"The catalogue of my betrayals"

In room 112, the drapes were closed against the noon day sun. In futility, light tried to seep in along the gaps of the heavy polyester beige curtains, almost as if the sunshine ached to fill some of the void and lessen the gloom for the sole occupant inside.

Marcus sat in a vinyl rocker next to his bed. On the opposite wall was a dresser that had a digital clock and a wicker tray holding several small pill bottles. One small television was anchored to the wall across from his twin bed. The room was sparsely decorated, even for an antiseptic assisted living center. This particular center tried the modern approach of mimicking the residents’ former homes. The multipurpose room was now called a community living room, complete with a fireplace, bookshelves and cozy seating arrangements. The dining room had warm colors and intimate lights. But, the inviting décor couldn’t eliminate the sterile smell or erase the many wheelchairs and walkers that cluttered the building; although the thought was nice and showed some consideration for the harrowing transition of losing one’s home and independence.

Marcus had no use for homey details or for the centers’ many irritating activities. He didn’t want to socialize because he didn’t want folks in his business. At 83 years old and married 3 times, he felt the need to keep private details private. And he absolutely did not want anyone snooping around his many failed business ventures and severed relations with all six of his children. Life had disappointed him. There was no point in whining about it to others, or God forbid, eliciting anyone’s sympathy.

Marcus rarely got visitors, but earlier today, his granddaughter came. Carisa was 24 years old with short cropped blond hair and aquamarine eyes. He was fairly certain she got her beauty from her mother, a woman his third son was lucky to convince to the altar. Marcus didn’t know much about Carisa. He stopped paying attention to grandchildren quite a while ago, much to the relief of his children and ex-wives. So, he was curious about this unexpected visit.

Sighing in his rocker, Marcus rested his head on his hand, and reflected on his conversation with Carisa. It had been awkward with long silences and went along very superficially until Marcus could stand it no longer and demanded to know her reason for coming.

Carisa hesitated, and tried to speak. She seemed at a loss for words, fumbling for the right message. Finally she said, “I guess I wanted to see if you are as bad as they say you are.”

“Who says?”

“Well, everyone. My parents, grandma, Aunt Krista, Uncle Dan. They’ve made you out to be some hideous creature. I just couldn’t believe that my own grandpa could be so awful,” she said softy, staring down at her fingers wrapped in a tight ball.

“And what did you discover during this little field trip? Did I live up to their damnation?” Marcus said wryly.

Carisa stared at him for a moment. Then her face softened. “No,” she finally answered. “You don’t seem nearly as scary in real life as you do in those stories.”

Marcus chuckled. “Well, honey. I am an old man. Some of my fight is gone. But the catalogue of my betrayals is long and, I admit gut wrenching. If you opened it up and read any page, you would instantly know why my family loathes me. And, you would walk out that door and never come see me again.”

Carisa smiled, got off the edge of his bed and bent down to kiss his cheek. It had been years since Marcus had been kissed and he was flooded with memories of how good it felt to receive affection.

“I’ll be back. Keep the catalogue to yourself.”

Thinking back to her visit, Marcus shook his head at her naiveté. But he shuffled over to the window and opened the curtains to the noon day sun.