School Media Literature | Father Behind the Curtain (Novel)

Author: Chen Yuxuan, a student at Henan University (20 years old)

Courtesy of Visual China

(i)

My mother was curled up on the bed in a blue-and-white striped hospital gown, and I was talking to her while brushing some of the remaining strands of hair on the top of her head. The hair was sparse, like fetal hair, just a little longer.

She sniffled, words squeezed out of her parched lips, intermittently, but I could see through the implications. I gave her a positive answer with tears in my eyes, and for some other questions, I only thought that I did not hear clearly and avoided talking about them.

The mother was talking, suddenly stunned. Her eyes converged, and I saw a figure in her pupils—it was her father. I didn't want to see him, so I rolled up my sleeves to wipe away the tears and went straight out. Passing by my father, I seemed to hear a very light sigh, perhaps an illusion. I sat on a bench in the hallway, the overhead lattice flickering, and the world in front of me flashed between black and white.

The hospital is a mirror, where you can see the most real humanity, the most real world. During this time in the hospital, I am also accustomed to life and death: the other day laughed and joked that your grandmother lost her anger only overnight; filial piety is often reunited when the elderly are dying; the corners of the corridor are always shrinking emotionally collapsed family members, the lives of relatives are like cigarettes in their mouths, and in a moment they smoke like the wind, no one can hold it, and it is best to expect no regrets.

The ward door opened, and my father held the door in one hand and looked at me while he didn't speak. I pretended to be thinking and didn't pay attention to him. We were deadlocked for a few minutes. He sighed heavily, and this time I really heard it.

"Come and live with me." Those few words squeezed out of his clenched teeth.

"No." I simply refused. For him, I never dragged mud with water.

"I know you're uncomfortable, but if you don't take good care of yourself, how can you take care of your mother?" He was resolute.

"What did my mother say?" I squinted at him.

"She told you to come with me." He said.

"Then go, first say okay, I don't want to see her when I'm there." I make my position clear.

He was silent for a moment, and slowly spat out a "yes", as if he had made a major sacrifice.

I got up and went into the ward.

My mother was sobbing, her whole chest twitching, each stroke touching my heart. I tucked her in the quilt and told her something, then turned and went out, and when I pushed open the door, I glanced at her, and she shrank into the quilt without looking at me.

After walking out the door with my father, I got into the back seat of his motorcycle. With the screeching noise of starting the engine, we dragged a trail of black smoke out of the way, and soon disappeared into the rush of traffic.

It was the height of summer, and the dim street lights dimmed the whole road, and in this warm atmosphere, I trembled slightly, only to feel cold and weak, as if I was in the cold winter.

(ii)

I always thought my father was a coward, cowardly to the bone.

He has been living carefully outside, not to mention evil, he is a man who has never done even good deeds. The best way to get less into trouble is to establish a less connection with the outside world, which is my life credo that I summarized for him. In the long run, it seems that my summary still plays a great role and is very appropriate.

For me, the impression of him is not very impressive, and his symbol is about mo, only the head of the hunch and the twisted posture, cautious and cowardly. He made few noises, so silent that the air came to a standstill. "There is already a sad thick barrier between us," is Mr. Lu Xun's words, and this is also my feeling. I attribute his cowardice and silence to the root cause of his parents' divorce, and his cowardice can turn rampant or even insane at home. You can't imagine what it's like for a taciturn man who lives cautiously to smash a bottle of wine and raise his fist and raise his belt at home.

When I was young, when my mother went to work, I was often entrusted to his care. As soon as I made a noise, he raised his belt and whipped me like a gyroscope. After the fight, I had to find a corner wall according to his orders, not to mention whether I was wrong, the wall accompanied me throughout my childhood. I often struggled with hunger and exhaustion, curled up in the corner and watched him fall asleep. He never turned on the living room light while watching TV, and I was often lost in the corner, hiding in the arms of the shadows, licking my wounds, and being a marginal man.

The mother was on the run all year round, and when she returned home, she had to bear his beatings, and such a strong woman was beaten to the ground with only a muffled hum and could not stand up, which was pitiful and ridiculous.

Divorce happens one night, and demons often haunt the night. The mother's rebellion was also on that night, and a woman's determination often burst out in a desperate situation, and it naturally led to an inevitable result. When I received the news, I didn't have too many mood swings, except for my mother, a woman who was unladylike, a woman who had suffered for many years, and a woman who endured until she finally rescued herself.

Later, I learned from my mother that the cause of divorce was more because of the entanglement of my father and my ex-wife, and the relationship between the two of them made my mother completely die.

At this point, I also broke off contact with my father. And to me it was like throwing a stone into the sea, and the splash of the stone was swallowed up by the tide in an instant.

(iii)

Before arriving home, my father stopped by the side of the road and dialed the phone, his figure decreasing as the length of the call lengthened, and his tone gradually transitioned from consultation to pleading, humble to earth. Finally something had been agreed upon, he lifted his head and sighed, raised his hands to cover his face, rubbed them fiercely, and then drove me on to that home.

It's a tiny neighborhood with sparse trees and turf, and an elderly old janitor snoozing on a bench leaning against the edge of the door. The yellow dog at the doorman's feet raised its head alertly, its ears propped up, and then barked a few times. The old janitor woke up in a daze and opened the door for us. The house was on the top floor, there was no elevator, and I climbed more than ten flights of stairs with him, during which he stopped more than once to rest, holding the handrail in one hand and his knees in the other, sweating profusely. I can't imagine how he's been through these days.

