father. Her needs, however, had grown. When two adults start sleeping in separate beds, its not just the marriage thats failing. It would take me years to understand that my mother, who had suppressed herself my entire life to avoid shipwreck, was all too human. Were you just kissing him? What? In the hallway. Dont lie about it. Andy. This is a complicated situation. I start pacing around the room like an interrogator, not caring whether I push the argument, or her, to the breaking point. Yeah, right. Cheating is really complicated. Sitting on the bed, she begins to cry. Her bangs fall over her face, and I can see the tears on her cheeks. Awkwardly, I move to hug her. I didnt want to hurt you, she repeats over and over again, strained between gasps. She lays her forehead against mine. I only wanted to protect you, she says. I start crying too. For her, because her heart is being pulled in two different directions. For me, because the world is unfolding in shades of gray I have never seen before. She never told me about her marriages, or about a life without love. It all must have seemed too complicated, too mature for a young boy to understand. She couldnt tell me about England, and the young girl whod gotten married in a rush to stay abroad

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and pursue her dreams, or the woman whod given up her career in Chicago to make my own father feel more successful. Now, she couldnt tell me about the 50-year-old woman sleeping alone in a bed longing to be touched, felt, wanted. My mother and I barely spoke for the rest of the trip. When I got back to Indiana I was subjected to a far worse punishment: regular visitation days with my father. Even if one of the parents is verbally abusive, the state of Indiana still prefers that a child have equal visitation with both parents. I still didnt know whether I could trust my mother, but home always felt safer than visiting my fathers apartment. I spent the remainder of summer and fall keeping my distance from both parents, unsure if anyone was truly on my side. *** By December my grandfather broke his hip. Most elderly folks dont survive very long if they break one, and my grandfather had the misfortune of breaking two in five years. Worried, my mother flew out to make sure hed survive the surgery and take care of his recovery. Grudgingly, my mother dropped me off at my fathers apartment just a few blocks away. A few days, she thought, and Id be back safely away from him. Now, in a dangerous mix of alcohol, medication and mood swings, he was unraveling in front of me. Andy! Get out here. Yeah, Dad? I say as I close the screen door and step out onto the patio. The Genesis album Foxtrot is playing in the background. Let me tell you something, son. Sit down. My father spent most of my life talking around me. Maybe that was the way hed been raised, a product of the seen and not heard generation, or maybe he hoped by keeping me in the dark about his struggles he could actually protect me from the tumultuous adult world. Whatever the reason, there was something final about him finally looking me in the eye. You think Im a monster, dont you? No, no, look me in the

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eye. Your mother tells you Im a fuck up and a monster, be honest. My father, too, was caught in the din and haze of the fog of war. Well, fuck that. There are two things you need to know. Where I came from, and where she is. I came home when I was your age and found a box full of my stuff outside my house. My parents left me. You feel bad? You think nobody cares about you? Get over yourself. This is a part of his story Ive never heard before. In fact, it directly contradicts the stories my father has told me. Sometimes his parents are poor farmers; other times they are wealthy politicians. My father has been a cosmopolitan traveler, an almost-fish scientist, a roadie; hundreds of stories throughout the year that only now collude. Sometimes bipolar individuals create fictions and fantasies that match the aggrandized world they wish they could live in. Sometimes they are paranoid nightmares. While some bipolar people can distinguish between delusions and reality, my fathers fantasies eventually became indistinguishable from his real life. Where do you think your mother is? Huh? In Connecticut with your grandfather? Please. She doesnt want you, and shes only there to fuck some guy she wants. She wants to be part of his family. She dumped you. She dumped me. Now were together. You know what she told me last night? She doesnt even know if shes coming back. Youre stuck with me. So congratulations, you won the dad lottery. Better get used to it. They can be so effective they resemble Stockholm syndrome. The creator believes and so, with time, will the bystander. This is the first time my father has ever truly confided in me or treated me like an adult. Despite myself, I begin to believe. I need to talk to Mom. Yeah, fine. Take my phone and call her. Ask her how your new dad is doing. I go into the living room and dial the number. Mom, Mom. Are you there? Andy? Are you okay?

