No Such Thing as Monday

My sister was straightforward to locate. I merely had to follow the address where she worked, embarking on a few buses. The journey was quite far, but no passport was necessary. A phone call beforehand to ensure she was at work would have been a better idea. It’s not as if we were uncovering a clandestine abode. Truthfully, my sister hadn’t attempted to locate me.

She refrained from sending Christmas cards or engaging in similar practices, owing to her father. My mother and I had taken care of her since childhood, assisting with her daily needs and dressing her. My mother had never been fond of my father and avoided him to maintain her independence. I respected her decision. Should someone inquire about her to my father, he would dismiss them.

If pressed, he would retort, "She has no connection to me. Why are you asking?" I spent time in my father's drawers, uncovering bank statements and birth certificates, confirming their birthdates registered by their father, Stanley Cartwright. My mother had been previously married, and her partner had passed away in an accident.

The insurance payout enabled her to retain the house. She was a widow with no biological children but owned a home. Some assumed she was a desirable partner. However, others remarked on her perceived shortcomings—having no offspring despite being married for five years. Regardless, my sister's relationship with my father was the subject of much discussion.

He had a notorious reputation for violence, and some viewed him as merely seeking financial stability. I recall him reassuring her, saying she was fortunate, as he took a chance on her and her ability to conceive. He emphasized he would never adhere to secondhand shoes. He once told her, "You’re lucky I let her stay in the house."

In my mind, there was an underlying belief that my sister was unrelated to my father, despite the clear mathematical impossibility. These thoughts and unspoken words formed the background of our family dynamics, a concept that could not be disputed. It is difficult to articulate. Picture someone asserting that Tuesday follows Sunday.

There is no such thing as Monday. You learn to avoid mentioning it. Monday ceases to exist within your household. At school, you may write Monday on a page, yet never make the mistake at home. You question the absurdity of writing a non-existent word. You must mentally insert Tuesday twice each week to compensate, but it is manageable.

In our home, we simply skipped over the notion of a Monday. I found it effortless to bypass the revelation of my sister's whereabouts and inform my father of his demise. I considered finding her and sharing the news, but I swiftly dismissed that thought. It must have been a habit I developed early on to suppress such thoughts. We often skipped over certain aspects in our household.

I did not find it challenging to circumvent the notion of my sister and ignore her potential interest in my father's passing. I occasionally pondered the will's contents, but I need not have worried. Firstly, my father had not executed a will, and secondly, there was nothing left to bequeath. He had mortgaged his pension for various expenses, including dogs, bird fighting, gambling, nights out, and beer at the club, leaving nothing behind.

I anticipated being responsible for the funeral expenses. Additionally, my sister's presence would not affect the burial costs. My father was a stout, immobile individual, and his funeral would likely necessitate significant effort. I worried about the logistics of handling him, such as whether they had to break his legs to place him in the coffin.

How was that accomplished? I also fretted about what attire he should wear. I had not assisted in preparing his clothes or informed the undertaker. I did not desire my father arriving in the afterlife in his braces and jumper without a proper shirt or collar. I frequently worried about his feet as well. He had been eagerly awaiting the foot specialist's appointment the following week.

His nails were in poor condition. Would they tear his socks when placing them on? Would he perpetually have his toes protruding? I am uncertain why I became preoccupied with these details, despite lacking a religious inclination and not believing in an afterlife. However, I realized I did hold such beliefs, as I repeatedly visited the undertakers, seeking new clothing and inquiring about his appearance, particularly his feet.

They were patient with me, suggesting I visit him to alleviate my concerns. He was well-groomed, dressed in a clean shirt and tailored jacket, wearing new black socks. They could not affix shoes to him due to the furnace. Yet, I felt a sense of cowardice, unwilling to confront him in his deathbed.