Father Shadow by Michael Edward Duteau II (sad books to read txt) 📕

Me and my father always had a different way of playing hide and seek. I still remember being three years old, sitting on my bed up against the window, staring out into my backyard. It was the middle of the night, and I'd see my father down there. We would laugh.
I'd close my eyes, with my head against the window sill. It was funny to do this, because I always found where he was. It was odd how he always let me win, because I didn't understand how he could. I'd giggle and pretend that I could count to ten. In all reality, I could only get up to five, but we didn't care.
Opening my eyes, I'd look outside. I'd have to think for a minute. Where is he hiding? It was sort of like a Where's Waldo? or I Spy book, but with just grass and shrubbery. Usually I'd point at a tree and whisper to myself, "There you are!" I would physically see him jump out. I got him.
Things were so simple at that point. I remember doing that every night, after about an hour of watching Disney channel on TV and listening to my mother sob in her room. I never really knew why she'd be crying. I thought maybe it was because recently, Daddy had been coming home really late. I actually wasn't sure if he actually came into the house at night, I just enjoyed playing hide and seek with him as I tried to fall asleep.
I was somewhat sad that my dad wasn't home all that much after I turned three. I didn't mind, though. I was too young to really care. While he was gone, I would usually find something to do on my own, but it was hard. My mother would always be sad and not want to do anything, so I would usually sneak into the basement when she wasn't doing laundry.
There was something really neat about our cellar that I enjoyed. In there was weightlifting equipment, baby carriages, photo albums, infant-care paraphernalia, gardening tools, and other things I can’t even remember. Playing around the weightlifting equipment was fun for me. I couldn‘t really do anything with it, but seeing how everything worked amused me. My mother would always find the cellar door open, however, and come downstairs. “What are you doing Michael? That is dangerous! Come with me.” She would say something along those lines and carry me upstairs.
Something about the photo albums downstairs was different than the ones upstairs. I would look through the ones upstairs and see me as a baby, with our dog Boomer, or with my mom, or one of our relatives. Downstairs, I would look into the old photo albums and see many other pictures. Each of the pictures in the forsaken scrapbooks contained some image of my father. I was puzzled. Why not keep these upstairs for everyone to see how great of a man my father was?
One day I took an album upstairs. I was looking through it, trying to find a picture for Mommy to hang on the wall, since there were no more pictures of him anywhere. I found one of him that I liked. He was wearing a white, hooded sweatshirt and really old, worn jeans. He was sitting on the couch, looking lazy, and had a baby form of me in his lap. We were both smiling at the camera, he seeming a lot more sluggish than I.
I brought the picture to my mother, saying, “Mommy! We should hang this picture of Daddy on the wall!” I saw her break down in front of my eyes. She told me to put that back where it belongs and went into her room.
I didn’t think it belonged in the dank and stinky basement, so I kept it under my bed.
***
Visiting my grandparents’ place was very different now. These were my father’s parents; they lived right next door. Visiting would be an everyday thing, but it wasn’t until Daddy started coming home late that I began to see them less often. It actually became a lot less often.
I would go there, and nobody would talk. I would be puzzled. “Come on, I’m only three years old. Give me something to do.” I would think to myself. “Why isn’t anyone talking like they used to?”
Going to my grandparents’ used to be a fun occasion. They were silly and made me so happy to be young and careless. They would make the funniest jokes, and have such great energy for people of their age.
My mémé was a very nice woman. I loved her very strongly, in a way that it seemed like she was my second mother. She was short and stout, but full of hell. She had a horrible voice that sounded like a parrot, and would squeak sometimes, but that was just one of the things that made her who she was. She would always sing goofy songs when I would sleep over, laying beside her in her bed, tickling me occasionally. She always made me laugh, and I always made her laugh.
