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Father's Gift - by Shannon Muir |
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Stephen Shepherd couldn't imagine his life going on without being able to sing. The doctor told him his throat problems might be the early stages of cancer. That's why they'd done the biopsy. Every minute since felt like walking on pins and needles. Stephen didn't want to believe the possibility. It was the bars he played in and his bandmates that smoked, but not Stephen. After all, he led the band. His vocals carried every performance. Why him and not them, then? This didn't even resemble fair to Stephen. All alone on this Earth with no one to support him. Mom always told him to look to his spiritual Father to be there for him even when his Dad was not. Stephen felt music the only constant in his life, convinced it was a Heaven-sent gift that his purpose in life was to entertain and comfort others with his smooth vocals and hands that knew how to caress a keyboard. A drunken bitter Dad, Mom always working a job too many just to keep a roof over their heads if Dad didn't find the money and go spend it at the bars first. Now they were both gone, alcohol taking the one and literally being worked to death for the other. He'd left town soon after to try and build a life of his own not haunted by memories. The clanking of the mailperson's keys opening the apartment mailboxes outside finally broke his self-absorption. He went outside, and the young Black lady saw him there. "Hey there, Mozart," she joked pleasantly. "Got a letter here. Fan mail at last?" Stephen shrugged and took it. The postmark was from the city, but he didn't recognize the name: Christopher Shepherd. He opened the envelope, taken by surprise when a photo fell out of it as he removed the regular-sized sheet. Stephen bent down to pick it up, and flipped it over to see his much-younger father proudly holding up a little boy -- one that looked nothing like him. Quickly, he turned his eyes to the paper. "Dear Stephen: If you recognize the man in this picture, we need to talk. I'm the little boy, and the man is my father, Dustin Shepherd. My father left town when I was two, and I never heard from him again. About a year ago, I heard that Dustin Shepherd died, and he had a son. At first I thought this person meant me, but she clarified Dustin had a younger son. From what I understand, my father left my mother to be with yours, but I'd like to know more, like if growing up with him differed to how things were for me. When I tracked you down, it surprised me to learn that you'd moved here to this city. I've lived here all my life. I hope you'll call me. Here's my cellular phone number..." Stephen silently started to cry. The lady locked up the mailboxes, and knelt down to Stephen. "Mozart, what's wrong?" she said in a motherly way. "Bad news?" Stephen shook his head, and ran up the stairs to his apartment. Hurriedly, he grabbed his phone off the wall and dialed. One ring. Two. Stephen sighed sadly. "Christopher here," came a clearly older, deeper voice. "Um," Stephen stumbled. "Christopher Shepherd?" "Yes." "Did I, er, is this a bad time?" "Depends on who you are. I'm late to a meeting." "Didn't mean to bother you, man," Stephen said sadly and started to hang up. Then, distantly, he heard the other man's voice cry out in startled alarm, "Wait, Stephen?!" Stephen pulled the receiver back to his ear. "Yeah, I'm Stephen Shepherd. Good guess." "Can you hang on? I need to the other line for just a sec. Don't hang up." Before Stephen could answer, the line went silent. Stephen wasn't sure whether or not to hang up, if perhaps Christopher changed his mind and disconnected the call. Stephen couldn't understand why this abrupt man even had him bother. Finally, as Stephen considered hanging up the phone, a click and Christopher's voice returned to the line. "Stephen?!? Are you still there?!?" came the desperate cry. "Yeah," Stephen responded. "I'm a commercial animation producer, and we're working with an ad agency. It took forever to get my meeting rescheduled. I didn't want to make you wait another second. You want to meet somewhere?" Stephen let him know he only had a couple hours, but directed him to a nearby coffee shop. "Give me around thirty minutes," Christopher said. "What will you be wearing?" "A 'Hope of Deliverance' T-shirt." "Huh?" "My band. We're called Hope of Deliverance." "Sounds like we've got a lot to talk about," Christopher replied, excited. "See you there." *** Stephen nervously kept checking his watch as he waited at a window-side table at the Coffee Stop Cafe. Footsteps. Someone was approaching from behind. Nervously, Stephen turned to see... ... the waitress. "Was going to ask if you needed more coffee, but I think either we need to wean you or give you some decaf, kid," she said. Embarrassed, Stephen turned away. The waitress moved on. He agreed about his jittery state. Couldn't blame it on the coffee though; this was anticipation and fear. He watched several men enter. A young man with spiked hair and a nose ring asking for a job application. An elderly man yelling to make sure they got his double latte right. After a while, Stephen absently ran his stirrer around the bottom of his empty coffee cup, disturbing the settled grounds that had escaped the percolating filter and still insistently roamed free. Kind of like himself, a free spirit that had escaped the trappings of a bad family and survived. Now this Christopher Shepherd came like the coffee stirrer, to rustle up those grounds and disturb the existence Stephen built for himself. He began to wonder, was this really