In addition to his habits and addictions there was also just...him. His backward, victim mentality and that acidic anger born of insecurity.How could I let his noxious, woe is me world-view infect their minds? ToDad, nothing was ever his fault. He was destitute because he had “been dealt alosing hand,” not because he burned every dollar he could have saved. His poorhealth was part of that same unlucky draw, and certainly had nothing to do withthe abuse he’d put his body through. Even when Mom died, he blamed everythingfrom God, to fate, to poor health insurance; but never the shitty lifedecisions the two of them made. I couldn’t let my kids grow up around that,thinking it was normal.
Is there a level of guilt for letting him wallow in the purgatoryhe’d built around himself? I suppose. We all make our own beds.
December 13
I couldn’t sleep last night. After the kids had gone to bed, andEric turned in for the night, I lay awake thinking about my father’s lifelessface, framed by the funerary upholstery of his casket.
There is a level of surrealness at any funeral, staring down at acorpse that looks like an amateur wax museum replica of a loved one. Thesubtleties of their complexion are off just enough to make you doubt thelegitimacy of the body. That one-size-fits-all expression of peace. The wholething conjures thoughts of body snatchers and doppelgängers.
It was with such ideas in my head that I smelled smoke drift intomy bedroom. Not the smoke from a stove left on, or an electrical fire in thewalls, but the distinct smell of burning tobacco.
I didn’t smoke and neither did Eric. We never had. I wondered ifone of the kids might be dumb enough to take up such a filthy habit, and in thehouse nonetheless. My nose crinkled as I rose from bed to investigate.
Our room was next to the boys’. I poked my head in to check onthem and sniffed at the air. I could still smell the smoke, but not anystronger than I had from my own bed. Both Kyle and Georgie lay fast asleep, thefuneral having been emotionally exhausting for them as well.
I turned and followed the smell down the hall, across thecheckerboard tiles of our kitchen. It was dark and still. Neither the stove northe oven were alight. Visible in the darkness, a trail of pale smoke snakedacross the threshold, beckoning me into the living room.
Moonlight from the December sky poured through the open curtains,lending an otherworldly glow to the smoke, which terminated a few feet abovethe couch. Marla, our dog, growled low and glared at the wispy cloud. Her tailwas tucked between her legs, and hackles stood up like a porcupine’s quills.
I searched between the cushions, looking for a burning emberof...something. Nothing was there. I placed my hands over the outlets, feelingfor heat. More nothing.
A glowing dot of orange formed in the air — an angry little pixie— then faded away. A fresh puff of smoke followed the disappearance of theglow. Ashes from the burning nothing floated to the hardwood floor.
Not believing what I was seeing, I knelt down and pressed myfinger into the gray soot. It was warm to the touch, and left a charcoal smearacross my fingertip.
Eric called from the other room, concerned that I had wanderedfrom bed. I looked up from the floor to find that the smoke had vanished and noangry, burning dot floated above me. Still, my finger was stained with ash.Confused and afraid I pressed my finger to my tongue. The bitter tasteconfirmed the ash as real.
December 18
I wished I were sleepwalking, experiencing some somnambulant nightterror, but everyone could smell the smoke now. Eric grilled the boys, sure itwas them secretly lighting up in the house or carrying the smell in on theirclothes.
It wasn’t Kyle or Georgie, of course. Eric doesn’t listen when Itell him that, and I can’t quite be truthful — that each night I’m awoken bythe smell of phantom cigarettes. What kind of nut house would they lock me upin if I told him how it mocks me through the night — the floating ember,burning to life then vanishing, followed by the puff of smoke exhaled from aninvisible man.
Yesterday I cleaned the house while Eric and the boys wentshopping. I sprayed the couch and the curtains with Febreze. Ignoring the cold,I opened the living room windows, and let the crisp winter air fight the acridodor. It was then I noticed the stains on the wall. Yellow smears of tobacco,like the ones in the house I grew up in.
Scrubbing didn’t help much. Neither did the Febreze. Nothingreally gets smoke out, except for time.
December 21
Things were getting stranger. Things were getting worse. I hadn’tslept in days. Last night I was determined to ignore the smell. At ten o’clockI snuck a few Tylenol PM capsules and rested my head. This is my new bedtimeritual, though it didn’t keep me asleep in this particular circumstance.
Just after midnight, a sound came from the living room and drew mefrom slumber —audial accompaniment for the smell of tobacco. Laugh tracks andpleasant, inoffensive music called out.
My eyes were heavy from the pills as I shuffled into the hall andthrough the kitchen. A blue glow, shifting in intensity, poured across thethreshold. The ghosts of tar and nicotine were afire in the cold radiance.
Crossing into the living room, I could see the now-familiarburning dot floating above the couch. It pulsed in and out of existence, cloudsof cancer billowing from the nothingness in between the moments of fiery glow.
The TV was on. This was a new phenomenon. A young Ron Howardlooked up at Don Knotts, taking poor advice with earnest. Everyone laughed.Everyone except for me.
I clicked off the TV and went back to bed.
December 28
For the past week the TV wouldn’t stay off at night, and the smokehad become ever present. I couldn’t sleep anymore, not without chemicalassistance, and the recommended dosage