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My mother had always been there to take the brunt of the episode for me. At the expense of her own comfort, she would deflect every episode squarely onto her shoulders. In Connecticut, with no way to directly intervene, shes now caught between taking care of her ailing father and saving her trapped son. Dads freaking out. Look, I cant do this. Okay? I dont want to be here, and I cant do this. Let me talk to your dad. I walk outside and hand him the phone. He turns up the stereo and walks out into the lawn. Oh, now the whore wants to talk to me? Oh, hey, Mary. Just your abandoned son and husband calling to check in. What did I tell him? The fucking truth, Mary. No, no, guess what, you left him with me. Im going to tell him the things you wont. Because I want to protect him, and Im not going to let you drop him the way you fucking dropped me. Yeah, fuck you too. Ill tell him how much you care as youre feeding somebody elses son. Watcher of the Skies is playing now. Scared of what might happen next, I step inside the apartment and watch my father from behind the glass door. Hes yelling and flailing his arms around. I sit down on the ground by the glass door and watch. I close my eyes and listen to the lyrics. My father is lost in the fog. I can see him standing in the field yelling drunkenly about events that have likely never happened. They tell stories about Vietnam vets who never left the jungle, or Japanese soldiers forbidden by their commanders to surrender even after the war is finished. My fathers war, the war his own father had never finished, had come to haunt him. Eventually he finishes the phone call. He hurls the phone at the ground and begins pacing. I wish I knew the world my father lives in, the hundreds of battles he survived but could only relate to me in vague, hazy scenarios. He crumples onto the ground and begins crying. My father always believed he could see things nobody else could see, that he was prophetically gifted and others simply couldnt make the connections as fast as he could. But lying there, I could see the danger-

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ous line between prophecy and fog of war. You see both, or at least you think you know what youre seeing, but its never as clear as it seems. In the mist you run the risk of losing yourself entirely. I push my fingers up against the glass and cry out silently for him. For my father, trapped in wars I will never know. Gifted to understand too much of the world; too much to function inside it. As the song comes to an end, I open the glass door. His crying is the only soundtrack. I walk over to him and grab his shoulder. Dad? Dad, can you come in? I think you need to come in now. He looks up at me like he doesnt even recognize who I am. Hes been fighting this war his entire life. I know in that moment he may not survive, but I wont leave him behind. I help him up and into the house. He can barely stand, so he puts his weight on me until we get to his bedroom. I help him into bed, and as I turn to leave he grabs my arm. Well have a better day tomorrow, son. I smile at him as he falls asleep. In the fog of war, anything can happen. That was the last time I ever went back to my fathers apartment. As 2008 closed I receded from both parents, unsure of whom I could trust. I no longer trusted either of my parents, and it would take several months for me to begin to believe my mother again. After attending a battery of therapy sessions in the wake of my fathers bipolar episode, the state finally agreed that I no longer had to regularly attend the weekly visitation with my father. The battle was over. As the last two years of high school began, I could finally settle in and focus on healing. The days passed quickly and happily, and after all of the fighting it finally seemed like the worst was behind us. Mom began dating Charlie, and eventually he moved from Connecticut to our home in Indiana. Besides the occasional card sent to the house, my father came up less and less in conversation. *** As 2010 began, I neared graduation. My father and I hadnt spoken

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since the night I spent at his apartment. Id tried my best to put everything behind me, to begin healing the restless wounds and learn how to be a kid again. Before I graduated, I sent my dad a letter ending our relationship. Partially it was selfish; I was still angry and hurt. But another part of me wanted to move on. The war was over, I thought. Wed all lost. I hoped sending him the letter would let us both begin to heal. I am writing this because someday there will be a phone call or a knock on the door and someone will inform me that youve passed away. On the day that message comes, there will be a void. There will be words I have not said, which I will no longer be able to say. You were, and remain, my father. For any period of time in which I was cognizant of your presence in my life you were not a dad. You have never been one. I remember feeling more comfortable at school than home. I remember how terrified I was any time I had to be alone with you in the house, because if you had an episode, I didnt have anyone to protect me. I remember you threatening to get a gun and shoot my mother and me, or jump off a building because we were just that awful of a family. I remember when I realized if you stripped away the disorder, you were still a sad, lonely man who had forsaken nearly every good relationship he had. I remember, most of all, you on the phone or in the garage flat out denying the things happening. To go through excruciating trauma at the hands of another person and then to have that person deny those things ever happened, or those words were ever said, is one of the most painful and dehumanizing things you have ever done to me. There are times when I see a father and son embracing one another in television or film and I ask myself just what Im missing out on and how much I could have learned. I want to teach my son, should I ever have one, the lessons you never taught me.