He kept his promise, and when he opened the door, there was no woman in it, but there were still heavy traces of life. The kettle on the stove made a strange noise, and my father went inside without taking off his shoes, and reluctantly cleaned up before beckoning me to come in and sit down. I found a corner of the couch and sat down, as I had stood in a corner as a child, and it had become my habit.

"Hungry? I remember you liked to eat chives and egg noodles. He stood in the kitchen and poked his head out.

"That was before." I didn't look at him and silently took off my shoes.

There was another moment of silence, and he stood in the kitchen at a loss, as if he didn't know what to cook, and he had no way to start with our relationship.

"I slept." I carried my shoes to the guest room.

The rooms are full of clutter, alphabets, little people's books, cardboard boxes... And a box of toys, a box of toys from my childhood, and I could make out the things I had treasured. I didn't make a sound, just took care of the bed.

"It's hot, fan, open the window." He came over with a fan in his slippers, but we kept an invisible distance at all times—he was only pestle in the doorway.

"Hmm." I took the fan and closed the door, even though he was still standing in the doorway.

I leaned against the door, my legs weaker until I squatted down on the ground, tears draining along with my strength.

The box of toys, which had been my most precious thing, was now the plaything of my ex-wife's children; the man, who had been the mother's most cherished companion, was now an appendage of his ex-wife. My childhood was shattered by this man, leaving a chicken feather in my life, and I could not forgive him anyway.

I don't know how long later, there was a sound of walking outside the door, maybe he was coming, maybe he had just left, but it didn't matter.

(iv)

I have confided with my friend about my love-hate entanglement with this man with the name of "father", and the friend expressed sympathy and raised his doubts: Have you ever tried to understand him, have you tried to understand him, have you given him the place he deserves in your life?

I lost my mind, and in the doubts of my friends, I began to look back on my past and look at me and him from a new perspective. I remembered something my mother had told me, something about my father. The father was the oldest and youngest in the family, and he was originally sent to the uncle's house in his hometown to be an adopted son, but the father ran back to his home from the uncle's house dozens of kilometers away with a lot of ten kilometers away. There is already an eldest sister and two older brothers in the family, and his return means that he needs to be forced to accept the unpopular life. That's how his cowardly nature came about. At the most enthusiastic age, he poured a cavity of flesh and blood into the wrong path, and the disaster of imprisonment ensued. When a pillar was most needed, the man evaded responsibility in the most justified way. Therefore, his connection with our blood is not strong enough to allow him to stay for us, and his departure seems to be an inevitability.

The rooms are really stuffy and tight, not so much as guest rooms as utility rooms. I couldn't sleep peacefully, sweat soaked my clothes, but I couldn't dare or squeak. At this time, there was a new movement outside the door, the door of the guest room was opened, and the light and shadow outside were stretched long, and there was the shadow of the father inside. Then came the cool air, one after another, gradually driving away my heat - my father turned on the air conditioner in the living room.

He walked in lightly, behind me like the pestle had been in the doorway before. He seemed to sigh softly again, and landed lightly in my ear, if there was none.

I quickly fell asleep, and in the dream I walked toward the distance, and there was no one around, and I couldn't walk my head. On the way, I met a small child, ragged and barefoot.

"Were you also thrown to another foster child?" The kid stared at me and asked.

"Huh? yes. "I was speechless.

"They're nice to me, but I don't like them, I think my dad, I want my brother and sister." The child shrugged his head and twisted his body into a ball.

"Where is your home?" I asked.

"Over there," he held out his hand, pointing to the far away, "they must be waiting for me to come home for dinner." ”

"How do you know they must be there, and if they go the wrong way, they can't be saved?" I asked him.

"I'm not afraid, I choose the path I'll take my own way." With that, he bit his lip.

"What if I really go wrong?" I seem to be a little unforgiving.

"There will always be a chance to save, I hope to give me a chance to remedy, even if I go wrong and choose the wrong one, I hope to be able to remedy." 」 The children walked together and said.

"Do you think it's worth remedying?" I asked.

"It's worth it, after all, it's my home." The child said.

(5)

The next day, I carried the hot bean paste and soy milk that my father had bought in my arms and rushed to the hospital with him. Of course, we still haven't had too close and in-depth communication

My mother was in better shape and was able to sit up and greet us. My father, who had left the pestle at the door, ran to my mother, and she stroked my head with a smile in her eyebrows.

"I haven't done a good job, but I don't think it's too late." My father suddenly opened his mouth, and my mother and I were stunned for a moment.

"I've talked to Ah Fei (my uncle) that we're going to send you to Shanghai, where breast cancer can be better treated." He continued, "I also discussed with Ali (my ex-wife), and although she was very unhappy, she was also reasonable..."

My mother must have been in tears, and some tears slid down the ends of my hair to the top of my head.

The child seemed to jump out of his dream, and I saw that time flew by, and the child who was trying to rush home was raised to the appearance of an adult, and then stained his sideburns with wind and frost, and carved marks on his face. It seems that it is not that he is too silent and cowardly, but that I am unwilling to connect with him and give him the opportunity to communicate deeply, and I ignore his struggles again and again, only holding hatred and unbearable past in my mind.

When my mother was taken to chemotherapy, I sat outside the door with him for a long time.

"Eat the bun." At noon, he took the bun out of the hospital room and handed it to me.

I took it and didn't speak.

"If you can, tell me what you like to eat now, okay?" He stepped into my world carefully.

"Hmm." I nibbled on the bean bread and didn't see the filling. I took a few more bites, and the bean paste finally burst out of the thick dough, and the tears swirling in the eye sockets broke through the barrier.

This man who has never been squarely faced by me, a man who has never walked into the script of my life, has finally come to the stage after years of silent struggle and dedication, winning the respect and applause he deserves.

Source: China Youth Daily client