However, my pépé seemed to be a much more stern fellow. He had a similar physique to my grandmother: short and stout. He was fat, but I didn’t really care. It reminded me of Santa Claus, but without the beard or horribly fashioned get-up. Always, he would be reading his newspaper or some sort of book on US history. I admired his knowledge, but he had a soft side too. Sweets were his weakness, and he loved making dirty jokes. I didn’t understand them, and my grandmother would scold him, but we both laughed anyway.
There would always be parties at my grandparents’ house. They literally lived in a castle. The architecture of the building they lived in greatly resembled an old, Gothic palace on the outside, with a fountain out front and long, winding driveway. Inside, there was an enormous living room that would be filled with people on the weekends. It didn’t matter what holiday it was; there was always a party at their house. I would see family members: some that I know, and some that I didn’t know. I would also meet friends of family members, and the like.
But soon, I realized that these parties were no more. I began to see my grandparents less frequently, and lost contact with a lot of family members. I felt very strange, because this was a very sudden change for a three year old to be enduring. Although, this was around the same time that Daddy had been sent into the hospital, sick. I figured maybe they would start again once he was feeling better, and maybe I would see my grandparents again everyday.
***
It was soon that I realized of this strange new person in my life. After a week or two of beginning sessions of hide and seek at night with my dad, I found my mother talking with a strange man. He seemed familiar, though. He had curly blond hair, and a tan, muscular body. Not like a heavy weightlifter, but like a guy that worked out regularly. He smoked cigarettes with my mom, and I remember one time I stole one of his and had a puff. I choked, and he just laughed at me. I laughed along, because I actually thought it was funny too.
My mother said his name was Gregory, but that I could call him dad. I called him Greg. He was a really nice guy, but the fact that he was spending more time in our house than my father had been puzzled me. Was he trying to replace my father or something? I didn’t really care; the Disney channel seemed a lot more important at the time.
One day I remember sitting in my room looking at the photo album that I kept hidden under my bed. I didn’t really like my bed, though. It was crammed into a corner of the room, with one side against a window sill, and another against a wall. Above it was a net filled with my stuffed animals, that I frequently worried would break, which scared me. My comforter was plain white with little sheep on it and crescent moons. I had two comfy pillows that I liked to rest my head on.
Looking through the photo album, I heard footsteps. I was afraid it might be my mother, who had gotten upset the first time she saw me with the photo album. I did not want to upset her again, because I had felt really bad the first time.
It was just Greg.
He came into my room, and said, “Hey buddy, how’s it going?”
I didn’t really know what to say besides, “Good.”
“What’s that you got there?” Inquired he, trying to see what I was putting under my bed. I wasn’t sure if I should show him the album or not. I was kind of convinced that it had the power to make everyone cry but me at this point. I took it out.
He flipped through some pages, and I told him, “That’s my dad. He’s a really nice guy. Do you know him?”
It was very quiet for a moment, and he stopped flipping the pages. “Well,” He began, “We’re very good friends. I haven’t talked to him in a while though.”
“Oh, really?” I asked. “He hasn’t been home lately. I think it’s making my mommy sad, but I don’t know.”
I could see a look on his face of distress. His eyes focused towards the scrapbook, but seemed to be gazing off into space. “Well, I’m sure your mother will be fine. I’m trying to help her out.” He said, and gave me a reassuring look. After that, he left for the day.
I heard my mother crying in her room that night.
***
It was a month or two after Daddy had started coming home late from work. I had finished watching Mickey Mouse on the Disney channel, and I grew tired. My mom took me upstairs, and tucked me into bed.
“Sweet dreams.” She said. It kind of sounded more like she was reassuring herself, but I was too preoccupied to notice.
When she was out of sight, I went up to my window pane and peeked out to see my father. There he was, smiling up at me.
“Hi, Daddy!” I whispered to him. He would never talk back. It made me think of a mime I had seen on the television once.
He put his index finger up, perpendicular to his lips, and uttered a “Sshhh,” Telling me to keep quiet. I giggled softly, and he ran behind a tree.
We played hide and seek for about ten minutes, and I was counting again. He always let me win, and I enjoyed it.
I lifted my