Lydia Netzer - How to Tell Toledo from the Night Sky

Whether love, or faith, or science, or machinery, it worked, and they loved, and that’s all that mattered.

George’s father entered the hospital room where they were waiting to begin preparing George for surgery, if only he would consent. Dean was wearing gray pants stained with red and orange paint, work boots, a checked shirt, and a tweed jacket. He had a slouch hat on his head, which he took off as soon as he entered the room. He set it down on the bedside table next to George with a reverent gesture.

“George,” said Dean.

George started, as if he hadn’t seen Dean properly, or hadn’t expected him to speak.

“Dad!” George said. “It’s great to see you.”

“Your mom asked me to come, actually,” said Dean. “She asked me and then she drove me here. It was really astonishing. I was wondering if it might be your mother who has the brain tumor.”

George smiled. “So they told you about it.”

“They did,” said Dean. “Well, she did. Did you want to tell me what you know about it?”

“No,” said George. “I’m sure she presented an accurate picture. There’s a tumor. It’s got to come out because it’s pressing on my brain. If they take it out and anything happens while they’re knifing around in there, I could wake up thinking my name is Diana and parading around in high heels.”

Now Dean smiled. “Was that really presented as an option?”

“It’s a possible side effect of going insane.”

Dean sat down on the side of the bed and took George’s hand in his, in a way that was gentle, paternal. George remembered feeling his father’s hands on his when he was learning how to paint, or how to push a seedling into the ground, or cut rootstock, or hold a charcoal pencil. His father had never hit him, never yelled at him, never told him what to do, never been that interested, George thought.

“I want you to be completely honest with yourself right now, George,” said Dean. “And I want you to really think about what you’re doing here. Why are you refusing to let them help you? You can’t keep on living like this forever.”

“I know, but I can’t change what I am either,” said George. “If I change what I am, then what do I become? What happens to the me that was?”

“You’ll stay the same,” said Dean. “You just won’t have these goddamned headaches all the time.”

“You don’t know that I’ll stay the same,” said George. “And by the way you don’t know the tumor won’t come back.”

“Its rate of growth is slow,” said Dean. “I’m ashamed, ashamed that your mother and I never realized it was there. We really let you down. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, but I never realized it either, and it was in my head.”

“It’s just your symptoms were so obtuse, son,” said Dean. He patted George on the head. “And then there’s the fact I wasn’t really paying attention.”

George was taken aback, but his father seemed undisturbed, just patting away at his head and smiling warmly.

“I’m sorry about that, George,” said Dean.

“You couldn’t help it. Mom kept you away.”

“Well, I’m more powerful than your mother,” said his father mildly. “In fact, I’m really powerful. It’s my fault.”

George let his head sink back into the pillow. He closed his eyes and opened them again, and there was his father, paint-stained, crazy-haired, wrinkled by the sun.

“It seemed like you said you were really powerful,” said George. “That’s funny.”

“Would be nice to have an all-powerful father around, wouldn’t it?” Dean’s eyes twinkled. “Might almost make up for missing out on visits from those other half-assed deities that have been pestering you all your life.”

George sat up quickly, his head pounding.

“What?!” he yelped.

“George, I know about your visions, remember?” said his father. “You told me. And now I’m here to tell you—I see them, too. I see them because I am one of them. Do you understand? I am one of them.”

As George watched, his father’s teeth began to straighten, his skin to smooth and pull up out of its folds and stretch firmly across his bones. He saw the paint stains on his father’s hands fade away, and then he said, “Whoa, Dad. What the hell is going on?”

“I want you to have this surgery done now, Son,” said Dean. “And if you lose the visions you’ve been having, just let them go. You will never lose me. Never. Shit as I’ve been, distracted as I’ve been, worthless as I’ve been, I will never let you down again.”

“You’re a god, too?”

Dean didn’t have to explain—George could see it in every hair on his head, every pore of his skin, and he understood his mother, and his visions, and himself.

“I don’t want to lose them,” said George. “They tell me things, things I need for work! They have given me all of my ideas, and everything I’ve done in astronomy is because of them.”

“I know you are afraid to let them go. But you should never let yourself make decisions out of fear,” said his father. “Fear is a bad reason to keep a tumor in your head. I think you should pass on, pass on to what is next.”

“What if I die?”

“Then that’s next,” said his father.

“I met that girl, Dad,” said George. “I can’t lose her. She’s so great, she’s really mouthy and smart, but she’s kind of shy and she’s really good at math.”

Dean laughed, and folded his hands over one knee.

“George, I know her. You know this. You two grew up together, when you were small, so of course I know her.”

“Right,” said George.

“And I’ve known her father forever. Like literally forever.”

George felt like his head was about to pop off, tumor and all. “What? Uncle Ray is a god?”

“Just another holy shitbag,” said Dean.

“You have got to be kidding me,” said George. “I thought he died!?”

“Yeah, that’s his out, for now. Deadbeat. Now, listen, let’s not waste time on this stuff. Let’s get your head fixed, Son. And then we can find that girl and set everything straight.”

“I have so many questions for you,” said George.

“I already promised I would be around for you more, from now on,” said Dean. “You can ask me whatever you want.”

“But what if I don’t remember? What if I don’t even remember this, that’s happening right now? What if this is just another vision, and it all goes away?”

“George,” said Dean. “I’m sorry I can’t fix it. If I could, I would.”

“I could die, Dad. I could die. I’m afraid to die.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“What if it does? What will happen?”

“If you die, you will just dream. The best dream. A dream that never ends.”

Within hours, George was on his way under. He was immobilized, his head shaved, his body loose and drugged, and he felt better and worse than he ever had in his life. His mother and his father were both with him. He was not alone. But he felt as though he needed just a bit more time, just a bit more practice before he went to sleep. The surgeon would peel back his scalp, would take out a piece of his skull, would operate via monitors with little radioactive knives, and take out the thing that was causing him so much pain, but also the thing that was causing him so many ideas, so much insight, the thing that made him who he was. And the reason he was sitting here doing it, instead of back in his room, or at home, or anywhere else but here, stubbornly refusing, was because his father had come into his hospital room and claimed to be a god.

The bad thing about having a brain tumor is that you can’t trust anyone, including yourself. But ultimately, it wouldn’t matter, because he would probably wake up not remembering anything, except that his name was Diana, and that he preferred thongs to bikinis. At least if I wake up empty, thought George, then I can fall in love with Irene again, and this time she will believe that I love her, not because of what I remember or how I was taught, but because of who I am.