Matthew William [William - The More I Disappear

The More I Disappear

Its hard to remember that hes not me. Not exactly, anyway. Genetically speaking, yes, hes a perfect match. But since the moment he was born our experiences have been slowly and steadily forming us into different people. Driving us further and further apart, like two roads diverging in the woods, never to cross paths again.

But when I look at him, all I can see is myself at ten years old.

I guess we should consider ourselves lucky, since we cant have children of our own. Hardly anyone can nowadays. They say its from all the genetically modified food we eat. Cloning is the cure for the disease that cloning gave us. Like a snake eating itself.

At the very least this all makes the birds and the bees conversation less awkward. When Jr. asked where babies came from, all I needed to explain was that we gave my DNA sequence to the geneticists and they gave mom a fertilized egg to carry.

I dont know how Ill explain sex when the time comes. I dont even know how I explain it to myself anymore. Suddenly, the whole thing makes me self conscious.

But thats always been my problem. Im stuck inside my own head. But Jr. isnt. He has friends. Hes confident. Hes not too shy, not too lost in thought to connect. Hes me without all the crap I thought makes me who I am.

As we sit at dinner, hes quiet. He doesnt feel the need to fill the silences the way I do and always have. He doesnt need to tell that joke to make mom laugh or to distract dad from becoming violent when he drinks too much. He just sits there and takes it all in. The way a kid is supposed to. The way I could have been. Now I fill the silences.

At dinner he glances at a scar that I have on my forearm. He points at it with his fork. Where did that come from?

I look down. The faded memory of that autumn day in the park near my house, the damp leaves and the smell of blood on cold steel.

When I was eleven I thought it was a good idea to ride my bike down a slide, I say.

Will I get that scar too?

No, I say. Youre smarter than I was.

Are you sure? he asks, feeling at his arm.

Were different people, I say. Remember?

Hey, sweetie, my wife says to him. Your eleventh birthday is coming up soon. What do you want to do for the party?

He sets down his fork and thinks. What did you do? he asks me. For your eleventh birthday?

Ill have to look at the video, I say, even though I practically remember every detail. It was the highlight of my young life. I decide that Im going to make this party the highlight of his.

And what do you want for a present? my wife asks him.

A tablet, he says without hesitation. Space gray, with a retina display.

Are you sure?

He nods.

Not a dog or cat or anything? she asks.

He shakes his head.

My wife looks at me and nods. Orders received.

As I drive him to soccer practice he asks, Dad, who am I supposed to marry?

What do you mean? I ask, smiling at him in the rear view mirror. You can marry whoever you want, bud.

He nods and thinks. Will mom have a clone someday?

When we can afford it. But you wont be able to marry her.

Why not?

Shell be your sister.

I cant marry my sister?

I shake my head.

Why not?

I think for a moment. Genetically speaking theyll be the same as me and my wife, with no overlapping DNA that makes incest such a societal no-no. But theyll be raised together, as brother and sister, for all intents and purposes related.

Because its against the rules, I say finally, as a cop-out.

Dont you love mom?

Yeah, I do. But me and you are different people, remember? Your moms clone wont be her, itll be your sister.

So Ill have to marry someone else? he asks.

Yeah.

Someone I dont know?

I nod.

He looks out the window, quiet for the rest of the drive.

As he plays soccer with the other little clones I sit in the car and watch as a bead of rain falls slowly down the windshield. It leaves a ghost of a streak behind and gathers moisture as it descends. Suddenly it hits the wipers at the bottom and disappears.

I do realize that Im trying to raise him the way I wanted to be raised, and maybe thats wrong. I think that if I stand back let him decide for himself what he wants and what he likes, then I wont be making the same mistakes my parents made on me.

But it still feels like an uphill battle. When we argue it goes on for days, the way I used to argue with my dad. Except Jr. knows how I think. He knows how I operate. And in the end if I dont concede he says, Ill never do this to my son.

You will, I say. Youll see.

But were different people, he says sarcastically. Remember?

Cocky little bastard.

I show him the Star Wars films in the order that I saw them; original trilogy first, prequel trilogy second. But he likes the prequels better. God, where did I go wrong as a father? I probably should have waited until he was a teenager.

My wife reminds me of the fact that the prequels are mostly about clones and perhaps it was for that reason he felt more of a connection towards them. I guess I should have seen it coming.

Now he makes sure to ask what I think of something before giving his opinion, that way his answers can align with mine.

One day I notice a scar on his forearm. Its my scar on his forearm. I stop dead in my tracks.

How did that happen? I snap.

What?

That scar.

I dont know.

Whats happening? Is this fate? Was I destined to get that mark on my arm? What else will he begin to get thats mine? My memories? My thoughts?

My wife examines the scar and realizes that it is, in fact, slightly different than my scar. Close but no cigar. Later that night he admits to doing it himself. Carved it with a broken glass bottle, of all things. Somehow he managed to keep it hidden from us for weeks, until it had healed.

He wanted to be like me, he says with tears in his eyes. Why the hell would he want that? Im the messed up one.

Youre going to be a better version of me, I tell him.

He doesnt seem to understand that though. Maybe he cant understand it, not until he has a kid of his own. And hell be ahead of the game, he wont have any of my scars, specifically the ones that cant be seen.

But I still cant help being annoyed at the generation gap. He cant be bored, not even for a second. Hes glued to his phone. Mindlessly surfing the web or playing a game.

Why dont you go out and play with your friends? I ask him.

I am playing with them. Online.

I take the phone from him and make him read a book. Hell thank me for this when hes older.

I watch the video from my eleventh birthday, keeping notes on every little detail. The party is in our kitchen. Theres a chocolate birthday cake. Me and my few friends played pin the tail on the donkey. Perhaps as his own special gift my dad didnt even drink that day, and to top it off, at the end of the party he took me aside and gave me his old pocket watch. I was old enough to take care of it now.

I go and dig it out of my closet. After a good winding, Im thrilled to find it still works. Still ticking away, counting the seconds that have passed in my fathers life, in mine and in my sons. Escorting us on our way to the grave.

I re-watch the birthday video to make sure I got all the details right.

My wife comes in and examines the notepad. Should we bother recording Jr.s party or should we just give him a copy of this video?

I stop to consider.

The fact that you have to even think about it should tell you something, she says.

I look at my eleven-year-old self on screen, smiling ear to ear, singing with my friends. Hell like this.

What makes you think that?

Because I liked it.

The day comes and its a carbon copy of my day. The cake, the game of pin the tale on the donkey, even the music. I look around smiling ear to ear. Somehow, Ive recreated my childhood. I glance at Jr. but he is already looking at me. He can see how important this is to me and he makes sure hes pretending to have a great time. But theres none of the joy in his eyes that there was in mine. All there is is blankness.