Should a father and son always be open and honest with one another? And what if they’re not.

 

Family secrets can have strange consequences, as you will see in . . .

 

 

Honor Thy Father And Other On Halloween

 

     The dark gray clouds, draped like a shroud, obscured the sun. My mind drifted in and out of my own mental fog. I felt confused about life, and what happened next didn’t help matters.

     It was Halloween and my father appeared to be on a mission. He said he had to get to the store to purchase the newest, magical “iSomething.” Why he needed it, I couldn’t figure out.

     Later in the day, I sat at the kitchen table and awaited his return. He’d been gone over five hours. I worried about him. Seventy-six years old, legally blind in one eye, with reflexes slowed by age, he still drove his beat up old Ford. I hated that he was still driving, but he’d just received his driver’s license renewal from the DMV. So there was nothing I could say to him that would change his mind.

     “Honor thy father,” he would chant, anytime I disagreed with his stance on an issue. “Just honor thy father.” And so I did.

     The phone rang, shaking me from my stupor. I picked it up off the table. “Hello,” I muttered. “Yes, I can come. How is he?” No answer. Just a click and I was disconnected.

     I raced to the bedroom, threw on a pair of black trousers and the wrinkled plaid shirt I’d worn yesterday, picked up my car keys off the nightstand, and ran to the garage. I backed the car out and headed down Logan Way toward the freeway.

     My heart raced and my hands shook. What the hell did Merritt Hospital want? They just told me to come, but didn’t answer my question about how he was. I swerved in and out of traffic in an attempt to get to the hospital as fast as I could. With one eye glued to the rearview mirror, I prayed I wouldn’t be pulled over.

     I exited the freeway at the Merritt Boulevard Exit, turned left, and sped toward the hospital parking lot. Stopping at the control gate, I reached for a parking ticket. The gate rose and I pulled into the first open spot I saw. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn’t been stopped for speeding or ended up in a hospital bed after a collision. I got out of the car and bounded into the hospital lobby. I froze in fear of what stood before me—a cop.

     The officer approached. I’m going to get arrested for sure, I thought.

     “Mr. Jackson. Tony Jackson,” he called out.

     I gasped, “How do you know my name?” Must’ve gotten it from tracking my license plate.

     “You are Mr. Jackson?” he inquired, with authority.

     “Uh, yeah, I am.”

     “Please come with me.”

     “Okay. But I only drove as fast as I did to get to the hospital. I think my father has been in an accident. I had to get here. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

     The officer looked at me with a befuddled look on his face. “I don’t have a clue what you are ranting about, sir.”

     I stood stunned by his remark. “Then what do you want?”

     “I need you to come with me.”

     “Why?” He didn’t answer.

     “Just follow me, sir.”

     I trudged behind him and got on the elevator. The door closed and we proceeded to the sixth floor. The door opened and he motioned to me to exit.

     We walked down a long, dimly lit corridor. The rooms we passed all had locks on them. “Where are we?” I asked, my voice quivering.

     “You’ll soon find out,” he said, in a way that sent chills running down my spine. “Now keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.”

     Then he grabbed my arm and shoved me against the wall. My head hit a low hanging pipe and I collapsed into a sea of darkness.

     When I came to, I found myself alone in a sterile room tied down to a hospital bed. I tried to free myself, but to no avail. I heard voices coming down the hall. Then it became quiet. A key being placed in the lock of the door made a clicking sound as it turned. I had no idea what to expect, so I pretended to be asleep.

     Three men entered the room, all dressed in gray suits and blue and gray striped ties. They wore badges, not police badges, but what looked like military badges. Perplexed by this, I became anxious. Then the largest of the three men turned to the tallest of the other two and spoke, “General, I believe he is ready.”

     Ready? Ready for what? I thought. Tension gripped my body. Then a man who appeared to be my father, dressed in a dark black suit, entered the room. My father hadn’t worn a suit like that in over ten years. The three men turned, stood at attention, and saluted him. He returned the salute.

     “At ease men,” he proclaimed in a loud, strong voice.

     “”Dad, what’s happening,” I murmured.

     “Dad? I am not your father. However, I do know the man you are talking about. I have seen him on my frequent visits to the hospital. Some say he is my double. But I am the President of the United States of America, not this other gentleman you are . . .”

     Interrupted in the middle of his sentence by the door of the room being smashed open, he stood silent and stared. Two uniformed hospital guards, accompanied by three city policemen, seized the four men and placed them in restraints. One of the guards, with the appropriate hospital badge affixed to his blue uniform jacket, came over to me and untied me.

     “Mr. Jackson, I’m so sorry for what has happened to you.”

     “Where am I?”

     “You’re in the Psych Ward. There appears to have been an inmate takeover of the ward, one of which we were not aware of, until now.  At least one patient was able to get down to the lobby to greet you. How these patients managed to obtain a police uniform, badges, and dress clothing is a mystery to us, but some ward residents do work in the hospital laundry, which our staff, including city police officers assigned to our public hospital, are permitted to use.”

     “How did you know I was here?”

     “A desk clerk witnessed what occurred in the lobby and reported it.”

     “What about the call I received to come here? Is my father all right?”

     “I don’t know who made the call. However, your father isn’t here.”

     “But that man over there. He is my father, isn’t he?”

     At that moment, a doctor, dressed in a white lab coat entered the room and approached the “President,” who ranted about his right to be free to run the country. “Mr. Jackson, calm down,” the doctor ordered.

     “So he is my father,” I screamed.

     “No,” said the doctor. He is your father’s identical twin brother. He has been here for thirty years. Your father has visited him once a month, during the entire time he has been under our care, including today.”

     “Including today?” I asked, with a puzzled look on my face.

     “Yes, including today.”

     “So he’s my father’s brother?”

     “Yes, the other Mr. Jackson—the one whose existence your father chose to keep secret all these years.”

     This statement upended me. I paused for a second to collect my thoughts. And then mumbled, “You did say my father was here today?”

     “I did. We found him and four ward staff members locked in a room down the hall. We’re bringing him to you, as we speak.”

     Before I could reply, my father entered.

     The “President” took one look at him and then looked me straight in the eye and commanded, “You must honor me, today, as you do your father. For I am the other . . .”

     At that moment, the guards took hold of him and removed him from the room. I just stared in disbelief. My father embraced me. The entire episode left me speechless—something I’d never been before in my life. This was the scariest Halloween I’d ever experienced.

 

 

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