As Far As It Goes

Chapter One

Part One: Denial

Chapter One

“Cut my hand wide open!” My brother, Dean, yelled through gritted teeth.

We were on Christmas break from school and helping Mom with some tree pruning in our front drive. Even though he’s younger, Dean was the bigger of us—stronger too—so naturally he was the one in the tree with the clippers while Mom shouted up instructions. I followed along underneath, collecting fallen limbs like a glorified trash boy.

The sun was dipping low, our work almost done, when Dean had let out that scream. A second later, the clippers hit the ground with a thunk, and Dean climbed down, gripping his left hand.

“Son!” Mom rushed over to him, inspecting the wound. “Looks deep. We’ll have to take you into the emergency room.” She turned to me,

“Kendall, grab my purse!”

I froze for a second, staring at Dean’s hand with maroon blood gushing out. I felt lightheaded. Not really from the sight of blood—but from the sudden jolt of remembering how fragile life could feel.

I had always thought it was strange how little moments could sneak up on us and change our lives forever. One dinner out—let’s say your parents' anniversary—might seem harmless until your dad starts sleeping with the redheaded waitress. Or how one dumb workplace accident could leave your mom with permanent back issues and a mountain of debt. Or how accompanying Mom and Dean to the emergency room that fateful evening would change the course of my own life.

The emergency room still managed to fill up, even though we were smack dab in the middle of the holidays. I trailed Mom and Dean to the front desk, trying to stay alert. I had to keep an eye on her, Mom’s not great in stressful situations.

Sure enough, the moment we reached the nurse’s station, she snapped. “HELP! My baby boy! My god—please, help us! I didn’t mean for him to get hurt!”

​

Dean looked petrified. The hysterics were one thing, but at fifteen being referred to as Mom’s baby boy really got under his skin. “Ma,” he said under his breath.

“Never again,” Mom whispered to herself, “I’ll never have you pruning trees. Never again.”

“Ma!” Dean repeated. “It’s just a cut, not a zombie bite.”

“Pruning trees?” The nurse asked. Dean retold the evening’s events and, after he was checked in, the three of us took seats among a sea of the wheezing, sniffling, and exhausted. 

Mom picked up an outdated copy of Vogue that rested on a side table, licked her thumb and forefinger, and began flipping through it. Her style—if you could call it that—had tipped toward relaxed since the divorce. I’ve seen pictures, she used to be fashionable. Glamorous even! But somewhere between alimony hearings and disability checks, she stopped trying. Or maybe she got tired. Ill fitting shirts, ripped leggings, and unkempt hair were her new standards. Her sense of self was just another thing my dad took from her. Mom’s the type of woman who doesn’t sit still for too long and so—like clockwork—her leg and foot began to twitch impatiently; a rhythm Dean and I knew all too well.

Dean pressed a wad of gauze to his hand while focusing in and out on a M-A-S-H rerun playing in the waiting room. He pushed some strands of his shoulder length hair out of his eyes. He’s your typical, run-of-the-mill guy—action movies, classic rock, and beautiful blonde babes are what made him tick. Clutching his left hand in on itself, he lifted the other to his mouth to bite on his thumb—something he’s done since we were little.

People used to mistake us for being twins. Even though we were a whole year and a half apart, Mom used to like dressing us in identical outfits. But sometime around third grade, our individual personalities and style preferences—never mind our age difference—became more pronounced. The matching clothes thing quickly wore out its charm.

I spent the time eyeing people as they came in and walked out. A college-aged guy in a baseball cap sat across from us. His muscular thighs—thick as tree trunks—were stuffed into unseasonable athletic shorts. I gave him my friendliest smile before he looked away in a hurry. I smiled at other boys a lot, and was often met with that same reaction. Avoidance. 

I’m not into action flicks or pretty girls. Guys with dark eyes and messy hair? That’s more my speed. Not that I’ve told Mom or Dean that.

It’s not that I was ashamed or anything, I wasn’t. I’d just rather have something to show  for it when I let them know. Like “Here’s my boyfriend, we've been together three months.” That way, we could skip the whole "How do you know that you’re gay?" part. After all, is there anything more thrilling than a secret love affair? Coming out with irrefutable proof would feel bolder, more dramatic. Cleaner.

“I told you guys pruning trees was the gateway to medical drama,” Dean muttered around a mouthful of vending machine peanuts. “This is exactly how Grey’s Anatomy starts.”

The nurses got us back quicker once Dean started dripping blood on the floor. They patched him up—stitches, antibiotics—the usual. We were finally on our way out, back home, back to our normal. So I wasn’t paying any attention to the old man standing in the corner.

"Mr. Hall!" Mom’s voice cut through the waiting room. Dean and I froze. The man propped himself with a wooden cane, looking like someone had cut him out of a Norman Rockwell painting. He sported a halo of thin gray hair. His square glasses kept sliding down his nose, framing eyes flicking around the room with sharpness. In his other hand dangled a box of Kleenex with a few used specimens crumpled up inside.

