Few Kinds of Wrong

by Tina Chaulk

  He smiles briefly. “Can I help?”

  “No, we’re good,” I say. “BJ this is Father Carl March and this is BJ Brown.” I’m thankful for the diversion.

  “Yes, I recognize you,” Carl says to BJ. He extends his hand and BJ shakes it, “Jennifer is not feeling well and I’m going to take her home.”

  “No. I’m fine and I’m staying. Carl, are you going to the funeral?” The words come out garbled and, realizing that, I repeat them again, more slowly now. “Are … you … going … to … the … funeral?”

  “You asked that already,” BJ says.

  “I know that. Excuse me, but we’re having a conversation here.” I try to push BJ a little, but it’s too hard and she moves a couple of feet.

  “Jesus. I can’t help you anymore. Go sleep it off,” she says and walks away.

  “Would you like me to go the funeral?” Carl says. His hand finds its way to my arm, lifting me slightly, guiding me to the wall again.

  “I wouldn’t mind. Up to you, I guess.”

  He nods and stares at me. His eyes withhold judgement. His half-smile seems reserved.

  “Jennifer, you seem very tired. Would you like me to drive you home so you can rest?”

  “I have my car. I can drive myself.”

  “Perhaps you’re too tired to drive. I’m afraid you’d fall asleep on the way home.”

  My heavy eyelids, half-closed, make arguing with him seem stupid.

  Yes, okay,” I say, changing my mind in the time it takes for his eyes to lock onto mine.

  He again takes my arm. I can feel a muscle in his arm flexing as it keeps me on course, out the door, down the hallway, out the front door and toward the far right of the parking lot where he guides me to a black Toyota Corolla.

  “This is such a minister’s car,” I say. His hand is on my head, ensuring that I don’t conk myself on the door jamb. He leans over to buckle my seatbelt. His hair smells of vanilla.

  “Hmm, you smell good.”

  “Thank you.” He closes my door and walks around to his side of the car. My eyes are closed before we leave the parking lot.

  19

  WHEN I WAKE up I’m on my sofa and Carl is across from me in a chair. I bolt upright.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “How much do you remember?”

  “Not enough, I don’t think.”

  “You were at the funeral home and were a little, um, under the weather. I drove you home.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Carl looks at his watch. “About two hours. I didn’t think it would be right to put you to bed so I laid you down here. I was afraid to leave you alone, you know, like that.”

  Once again I’m surprised how little judgement appears in his face.

  I’m quiet for a couple of minutes and Carl lets the silence stay.

  “Thank you though. For the ride. And the staying with me.”

  “No problem.” He stands like he is about to leave.

  “Would you like coffee or something? You really could stay. I don’t mind.” I hear something in my voice and hope it doesn’t sound desperate, although I fear it does.

  “I really should be going.” He is looking down.

  “Oh.” I look away and want to ask him again if he’d stay. Just for a bit.

  “Well, okay, if you have decaf.” He sits back down. “Anything else will mean I’ll be up for the night.”

  “I only have instant decaf.” I wonder if it’s still fit to drink. The bottle of instant must have been in my cupboard for a year or more. I don’t usually do decaf but sometimes Jamie would.

  “Instant would be fine.”

  I feel like he’s taking pity on me but that doesn’t stop me from not wanting him to leave. The thought of being alone is worse than any pity he might feel.

  I move into the kitchen and take down two mugs from the cupboard. In the open-concept house the kitchen adjoins the living room so we can continue to talk. But Carl sits in silence as I fill the kettle. I chip some coffee crystals out of the hardened mass in the jar and put them in the mugs.

  I lean against the counter until the water boils and the electric kettle shuts off. I pour water into the two mugs and stir. Some of the coffee doesn’t dissolve and I fish the floating crystals out with a spoon.

  “Was my mom at the funeral home?” I ask, as I come out of the kitchen.

  “No, she wasn’t. But your friend BJ wasn’t too happy with you when you left.”

  “She rarely is lately.”

  “Is she a good friend?”

  I nod. “Better than me, that’s for sure.” I return to the kitchen for milk and sugar. Thank God, Jamie has stocked the kitchen.

  “Why’d you say that?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve been a bit of a burden lately. And I was never a very good friend to begin with. Always wondered why she was my friend, to be honest with you.”

  “People usually keep friends because they enjoy their company. Obviously BJ is not as hard on you as you are on yourself.”

  I shrug. “Mom says I got that from her.”

  “You seem close to your mother.” He sips his black coffee. I can see him hide a cringe at the taste.

  I don’t answer, not knowing what to say.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  “Dad was always the one I was close to. We spent a lot of time together.”

  Carl nods. “It just seemed that when your mother came to the hospital, you relaxed and let her be there for you.”

  Again, I don’t know what to say. “I’ve been kind of mad at Mom.”

  He nods. “Yes, the best friend.” He straightens up. He stares at me and starts to pick at his upper lip, like he’s thinking hard about something.

  “Pretty bad, hey?” I almost smile, feeling finally vindicated that someone understands how bad that would be.

  “And it makes you mad? Not happy that two people you care for—”

  “Of course it makes me mad. You don’t do that. There’s appropriate times of mourning and even then …”

  He picks up the mug, brings it partway to his lips then sets it down on the cocktail table again. “What’s an appropriate time for mourning, do you think?”

  I shrug. “A couple of years.”

  “Most experts say that things should at least start to get a little better after about six months. And it’s been?”

  “A little over a year.”

  We sit in silence.

  “So you think something is wrong with me.” I almost make it a question.

  “From what you say, things have not started to get better for you. And I wonder why.”

  “Because I loved my dad a lot, I guess.”

  He nods but I don’t see affirmation in his face.

  “I worked with him. At his garage. Our garage. Well, my garage now. Spent most of my time with him. He was a great guy. We …” I shake my head.