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This letter, perhaps the last piece of communication I will initiate, is my way of saying the things I need to say to be free of the hold you have had on me since birth, to let go of any lingering hurt or bitterness, to move forward, and to say I love you. I love you, but I cant be a part of your life any longer. Im only now beginning to recover from the damage you did to me, and anything else would be a step backwards. I will always be your son, and I will always need a father, but I am learning to survive to thrive without one. You hold a very special place in my heart for the gifts and trials you have delivered to me. You are my father, and I am your son. I have to follow my own path, become my own father just the same way you did. I promise Ill do a better job than you did. I pray you and I can find peace, warmth, and friendship in the next life, if not in this one. This is goodbye. Forever yours, Andrew R. Neylon I realized, later, how brutal that letter was. I got a letter back from my father a few months later. While I had expected him to rage at me for rejecting him, or to beg for my sympathy, he wrote that he understood my decision and respected it. He said he read it again and again, that hed even cried. I felt a sense of accomplishment in sending it, the final closure in a sad chapter. As the letters continued through my college years, it became clear that he never truly let go. To survive his long war, I would have to leave him behind. *** I didnt speak to my father for another five years. It almost began to feel like a part of some past life, of who I once was. Mom and Charlie married. I entered my third year of college. The life of normalcy my father had fought so hard for only came to fruition after he left us.

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Id left the war behind me, but my father had spent the last seven years fighting. On Feb. 11, 2013, walking back to my apartment from the Ball State campus, I missed a call from my Uncle Tommy. My Uncle Tommy was my fathers best friend. Theyd grown up together, and he was one of the few windows into what my father had been like when he was my age. Andy, I need you to call me as soon as you get this, he said. Id lived in fear of short voicemails like this for the last decade. I knew one of two things had happened. As I dialed his number, I prayed I wasnt right. Hey, Im just returning your call, I say. Are you sitting down? No, why? Andy, your dads dead. Theres a cold sluggishness in my uncles voice. Like my mother and me, he too must have known this was always a possibility. Okay, I repeat over and over. Have you told Mom? Uncle Tommy is saying something, but it doesnt sound like words. Its garbled and messy and were on phones, so I need him to speak up. Tommy. Tommy, I need you to tell me if youve told Mom, I say. I can hear him crying. That same, messy tone that doesnt get me any closer to an answer. Tommy. Talk to me right now. I need to know if youve told my mom what happened to Dad. I dont think she knows. All right. Look, Ill call you tomorrow. I hope youre okay. The ride home is a blur. Once I get inside my apartment I head for the bathroom and sit down in the tub, with all of my clothes on, and turn on the faucet. I start dialing numbers. Mom is first, but she doesnt pick up. I keep dialing, hoping if I can tell someone it will make it real.

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Im halfway through the call list when the number flashes across my screen. Mom is calling me back. Hey honey, she says. Hey, are you in a place where you can talk for a minute? What is it? Uncle Tommy called my mother just before me. If she had returned his call first, I might not be the one breaking the news. Dad killed himself, I blurt out. Then silence. Mom, I dont think we can do this right now. Can I call you tomorrow? Yes. Yes, Andy, you can. I love you. We will say this every day for the next three months. It will come to have less to do with love, with passionate, overwhelming love, as it will come to serve as a subtle reminder that nobody else in the family wants to die. Its not, I love you. Its, I love you and Im not going to leave you behind to deal with this. Im not going to kill myself. I just need you to know that. Im coming home on Sunday. I love you, I tell her. I hang up the phone and stare at the linoleum tile on the ceiling. I sit there in the tub, water running over my jeans. In moments like this, you dont always make the logical choice. I wanted the tub to fill up, and to absolve the guilt I felt for letting this happen. I move my head beneath the water and let it fall over my head. I thought my battle was over. I thought saying goodbye to my father meant my part was done. As my breath ran out of air, I pushed my head above the water. Whatever else happened next, I couldnt make the same choice he did. *** I spent the next few minutes drying myself off. I needed to call someone. I picked Devin, a girl Id been seeing on and off since September 2012. Dev, my dad just died. I really need you now. Shes on her way within minutes, and by the time she gets to the apartment Ive changed into dry clothes.

