Renewal

By Joseph Falank

It's been two years since aspiring novelist and English teacher Malcolm Aton has had any contact with his family. Ever since his divorce and the loss of his mother to cancer, his relationship with his father has been strained.

 

When he receives an urgent text from his brother, he learns the devastating news that their father's memory issues have progressed. He's now violent and at the end stages of Alzheimer's disease.

 

Although confrontation with his father is imminent, Malcolm reluctantly agrees to return home for the weekend and take on the mantle of caregiver while they contend with the difficult decision of how to care for their father. As is the case with everything involving his family, nothing goes as expected.

 

Unapologetically honest, Renewal is the story of a family learning to cope with the crippling diseases of cancer and Alzheimer's, of allowing old wounds to heal, of a patriarch coming to terms with the deterioration of his memory and identity, and of Malcolm coming into his own by taking on the ultimate responsibility of caregiver.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BHC Press
• Release date: Sep 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781643973098

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Edited by Chelsea Cambeis

Proofread by Caron Oty

Renewal

Copyright © 2022 Joseph Falank

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please write to the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BHC Press

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021944531

ISBN: 978-1-64397-307-4 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-308-1 (Softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-64397-309-8 (Ebook)

For information, write:

BHC Press

885 Penniman #5505

Plymouth, MI 48170

Visit the publisher:

www.bhcpress.com

For Rebecca:

My wife, my best friend,

my ideal reader,

my compass

108119495

On an unseasonably warm Thursday afternoon in early October, my younger brother, Randy, sent an alarming text. Through my open classroom windows, the comfortable breeze brought inside the dense aroma of decay. Each invigorating breath filled my nose with the stark scent of sodden, molding tree bark, tired soil, and crisp, sunburnt leaves. It was debatable which could be considered the first true indicator of autumn: the unmistakable changeover in the air, the shifting color of the leaves, or the other teachers wielding disposable cups filled with their choice of caffeinated beverage laced with the seasonal favorite—pumpkin spice.

But I digress.

In the minutes leading up to the text message that interrupted my quiet, humdrum existence, I gave my annual spiel about gangs and cliques to my seventh graders, which served as a prelude to one of my favorite books, The Outsiders. About half of my two dozen eighth-period students sat upright at their desks, surprisingly engaged and eager to participate, while I asked questions about their own peers and the social groups that divided them. The other half were slumped over their desks, eyes lifeless, heads lolling back and forth, necks supported by their hands. A few may have even been snoring.

By this time in the school day—about an hour after lunch, when my own energy level matched that of a full-bellied boa constrictor—my discussions tended to rely on my students’ input. This was my fourth class of seventh graders (though sixth class overall), and my repeated lesson felt a bit worn by this point. Nevertheless, it was a gorgeous afternoon, so I took a deep breath to perk myself up and found the sunlight fed an eagerness to finish the day strong. I reached for my caffeine pick-me-up of lukewarm pumpkin spice that I’d been nursing since lunch. A little shake of the cup forced the last of the syrupy espresso onto my tongue before I dropped the empty Styrofoam cup into the receptacle next to my desk.

Okay. I counted with the fingers of my right hand each of the middle school social groups my students had just listed off. So, we have the jocks, the geeks, the nerds, which, I was told, are somehow different from geeks. Do I have that correct?

The class chimed in in unison, though in different wavelengths of enthusiasm. Yes, there was a difference—duh, Mr. Aton.

There are also the band kids, the skaters, the gamers—which are also different from the geeks and the nerds, yes?

They told me that was so.

I now had the names of social groups running on both hands as I paced back and forth along the front of the room. Behind me on the smartboard, the two main factions present in The Outsiders—the Socs and the Greasers—were listed. And we can’t forget the dolls, the rich kids, and… Who else? Anyone I’m forgetting?

I glanced around at the three double rows of students. There were four pairs in each row. They took a moment to ponder while looking at their partners and around to the rest of their classmates. A few murmured answers popcorned around. Heads nodded, and heads shook; some tilted to the side. Shoulders shrugged. One kid yelped awake when his ear was flicked. After a few moments, a hand shot up near the front of the room, center row. I gestured to this eager student, whose face was pleading as her hand flapped a quick breeze for my attention.