“Mr. Hall!” Mom called again, to the man’s confusion. I rolled my eyes. She does this a lot, talks to strangers as if they’re long-lost cousins. 

One time, at a yard sale, she had a half-hour conversation with a guy she swore she knew from somewhere. Dean had wandered over to me at the time and whispered, "Ma is the only person I know who can turn a yard sale into a family reunion!”

"Mom, leave the poor man alone," I muttered. He clearly didn’t know her. And more than likely, he was not whoever she thought he was.

But she was already in motion, “Oscar!”

I scoffed and watched in mortified curiosity as Mom approached the unfamiliar man and put a hand on his arm.

“Mr. Hall, it’s me: Lori Benn—well, Lori Campbell. Ruth and Lloyd’s girl?” Dean and I exchanged a look as Mom reverted to using her maiden name. She must have heard me sigh because she turned around to us and said, “Boys, it’s Mr. Hall!” 

As if that meant anything to us. 

The old man squinted, recognition dawning.

“Lori Cam… Lloyd and Ruth’s… Yes, of course!” He lit up. “What are you doing here?”

“These are my boys. My youngest got an ouchy.”

Dean lifted his bandaged hand to show Mr. Hall, even though I could tell he resented the word, ‘ouchy’. 

“Anyway,” Mom continued, “what are you doing here? And why are you standing? Shouldn’t you have a seat?”

The man picked out a tissue and blew his nose, waving Mom’s suggestion away. “I just escaped the bathroom. That pretty nurse swears my wait ‘won’t be long’—which around here must mean ‘sometime before the next presidential election’.”

“What brings you in?” Mom probed again.

“Terrible chest pains,” Mr. Hall grunted. Then, on cue, he hacked and wheezed.

“Bless your heart,” Mom clucked her tongue. “Is there anything we could do for you?” 

He looked at his watch. “Well, it’s getting dark, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be. Do me a favor? Grab me some alcohol pads and cough syrup before I start growing moss in this waiting room. I can pay you back… unless, of course, I die before I see a doctor!”

“That’s no trouble at all!” Mom patted his shoulder.

A nurse called his name from the E.R. doors. Mr. Hall gripped his cane like it was a gavel, jabbing at the tiles with each step. Even sick, he moved with the brittle energy of a man who could spend the entire night muttering about the incompetence of the hospital.

Back in the car, I broke the silence. “Mom, where do you get off talking to strangers outta nowhere?” 

Mom drove toward the local Walgreens. “Oscar’s no stranger, Kendall. He knew your grandma and grandpa very well. I’ve known him most of my life! He was married to Judy, who passed away a couple years back. Y’all used to play with his grandson… Oh shoot! I can’t remember his name.”

“I think I remember him… Nash?” Dean volunteered, turning the radio to his favorite station. AC/DC becoming the faint backdrop to the night. “Used to ride bikes with him and other neighborhood kids after we moved here.”

Nash? The name sparked some faded memories within me. I remembered racing bikes around the neighborhood with an especially rambunctious kid. How he’d laugh when we hit the bump near our mailbox. Even on that late December night, I could almost feel the summer heat sticking to our skin. I hadn’t thought about that kid since I was maybe a ten year old. Funny how names can carry old summers with them. Nash.

“Yes, that’s it!” Mom turned serious, “Poor Oscar though! Lives all by himself now in that house at the top of the hill near ours. His children never stop by. Shame really, after all he gave up for them.”

“Do we have to get his stuff tonight?” I yawned.

“Absolutely!” Mom exclaimed, waving Dean’s prescriptions in our faces. “We’re picking up this prescription and we’ll grab Oscar’s things while we wait.” There was no argument that would change her mind.

——

​

Mr. Hall’s house turned out to be the large yellow—which Mom called “blonde”—brick that we’d passed hundreds of times before without notice or memory. But surely we’d been inside it or at least around it before. At least once, I just couldn’t remember. We were waiting in the driveway to drop off the supplies he’d requested. 

Sitting in Mom’s car like that, I became even more restless. “Do we have to go in?” 

“C’mon, Kendall. You love looking in people’s homes and Oscar’s is huge! You’ll love it!” 

Mom was right, I did love to judge people’s houses and décor. There’s something intimate you can learn from how a person treats and decorates their living space. A home is like a character study if you ask me. You get a sense of how people live and I was fascinated by it.

The digital clock on Mom’s dashboard glowed 11:45PM. 

“It must have taken him a while to talk to his doctor… I hope he wasn’t admitted.” Just as Mom reached for the keys to leave, two headlights shone through the night and a white pickup pulled into the driveway.

We followed Mr. Hall through his garage, stepping through the icy winter winds into something warmer. 