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Devin is a sophomore at school with me. She has beautiful brunette hair and soft eyes. I hadnt always been faithful or committed to her, but she doesnt even hesitate when I call. Hey. She flashes a smile at me and hugs me tight. This is really bad, Dev. We sit down on my bed, and I stare at the wall. She nudges up against me and places her hand on my knee. Whatever you need, Im here, she says. My father spent a lot of time in his life taking. We moved 11 times by the time my parents divorced, and my father was always fixated on the idea that the next job owed him something. It left me always focused on what I had to gain. Devin was the first person to ever make giving seem appealing. I cant end up just like him, I say. You wont. It was his choice, not yours. Andrew, you are so much stronger than he knew, she reminds me. I place my head against her chest. I can feel the beating of her heart, the reminder that someone else will be with me through this thing. I cant believe you came over so fast, I say. How could I not? You needed me. Devin comes from a loving, generous family. Its made her one of the most caring people I know. I imagine my father sitting alone in his apartment in the days leading up to his death. How alone he must have felt after reading my letter those years ago. What did you do when you got home? she asks. Just called people, I guess, I respond. Mmm. Im sure you had so many people to talk to. Youre so loved. Devin has a way of bringing out the best with her questions. Shes in training to be a counselor. While we talk, she runs her fingers over mine. The second I got the call I started thinking about you, Dev. She moves my face toward hers. Were nearly on top of each other now, and as badly as I want the intimacy, I know we agreed weeks ago that we wouldnt see each other anymore. By all rights

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and accounts she shouldnt be here right now, not at least because itd been my noncommittal nature that pushed her away. I cant kiss you. This just isnt the right time, I I say. Its okay, she smiles, I know. Youre going to be dealing with this for a long time. We both know were not in the right place and, well, Im here for you. Everyone is here for you. I might have done something really stupid if you hadnt come over. I love you, Andrew. I know he couldnt tell you that, but I do. So many people do. Im not going anywhere, I just want you to know how much bravery it takes to ask for help. Devin lies with me a bit until I start to fall asleep. As I drift off, it occurs to me, tomorrow will be one of the hardest days of my life. And so will the next day. Then the end of the week, and then an entirely new week. The first night also taught me about the parts of my father I am not. My father had to march into combat alone, sometimes because of bad luck, sometimes because of who he was. My mother needed the very same. We both did. More than ever, we would come to rely on those who loved us to hold us up in our time of trial. I decided to head home that weekend to be with her, to give her my support. For the first time in years I didnt want to work, I wanted to be with people. *** The week was a blur. When someone dies, everyone will tell you theres no right way to grieve. I worked and slept my way to the weekend, but I knew the real difficulty was in front of me. I cant drive, so Mom has to take the hour-long drive to Muncie to pick me up. The first thing we do is hug, but after that the ride home is quiet and hushed. Its early morning, and as we roll along the highway I nearly fall asleep. Its not until were back to the house that it hits us. It was the last house we all lived in together. Now it feels heavy with his absence. We sit down on the couch and for what feels like the first

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time in a week we both just breathe. She runs her hand along my back. How are you holding up? she asks. Well, I didnt take a day off, I laugh. Neither one of us has. We jumped right into work after we found out about Dad. She looks tired and haggard, but I imagine I must too. Are you mad at him? I ask. She sighs. You know, when I found out I was. Im sure I still am. I knew your father better than anyone else, better than anyone could. I just dont know why they keep leaving me. Theres wisdom and hurt in her eyes. Shed been focusing on me, on my pain, but her story was a much more convoluted one. My mother lost a brother and an ex-husband to suicide. Her strength shocked me. You know, Mom, it scares me. I dont like saying it, but someday someday youre going to die. When you do, Ill be alone. Ill have to figure out all this stuff and I just dont know how. I dont know how long we have, but Im not going anywhere. I placed my hand on her shoulder and stared at my knees. We didnt say much more that day, just smiled and tried to act as normal as possible. Wed found each other in the aftermath, and for a moment it seemed like I had a firm grip on everything that had happened. Later that night, Mom dropped me off back at school. Even if I couldnt feel it that day, I was slowly getting better. I would have to let people into my life to begin healing. At that moment, there was still work to do, and as I hugged her goodbye, I knew the week to come would be one of the most difficult. *** Afew days later, Mom calls again. But this time the talk isnt so simple. She wants to know if I want to help clear out his apartment. Home-base. I havent been there in seven years. And as much as I want to bury myself in my work, I know for the rest of my life the choice will matter.