Yes, Miss Tate?

A petite, proper thing with black, impeccably straight bangs and a sky-blue turtleneck, Jennifer Tate kept her arm in the air, hand a-fluttering, while maintaining the most rigid of postures. There are also the art kids, Mr. Aton.

Her peers—those awake and participating, anyway—were in collective agreement. About a dozen heads bobbed. Mm-hmms were exchanged.

"And the art kids. I lifted a ninth finger. Anyone else?"

The class resumed searching each others’ faces for the next answer.

You guys don’t have a name for the poor kids? That question garnered a few distasteful expressions.

Another hand sprang up, this one from the back corner on the window side. Alex Rider, a red-haired boy with a gracious number of freckles dusted over his chubby face was almost standing, propped up with one knee on the seat of his chair. He wore a red Boston Red Sox shirt and bounced up and down on the foot that was planted on the dingy green-and-white-checkered linoleum, spouting, Oooh, oooh, oooh! to ensure he stole not only my eye, but the attention of his classmates. He spoke out before being called on (truth be told, I wasn’t going to call on him). Alex Rider was what many of us faculty at Roosevelt Middle so eloquently referred to as an obnoxious turd.

The poor kids are a part of every group, except the jocks like me. Alex said this while jutting a thumb proudly into his own barreled chest. Our pads and uniforms are too expensive for them. And their parents sit at home and collect government money, so they can’t sell our fundraisers at work.

What a little bag of douche.

I see. I rubbed at the coarse, itchy stubble on my chin and moved on with my lesson instead of being sidetracked by the little ass clown. So there’s no specific label for the poor kids. Is that what you all are telling me?

Mostly, they’re in with the gamers, which is weird, right? Their parents can’t get them good clothes or soap, but they all have an iPhone or Xbox or PlayStation. I don’t get it.

Whispers to shut up and stink eyes were directed Alex’s way by those in the room. Alex’s response was a smug grin on a very punchable face.

Is he right? I asked, broadening on the response. Do the kids whose families are poorer just get lumped in with the other groups around the school?

Most of the class not so proudly confirmed this with uneasy, resigned nodding. The rest (those I knew to be gamers) sat without answering, which was an answer in and of itself.

I find that very interesting. I once more took up my pacing, continuing to stroke at the bristly abrasiveness of my chin and jaw. You see, back in my day, when I was but a young waiter serving Jesus at the Last Supper, the poor kids had their own clique. We had the rich kids and the jocks. The nerds and geeks were considered one group, but we used both names to describe them. There were also the cheerleaders, the band kids, and then there were the poor kids. We called them the Trash Can Kids.

A tandem outcry of shock and dismay sprang out of my class in response. Furrowed brows dominated the room. Mouths dropped and hung agape with their loud expression of disgust. Somewhere, a politically correct angel was denied their wings.

What? I said, playing against the blowback of their outrage.

Jennifer Tate raised her hand and spoke out. You actually called poor kids that?

Yeah. So?

That’s so wrong, called out Trent McCabe, who sat on the left side of the room. He gave me a sharp glare while folding his arms across his chest. His mouth curled downward, forming a curdled sneer. If he carried a shit list, I would have been the newest addition.

I didn’t invent the name! I said in an attempt to exonerate myself from the scorn of two dozen twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. "Besides, social groups overall aren’t kind. Wouldn’t you agree? Even the ones with catchy names or the ones where those in the group accept their label with pride—they’re still not nice. Assigning people your age to a caste system of popularity because of how someone might look or act, what their interests are, or yes, how much money their family has, isn’t right, and it isn’t fair. But life isn’t fair, guys. I’m sure you’ve all heard that one at home, but it happens with every group of kids that goes through public schooling.

Everyone, at some point in their educational experience—like the kids in this book we’re about to read—is reduced to their stereotype, no matter what kind of person they truly are. Sad, isn’t it? Unfortunately, my young friends, this is the way of life in middle school and high school.

An extended lull of silence brought on by this uncomfortable, inconvenient truth filled the room.

Miss Tate raised her hand again. No flapping this time.

Jennifer?

Her voice was soft, almost too hard to hear. Does it ever end, Mr. Aton?

