I tow my dead father with me to the scorched heart of a desert.
His body guilts down my shoulders, heavier each time he doesn't tell me that I took the wrong turn, that I need to straighten my elbows, that I never do anything the right way so why does he even bother. My jeep sputters and chokes under our weight as it brings us to the parking lot in front of the hotel.
Vipassana, reads the sign above the glass door, melted open at the hinges. The Silent Retreat.
Heat slaps me across the face. I backpack my father around my waist and march to the door before time turns the road into quicksand.
There's nothing here. Just miles and miles of red sand yellowing into glazed waves, and the mirage of an industrial glass giant towering in the middle ā sand and post-sand, glass made of sand, sand made of glass.
All the hotelās walls are transparent; on all floors people go through the motions of the day and if they can see me, they give no sign of it. Inside, the light warps, skitters off the grains of chimes suspended on the ceiling and sinks into the terracotta floor. I canāt quite help waiting for the building to flip.
They take my name ā my fatherās name ā and check me in. They roll the suitcases away for me and try to take my father too, but I donāt let them unwrap him from my neck.
My father doesnāt speak a word as I make my way up the staircase, but neither does anyone else, which is exactly why I came here.
We cross the corridor. A man waves at me through the doors to the left, as he hovers a few inches off the floor. I donāt wave back and I donāt stop. In my fatherās voice, I think thatās a cool party trick, but itās a lot of effort for very little gain.
The door reveals a tiny bedroom ā just a bed, not a corner free to leave your slippers on the side. I lower my father to the floor and crouch to get in ā the door snaps shut behind me before I can drag him inside. Itās hot, sauna-steamy; my back drools sweat, my fingers slide off the handle. Itās locked.
What kind of hotel does that? I bang my fist on the glass. How could they lock me inside? Looking around the room, I find no emergency button, no keycard slot, no lock. Thereās barely space to breathe. I bang on the door with both hands now until my knuckles hurt and the door foams up from my breath so much I can barely see my father scowl. We wouldnāt be here if not for you. I donāt know which one of us thinks that.
I slide down to the overheated floor, back turned on my father, and claw into my thighs. Maybe heād speak if I didnāt stop calling him dad in high-school, just because my friend said calling him father will make his shouts hurt less.
Itās too hot. I canāt get out. I donāt want to be here alone.
I fall right through the door and land on my back. Before I can so much as gasp, the ochre tiles cave and swamp me in. I grasp my fatherās wrist and in a stream of light, we plummet down.
Wet. Lukewarm water whips my back, only to tear easily as a screen door. We sink right through it.
I open my eyes to deep blue. The waterās salty on my lips, burns my eyes. My father weighs me down. I try to shake him off ā if only he lets me go, I can swim up. Iāll come back for him later. He clings on ā maybe heād trust me to come back if I ever returned his calls like I promised. If I ever got that second opinion.
Donāt panic. If thereās a pool, thereās a ladder. We can get out.
I see it. To the left, not far at all. Weighted down, I swim towards it frog-style. I never did learn the crawl like my father wanted me to, even though it was better for my crooked spine and would be much faster now. The ladder dissolves in my fist, as if it was never there at all. Why did I trust it even for a second?
I canāt swim up ā above us, the waterās molasses-thick. Inch by inch, I let my father go. Heās light, full of air, his face so puffed out he looks like no one at all. He could float up. If only he floats up, maybe I wonāt drown. But no matter how hard I push him up, he wonāt go. Heās waiting for me to apologise, I can see it in his frown ā doesnāt he know Iāll get water in my lungs as soon as I open my mouth?
Glancing down, I can just about make out a shape, an edge of a silhouette. Swimming there is easier, especially when I hook my arm around my fatherās ankle to take him with me and, for once, he doesnāt fight back.
The lower we get, the more the dark disperses into light, the more it yellows out like an old bruise. There are sand dunes here, a lakeās bottom ā bare and gray. But not empty. Right in the middle, thereās a bed and on the bed, shrouded in white, a man. Heās not lying down, just drifting above it, arms crossed on his chest. His hair floats up, tangles around my leg, slimy like seaweed. He reaches out, waves at me. Iāve got no choice ā I clasp his wrist. He pulls me down and throws the sheet over my head.
Itās night. Cool, dry.
I shed the cover and look up to a starless sky. Cold air is a relief before it starts to frost my breath. Thereās sand here, too, sand everywhere, washed out to a midnight blue. Beside me, my father lays akimbo, the sand snowflaked in his hair, glimmering white. His merino wool jacket is unzipped.
We watched a Bear Grylls episode once, where he carves out a hole in a dead camel and spends the night inside. My fatherās chestās too small for that. I huddle beside him for the little warmth that it gives. The wind picks up.
I rake my fingers through the sand, scoop it out and raise my hand above my head to watch the breeze blow it out of my fist, grain by grain. We must be outside, or maybe underground. The longer I lie there, the more the wind sounds like footsteps. Iām tired, but I force myself to lift up on my elbows and look around. Thereās people everywhere, walking with their gazes trained on the road ahead, wrapped up to the chin in robes and blankets ā have they been here from the start?
My father never liked other people. He never liked me very much, but I think thatās only because I reminded him of himself. I never much liked him for the same reason. And the drinking. And that one time he hit mum. Even if he were to hit her again, Iād like to have him back.
Heās silent. People swarm around us. As they pass by, they all kick sand over our bodies and soon weāre half buried in it. I like how heavy it makes me ā so heavy I almost feel safe here. Iād like to sleep.
My father smells of rot. His skin peels from his cheeks, from his jaw, flakes like old paint. I canāt keep him. Heās silent ā the more people crowd around us, the more of them step right over our bodies, the more silent he is, the more he falls apart. Heās never going to complain about anything again. Itās peaceful, almost, the falling apart.
Someone stops next to us. I see the tips of their shoes, dipped into the ground, silver. I raise my head from my fatherās disintegrating lap. Her face is moon-pale. She smiles, and when I try to smile back, she waves at me. I almost wish sheād speak.
Instead, she fishes out a small sachet from a pocket in her robe. It plops down on my chest. When I untie the silver string, all I find inside is more sand.
She crouches next to me, digs through her pockets again, and hands me my room card. I donāt know when I lost it. With a long, white finger, she points at me, then at my father, then at the sky. I can see now that itās all glass, has always been glass. Thereās no stars but there is a single crack, where the light gets in, from which more sand rains on us.
I spill the contents of the sachet into my open palm. Wind lifts most of it, but I manage to catch some in a quick fist. The pale woman holds my eyes in hers, but can't offer any words, so I donāt know what it is she wants me to do. I donāt know what my father would want me to do. I only know what I can.
I turn to him ā his eyes are no longer my eyes, bleached out. I lean over him, hand to my chin, and blow the sand into them.
The sun hangs high up as I check out of the hotel, and the receptionist hands me a manilla card. Thank you for completing all the five stages.
I bury my dad in the middle of a desert along with a chunk of my scorched heart.
Sand crunches on my way back to the jeep ā I think thereās more of it now. Through the glass hotel walls, I can see people moving inside. They still donāt pay me any mind.
The inside of my car overheated and now smells like fried plastic. I donāt pull the seat back the way my dad taught me to, all I do is adjust the rear-view mirror. In it, I catch a sliver of his face, rough with age and an unkempt beard. Heās only there for a glimpse, one grain, and when I glance over my shoulder, the seat is empty. I roll my neck and turn back towards the road; thereās no pain in my back.
I start the engine. My dad smiles at me from the mirror, from my eyes.
āWay to go, kid,ā he says.
Or maybe: āTime to go.ā