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I decide to go. For Mom, because shes not asking, shes letting me know she needs me there. For myself, because Im not that scared 13-year-old boy anymore. Its better kept than I expected. After were shown in by the owner, I split away from the small-talk between my mother and the representatives from my fathers family and head for his room. Secretly, even if can I barely admit it to myself, I want to find something he left for me. Something that will map his wound for me, show me how it all came to this. On his bed everything is arranged neatly and cleanly. Medication, bills like me he must have derived satisfaction from order. I wonder if he thought of this as his great art piece, the one performance he had total control over. Made lovingly for an unwilling audience. I look through his CDs. Old ones, new ones, some I even remember from before he left. His DVD collection has recent comedies, nature documentaries and porn. Theres a piata hanging from the ceiling, and Buddhist photography everywhere. I can see part of the noose at the base of the closet; its surrounded by clothes. I thought he would overdose on pills, or use the shower, but I can see now that it was from a bar in the closet. They cut him down here. Someone came in and found him and cut him down and didnt have the time to clear away the rope. Knowing how he died doesnt answer the riddle; its just more questions. Next to the bed theres a few small boxes. Some have medical documents, another has jewelry, and one is full of photographs. Theyre all of me. Dozens of them, from my early childhood all the way up to 2013. He never stopped collecting photographs of his son. I thought about my final letter again. It had been so easy for me to cut off contact with my father, and yet he never let go. When he sent me gifts or cards, I thought he was weak. Now I felt like the callous one. I close the box and lay it aside. For my father, and for myself, Id have to learn how to fight again. It was what I was good

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at; my father had taught me too well. But this time I wouldnt just be fighting for myself for Dad, Paul, my mother and Devin. Id fought my entire childhood to survive; I finally had people to fight for. As I walked into one of the side rooms, I saw my mother staring at my fathers photography on the wall. I wrapped my arm around her shoulder. You know, I bought this for him, she said, pointing at an ornate pot on the ground. This, and this, and these she continued, pointing at almost all of the objects in the room. Mom, its okay. Its okay. I think we should go now. We left the apartment to his other family members, people better equipped to clean the battlefield. I hoped the next tenant would find peace there. We get into the car, but words escape us again. Its a short drive home, but it isnt until were in the driveway that I say, almost to myself. There were so many pieces of him. Thats strange. To me it all seemed like Tom, she says. She has the strongest eyes of anyone Ive ever seen. To see war and survive it, to love someone you cannot save. Maybe it takes the eyes of a soldier to recognize a look like that. But we are not only the wars that made us; we learn the lessons of combat so that when the time comes we can teach others the bloody, messy truth. She runs her fingers over mine, and like a practiced general, tells me: I want you to know something; this isnt the worst thing he ever did to you. The worst thing he ever did to you was making you feel like you did when you were younger, when you didnt have anyone to turn to. You are so strong now, and can talk to so many people in ways you couldnt before. I know you hurt, and you feel weak, but he is not strong enough to break you this time. You will live through this. I know these are the words she never got to tell, the ones she has been saving all these years. As her last fights come to a close she

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finds peace. For us, for survivors, its the brief reprieve. No fanfare, no medals, just the quiet acknowledgment that theyve earned their rest. As we get out of the car, I see myself in the reflection of the windshield. For a second, it is indistinguishable from my fathers face. I know, like my mother, I will carry his ghost with me for many lifetimes. Like her, I will wear the survivors burden like a heavy chain. Like my father, I will fight. The last lesson, in his darkness, he taught me.

The Long War by Andrew Neylon is licensed under a Creative CommonsAtrribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/ by-nc-sa/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco,California, 94105, USA. Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at http://www.thedudeman.net. Photo by Sfc. Al Chang, U.S. Army, available in the public domain. See the original picture: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/ File:KoreanWarFallenSoldier1.jpg