He flicked on a switch and a ceiling fan came to life with four globe bulbs humming softly. If I believed I could draw any conclusions on his character from the impression I got from his decor, it would take me a long time to figure Mr. Hall out.

We were beckoned into a large living room, made to look even larger with how little resided within. Before the great window that centered the room was an old and tattered couch. Mr. Hall crossed in front of it to an electric recliner in the far corner and lowered himself with a mechanical whirrrr.

Opposite him was a small entertainment center with a few family photos, a model airplane, and a television that looked older than I was. In the last corner of the room sat a TV dinner tray with an artificial Christmas tree atop it. The little tree was trying—but failing—to bring cheer to the house. There were no other decorations, no stockings and no garland.

The place was more skeleton than home, but it was warm. The walls, once likely filled with photos or paintings, were now bare—save for a few sun-faded outlines where frames had once hung.

Mr. Hall waved us over to the couch. I stepped closer to the little Christmas tree in the corner and he noticed. “If you’d like, we can plug it in later.”

“My goodness, Oscar! What happened to this place?” Mom stood in the doorway, mouth open wide. “Last time I was here, this place was packed with furniture, knick-knacks, and not a bare space on the wall.”

“Oh, that.” He looked defeated. “Well, a few years ago, I had this hardwood floor put in.” He indicated to the floor and an adjacent room with a metal chandelier hanging in it, but no dining table below. “It was supposed to be ‘an investment’, turns out all I was investing in was my bankruptcy! I thought I’d be able to pay it off in a few months… then Judy died, and soon the bills showed up. Now, here I am; living in an echo chamber with better flooring.” His voice thinned, “I’ve had to put the house up for sale, it’s my only hope of getting out of debt.”

“That’s awful, Oscar! Where will you live?” Mom asked.

He shrugged. “A hotel? Nursing home? Maybe nowhere."

I felt a tug in my chest. The way he said it. Nowhere. Like it was just another option.

“Oscar, don’t say that!” Mom looked horrified and paused for a moment before asking, “wouldn’t one of your kids let you move in with them?”

Mr. Hall’s voice turned cold. Bitter. “No chance in hell, sweetheart. They don’t want to help. That’s where all my stuff went. I had to sell most of it… and what I couldn’t, they picked off. Oh, they were more than happy to take, but do any of them want to help? No!” He coughed, long and hard. “I keep the porch light on for people who stopped knocking years ago.”

I didn’t know Mr. Hall’s children, but I was disgusted by his story. It made me think about how people drift away. And how absence can become a habit. I couldn’t imagine leaving Mom like that. Even when she drove me crazy—even when I rolled my eyes at her—I couldn’t just disappear. Maybe Mr. Hall’s kids had reasons. Maybe they didn’t. But it felt cruel, that empty house full of missing people.

“You seem to get around fine,” Dean encouraged. Mr. Hall eyed my brother with those sharp eyes, almost as if he’d forgotten the two of us were there.

“This is Dean.” Mom said as Dean extended his uninjured right hand to shake Mr. Hall’s. “And that one’s Kendall.” 

I was distracted, trying to sneak a peek at the room on the other side of the dining room—no doubt the kitchen.

“Huh?” I said as our host caught my eye.

“Enough of these old folks rambling, huh?” Mr. Hall suggested. “Say boys, wanna see the rest of the place?”

“Are you sure, Oscar?” Mom asked as Dean and I jumped up.

“I’m sure! My realtors say I need to show this place off to as many people as possible.”

“Don’t be silly, Oscar! We couldn’t afford to buy this house,” Mom looked around, “not in a million years!”

“Maybe you can’t afford this house, Lori.” He pointed an arthritic finger at Dean, “but maybe this one has a secret off-shore bank account!” Mr. Hall led the way down the hallway, laughing.

The primary bedroom was even emptier than the living room. There was no bed, only a peach colored paint job. “There’s a walk-in closet back there.” Our tour guide bragged.

I walked to the back of the bedroom to investigate said closet. “Where’s your bed, Mr. Hall?” I asked.

“Well,” He cleared his clogged-up throat, “actually… I just got out of my bed.”

“Oscar, you don’t mean that you sleep in that reclining chair?” Mom gave him a sideways glance.

“It’s comfortable enough, it beats the hell out of the floor, and at least I can’t roll out of bed and break my hip.” He mumbled back. 

Mom stared in disbelief as he switched off the light and led us to the next room.

After spending just twenty minutes through Mr. Hall’s house—bleak as it was—I had fallen in love. It came complete with a spacious sunroom, three bedrooms, a full sized pantry attached to the kitchen, and a basement floor that was its own separate apartment suite.

“For any annoying in-laws you might have!” Mr. Hall explained with a chuckle. “You boys got girlfriends?”

My heart stopped beating.