The caste system of popularity?

She nodded. In this child’s unblemished face was a genuine interest to know the outcome. Hope pleaded from her eyes. While this exercise was simply meant to be a segue into reading a piece of classic fiction, the purity in Miss Tate’s face rendered me utterly speechless. It was clear that at some point in her young life, probably even recently, she had been reduced to some stereotype amongst her peers. Hearing this in the wavering desperation of her little voice applied an aching wrinkle to my heart.

The delay in my response was only a handful of seconds, but it was a noticeable lapse in a room of angst-ridden preteens hanging on to not only what I said but what I didn’t say. There was a sense, perhaps only discernible by me, that whatever group Jennifer Tate found herself cast in likely wasn’t the designation she desired. I recalled my own middle and high school days as a prominent geek—a placement I didn’t select, nor have any say in, but was, in fact, the most fitting. For even on that fateful Thursday in October, standing before my class, I was in an argyle sweater vest and matching socks.

Yes, Miss Tate, I said in earnest, just decibels above a whisper. It does eventually end.

In Jennifer’s porcelain face, her dark eyes were still wide with quiet despair. She gave the subtlest of nods. She understood.

The student sitting on Jennifer’s left, Samantha Cole, shook her head and made that disapproving tsk-tsk sound by clicking her tongue off the roof of her mouth. Can’t believe you called the poor kids trash cans, Mr. Aton.

I shrugged and offered my only other defense as I paced back and forth across the front of the room: It was the times, boys and girls. Back then, things like that were more…acceptable? I suppose that’s the best word for it. Acceptable doesn’t mean it was right. It was just our clever little take on the Garbage Pail Kids, which—a little bit of trivia for you all—was actually a parody of the Cabbage Patch Kids.

Samantha Cole wrinkled her nose. I wouldn’t call it clever.

Alex, the red-haired, freckled-ass weasel, spoke out of turn again. What are Garbage Pail Kids? And Cabbage Patch Kids? They sound stupid.

Ignoring his dumbassery, I retrieved my paperback copy of The Outsiders from my desk to hold up for display. "Anyway, this discussion on social classes has been to prep us for the next book we’re about to read: The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton."

Except my voice quit halfway through stating the author’s name, and I dropped the book to my side after only a second or two. A double-shot vibration growled across the dark mahogany of my desktop. An alert popped up on the screen of my iPhone, which I’d placed on the far-right side of my desk. The screen remained lit, displaying a text I couldn’t make out from my vantage point. I stepped closer and leaned over the back of my rolling desk chair.

The message was from my brother, Randy.

Mel, you need to come home. Dad’s not well.

I didn’t touch or even reach for my phone. The text vanished within seconds as the neglected screen went dark. I stood there, frozen in a convoluted vacuum of worst-case-scenario thoughts. My inner worries amassed across my mind, beneath which came an incessant drumming deep within my ears. I had to consciously take a breath, then felt that intoxicating rush of fresh oxygen swirl around after such a long delay, bubbling up through my brain. None of my students spoke out during this long, uncomfortable silence. Perceptive as kids are, they sensed something was wrong. In our shared disquiet, they were waiting on me to provide any sign of All Clear.

The screen of my phone lit up again with the same message—the second notification of the text’s arrival. The accompanying humming of the phone on the desk projected itself across the hushed classroom. I watched it, heard it happen, yet still startled.

Mel, you need to come home. Dad’s not well.

My mind kicked into the gear of damage control. I considered where I was and what I needed to do. The phone screen went dark again, revealing the oily smudges, swipes, and smears of my fingerprints on the glass. All forty-eight eyes in the room were locked on me. Their faces mirrored my uneasiness. I tried to speak but found my mouth dried out, tongue swollen and slathered with a remnant bitter paste of pumpkin spice that made words impossible. At the sudden clearing of my throat, a few of my students jumped in their seats.

Um… My tone was shaky and no longer rang with the sturdy volume and confidence of my teaching voice. I couldn’t meet their confused, concerned gazes. I had to address them while looking blankly at the Writing Process and How to Construct an Argumentative Essay posters hanging side by side on the back wall of our classroom. Why don’t we do a journal entry for the remainder of class time?