what he wanted? After all, he'd done so well going solo, with his band and his faith. It wasn't too late. He could still leave, close the door, and abandon Christopher Shepherd. Tell him there'd been a mistake if he persisted in contacting him. Stephen put more than adequate compensation for the coffee on the table and darted for the door, almost home free... ... until he looked into his father's eyes on the other side of the glass door. A younger version of Dustin Shepherd stood there, with a full head of blonde hair instead of a thinning gray, in a relaxed but professional business suit Stephen's father would have refused to wear as a blue-collar workingman. With a sigh blended of relief and resignation, Stephen opened the door and let his life in. "I am glad you're that eager to see me too, Stephen," Christopher said, pointing to the shirt. He spoke far more calm and collected than on the phone. "Let's get a table, it looks crowded." Stephen guided Christopher back to where he'd been sitting, where the waitress looked more than a little puzzled as she pocketed Stephen's tip. Stephen nodded, and she went away. For the longest time, only silence passed between them, as they looked each other over. Now Christopher spent the time examining his brother's dark locks and a nose that reminded him of the man he saw only in still photos. "You must have gotten your mother's hair," Christopher said to finally break the silence. "He was blonde. Mother is blonde." "I'd think you were him come back in a time machine, except he'd not be caught dead in that suit. Dad couldn't be without his blue jeans. And your nose, is that more like your Mom's?" "Yes. I think it a pity you got the time with him while I got more of his looks." "No," Stephen replied. "I'd call you blessed." "You believe in God, then?" "Jesus, my savior and my guiding light. You?" "My faith is in myself. How can you believe in Jesus as the prodigy of a drunken monster?" "My Father is in Heaven. That man made it possible for both of us to be here. I thank God for that." "Forgive me if I do not just jump on your religion wagon." "It's all right," Stephen replied. "As you get to know me, you'll get to know Our Father." Christopher didn't know how to respond to that double meaning. After the longest silence, Stephen finally found it from within. "I need to ask you something, and it may be awkward," he said. "Anything right now is awkward," Christopher replied. "Did you know Dad's family well?" "I am occasionally in contact with some distant relatives. That's how I found out he died. Why?" "Do you know if our family has a history of throat cancer?" Christopher shook his head negatively, then asked, "Is that how Dad died?" "Nah. Liver overload, too much booze. Seriously, my doctor thinks I might have it." Stephen checked his watch. "Got an appointment about an hour from now to hear about the biopsy." Christopher's face went from guarded to extreme disappointment, his cool shell cracking. "You ask me why I don't believe? This is why! How could any caring Creator let me find my brother and he's dying?" Stephen reached out and grabbed Christopher's wrist before he could bash it into the table. "Chill before you break your hand. Don't need two of us dealing with docs. Though it might give us more in common." Stephen's comment broke the tension, causing Christopher to giggle slightly. Not a nervous sort of giggle, but one of genuine amusement. "Ah, the older Shepherd does have a sense of humor. One thing Dad never had," Stephen said, smiling, as he released Christopher's arm. "There's a chance yet." Christopher became serious again. "You might die, and you still believe in what you do? Do you not think it is punishment of being conceived as you were, in a lustful relationship that broke a marriage and stole away my father?" "Things happen to people who believe, whether or not sin is in their lives, so love can be shown. I know you don't believe that but I do. That's I why I put my faith in hope of His deliverance, all the time. What my band name is all about. Who I am. Look, man, you came to find me. I will love you no matter what you're like, and I am glad God blessed me with a brother. But this isn't about who believes what, it's about family and a greater love, caring about people no matter who they are. If this doesn't jive with your heart, you can scram and forget you ever found me. It's your call." Stephen sat back and waited, practically convinced Christopher would push back his chair, stand up, and walk away. Or, perhaps, leap from his seat in a rage and storm out. "I'll go with you," he whispered back. "I know I wouldn't want to face that alone." *** Together, Stephen and Christopher went to the doctor's office. When the nurse came out and called Stephen's name, Christopher followed Stephen to the door. "I'm sorry, sir, you must have misunderstood," the nurse told Christopher. "I called Stephen Shepherd. We only have one patient by that name." "I'm going in with him," Christopher replied, strong-armed and businesslike. "Again, I must apologize, but policy is family--" "It's OK, chill," Stephen told the nurse. "This guy is my brother, Christopher." The nurse looked puzzled and started flipping through the chart. "According to our records, you have no next of kin." "I do now. As of now, I have a brother. Put that in your records and shove it. Now can we see the doc or not?" Reluctantly, the nurse let them pass. Stephen knew that no matter what he found out, tumor benign or malignant, he could face what was to come, thanks to his father's unexpected gift.
© 2003 Shannon Muir
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