The confusion they’d been directing at me now ricocheted between them as they turned to each other.

All right. It took a concentrated effort to force my voice through the tightening in the back of my throat and summon a percentage of my usual cadence. I closed my eyes to home in on what I wanted to say, then proceeded to give my new lesson plans slowly, with measured substance, so it didn’t come off as though I were offering my class a suggestion, but rather a directive. Let’s take out our composition notebooks and turn to the next blank page.

Quietly and with subtle movements relaying uneasiness, the class did as instructed without question. Their hesitation to retrieve their notebooks indicated how much they really wanted to voice their displeasure, but they refrained. Even Alex Rider. My students became barometers, sensing the atmospheric shift in the room, and decided it was best to just go along with what was being asked of them.

"For the rest of our class time, I want you guys to write a short paragraph between five and eight sentences about what social group you think or know you belong to here at Roosevelt Middle. In your paragraph, I also want you to tell me about the benefits and drawbacks to having these different kinds of groups at school. You can begin."

Miss Tate’s hand creeped upward as I went to sit down at my desk.

Jennifer?

Her face was creased in a wince, as if pained her to bring up what had crossed her mind. You want us to write for the rest of the period?

Yeah. Do your best with whatever we’ve got left—five, ten minutes. This was about how long I usually allotted for journal entry assignments.

We actually have thirty minutes left. Her slightly crooked bottom row of teeth were bared in a cringe while giving me this news. My obliviousness of the time brought a few snickers from around the room, the loudest of which came from my friend, Alex Rider. Kid looked like he had yellow Chiclets for teeth.

All right, well, if you guys finish early, just use the rest of the time to work on something for another class.

While they wrote in their journals, they also kept watch on me. The heat of their stares broke a sweat over the nape of my neck. Whenever I lifted my head from my brother’s message, their chins dropped over their open notebooks, and the pens in their hands moved with busy scribbles. The last minutes of class felt twice as long as I tried to deduce what might have happened with my father. The clock ticked the seconds away louder than usual. At about five to go, I typed a message back.

I have a free period next. I’ll call you.

When the bell rang, the kids gathered their things and funneled toward the door, trading quiet—well, what twelve- and thirteen-year-olds believed to be quiet—theories regarding what brought our productive class dialogue to a screeching halt. Between their sidelong glances over at my desk, I caught the following:

Yo, maybe he had a stroke. This was from Alex, the fire-headed skidmark. That’s how it happened to my uncle. He just went quiet. Next thing you know, bam—he punched his right fist into left palm—he’s retarded.

Alex’s gaggle of jackholes tittered at his flagrant use of the R-word, a term that had been deemed a forbidden no-no on school grounds.

He didn’t have a stroke, you dumbass. This came from Paul, one of the boys not part of Alex’s tagalongs, as he pushed his way past them. "He was talking just fine—actually better than you."

Alex gave Paul a retaliating shove into the hall, then reconsidered his prognosis, donning a devious smirk as he glanced my way once more. Betcha he sharted, then.

His friends cackled, agreeing that had to be it.

I reminded myself that it would be a fireable offense to either flip the little beast the double bird or call him over to my desk and send him home believing he was adopted.

The last student in the room was Miss Tate, who approached the front of my desk once everyone else had moved on. She raised her hand, standing two feet from me. I reminded her she didn’t have to—class was over, and she already had my attention.

What is it, Jennifer?

Don’t worry, she said, stone-cold serious, I don’t think you sharted.

Great.

Miss Tate retained her downtrodden expression. Are you all right, Mr. Aton? You don’t look it. Did you get bad news?

With an exasperated sigh, I forced composure, folded my hands on the desktop, and mustered as big a warm, convincing smile as was manageable. Yes, Miss Tate. I’m fine.

She wasn’t so convinced. My dad says when my mom says she’s fine, it really means she’s not. He calls it ‘the other F-word’ and says she uses that word a lot when she’s on her period.

Well, I said, looking to pogo myself right over that particular field of TMI landmines, I promise you, I’m doing all right. But thank you for your concern.

Jennifer didn’t leave. Her expression remained grim. She took hold of both straps on her lavender backpack, tugged them away from her body as if flexing a rubber band, and swayed—an obvious sign of uncertainty.

"Are you okay? I asked. Something I can help you with, Miss Tate?"

She shrugged. I guess I was just wondering…did you ever finish your book?

Her question caught me off guard. Struck curious, I reclined in my chair, which brought out a grinding moan from the coiled spring beneath my seat. My book? How did you know I had written a book?

Don’t all English teachers write books?

I smiled at her stereotypical—yet, quite accurate—observation. Every English teacher and professor I could recall having or working alongside kept stacks of unpublished poems, memoir-style letters and essays, or a work-in-progress manuscript stashed away in a desk drawer or carried it with them in a beat-up messenger bag. I folded my hands behind my head. A little laugh escaped me. In the moments humoring Miss Tate, the troubled thoughts of the text from my brother slipped away. Some of us do, I guess. But how did you know about mine?

Miss Tate dropped her chin to her chest. A bashful smile divulged her guilt. I came in once to ask you about a homework assignment, and you weren’t here. I saw a few of the pages on your desk.

And while you were snooping on my desk—if we were in court, there would be an objection called for leading the witness—did you happen to read those pages?

Miss Tate’s eyes gave her away, lighting up and exuding a smile all their own. Of course, I knew the answer before asking. Is it getting published? At once, Jennifer Tate became enthusiastic at the prospects. "Are you gonna be, like, super famous? Will you still be our teacher if you make a gazillion dollars? Can we read your book instead of The Outsiders?"

I laughed. The tension instigated by Randy’s plea to come home and the unknown condition of my father was demolished into a pile of rubble thanks to this starburst of a compliment and the adorableness behind it. "Well, I’m not sure about it being published yet. My agent has it now, and she’s trying to sell it. Unfortunately, though, I don’t think I’ll be making a gazillion dollars or that we’ll be reading it in class. I’m sorry."

Jennifer’s mouth bent into a disappointed frown. Is it because you used a lot of swears?

It took me a moment to grasp what she was asking, but then I clucked the tip of my tongue off the roof of my mouth in that Oh shucks, you got me manner. "That’s probably it. But, hey, you are going to love The Outsiders. I just know it. It was one of my favorites when I was your age, and I love teaching it every year. Ponyboy Curtis, Sodapop, Dally, Darry, Johnny, and Two-Bit—all of them are fascinating characters. Every single one of my classes enjoys reading it. And, after we finish the book, we’ll spend a few days in class watching the movie."

This didn’t seem to drum up the excitement in Miss Tate I was driving for.

She asked, You think they’ll ever make a movie out of your book?

Well… Amused, I leaned toward Miss Tate in the manner of sharing a secret and lowered my voice. The arm, springs, and casters of the chair’s base groaned again against the forward shift of my weight. Just between you and me, I think it has to sell really well as a book first before it gets made into a movie. And, even then, I’ll probably have to get rid of some of the swears.

Miss Tate giggled, her smile showing a dimple on the left side. I glanced up at the clock and saw the passing time between periods was almost over. You better hurry up or you’re going to be really late for your next class. Who do you have next?

Mrs. Benson for Math.

I scribbled a hall pass and sent her on her way. The passing bell sounded just after she was out of sight. The noise and foot traffic through the halls and stairways diminished as classroom doors closed and the next lessons began. The building turned quiet. At the time, I didn’t know it would be a whole week before I saw Miss Tate and all my other students again. Or that, in those days gone, I would be reacquainting with a person and a whole other life I’d left behind two years earlier.

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With the final period of the afternoon underway, I closed my classroom door, turned the lock on the handle, and flipped the switch to kill the overhead fluorescents. Stricken with restless legs, I paced the room—pacing was a long-established habit of mine when nerves got the better of me. Following a path up one aisle and down the next, I forced each press of the ten digits that made up Randy’s number. He picked up before the end of the first ring. Clearly, my younger brother had kept proximity to his phone, waiting on my call.

Sup, bro? he said oh so nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just sent me the world’s most unsettling text message. That was vintage Randy though—jerkass extraordinaire. "Long time no espeaka."

Annoyed, I cut through the rows of desks and ceased my pacing at the long windowsill that