  “What?”

  “I always thought he was a great guy. But lately I’ve found out things. That he did things. I don’t know.”

  “And? Where does that put you?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like I’ve thought things about my mom for years that were wrong. And that’s because of my dad. All the things I thought were wrong.”

  “All of them? Every single thing?”

  “Well, no. But some of the important things.” I stare at the ceiling, thinking, looking for what I’m trying to say. “My mom always said she loved me and I never believed she did, not really. And Dad never said it, but I always thought he did. Now I’m not sure what’s true.”

  “Did you tell them you loved them?”

  I shake my head. “Not since I was a little girl. I guess I always thought I’d have the time to tell them. That sometime in the future, when Dad was one hundred and ten, there’d be some deathbed scene where I’d say it. But, well, you know.”

  “Did that matter to you? When you lost your dad? That you hadn’t said it?”

&
nbsp; From somewhere tears rise up inside me, up into my throat. I swallow them but they continue to come and the more I fight, the more they flow.

  “I wish I’d said it. Out loud. To him.” I whisper the words, knowing that the louder I speak, the thicker my voice will sound. “And I’m afraid if I don’t say it to her, she’ll never know it.”

  “So, what’s stopping you?”

  My tears don’t deter him and I relax with them, feeling them washing something away. He doesn’t look away or seem uncomfortable with my feelings.

  “I’m mad at her.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  He shrugs. “Well, I could say that you can love her and be mad at her the same time. I could say that your father is gone and your mother is the one left here, in your life. I could say that the way you reacted when she came to the hospital after your grandmother died showed me that you love her and that you depend on her in some way.” He smiles. “But you probably don’t want to hear that.”

  I stare at him. It feels like hours before I shake my head. I look away and find myself somewhere between wanting to cry and wanting to scream.

  “I’m tired,” I say. “It’s going to be a hard day tomorrow and I’m already so tired.

  “I’ve upset you.”

  “No. I’m just tired.”

  “Okay.” He stands up, runs his hands down his pant legs to straighten out the wrinkles. “You still want me there tomorrow?”

  “Up to you, I guess. I’m not going to stop you.” His hurt look makes me flinch. “But it would be nice to have you there.”

  “Then I’ll do everything I can to be there.”

  I stand up too and walk him to the door.

  “See you tomorrow,” he says, and I can’t get goodbye out and close the door fast enough.

  As soon as he’s gone, I call a cab. I pat my dress pants pocket to make sure my keys are there and realize they’re not. Carl must have taken them out when we got here. I look around and get a sick feeling that maybe he took them with him. That I won’t be able to get in my car. I need to get my car and the thing I want most, which is lying on my passenger seat.

  I find the keys exactly where I always put them, on the little table next to the door. Before I can open the door to leave, I hear a key in the lock. I unlock the door, knowing who’s on the other side.

  Jamie opens the door, and even though I knew it was him, seeing his face startles me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Coming to see you.” He stands up straight. “Waiting for him to leave.”

  “And what if he didn’t?”

  Jamie doesn’t respond, just looks away as he lays his keys on the table by the door. “Where are you going?”

  “To pick up my car. Please, Jamie. I’m exhausted and I just want to get my car and get back here.”

  “You okay to drive?” He taps his foot then purses his lips.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I heard you weren’t when you got to the funeral home.”

  “What? Who said that? BJ said it, didn’t she?”

  “Lots of people said it. Did you drive in that state?”

  “No.”

  “Then why was your car in the parking lot? Why did people see you fall out of it when you got there?”

  “I didn’t fall out. My God, did you come here just to interrogate me?”

  “Well at least four people told me differently. Now who should I believe? The four sober ones or you? And I’m not interrogating. I’m looking out for you.”

  “I don’t remember inviting you here,” I say to his feet.

  “Oh, that’s the way it is, is it? I don’t remember you inviting me any other night for the past few nights either.”

  He is standing between me and my friend on the passenger seat, and I fight the urge to push him away.

  “I just let you stay those other nights.”

  “Let me? Let me? How nice of you to let me. You let me do everything, don’t you? You let me stay here, you let me look after you, you let me cook for you, let me clean up your messes for you. You let me screw you. You’re all about letting.”

  I turn away from him.

  “And did you let the bottle open and go down your throat? And did you let yourself stagger into the funeral home where your grandmother is being waked? Did you let yourself make a show of yourself in front of everyone?”

  I hear a horn blowing outside.

  “I’m getting a cab. I don’t want you here when I get back.” I open the door and walk out.

  Jamie comes behind me. “I don’t think you should drive, Jen. It hasn’t been long enough.”

  “I’m fine.” I don’t turn around to face him. “Just go, Jamie. You don't have to deal with my shit now. We’re not together anymore, you know.”

  “I deal with your shit every day. Not a day has gone by since you left me that I haven’t dealt with your shit, either me missing you or wishing for you or lately, lying in bed with you, so close I can touch you, so close you let me inside you but so far away it could be a stranger there next to me. Knowing that the only reason I’m there is because you let me. Because you need something else, someone else, to help take away your pain. So whether I’m here or a million miles away, I deal. With. Your. Shit.”

  His words are followed by the sound of footsteps walking away. I turn to tell him that I’m sorry, that I feel something every time I see him, and how grateful I am for him.

  But something else, something sweeter and less demanding, beckons me and I walk toward the cab.

  20

  THE PHONE WAKES me out of a dreamless sleep. I answer the phone without thinking and Mom’s voice says hello. “How are you?” she says. Her tone is tinged with something, a coldness.

  I shake my head to try and make my voice sound like I haven’t just woken up. The clock says 10:30.

  “Okay,” I croak then clear my throat.

  “I wanted to know if you’re going to the funeral with us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. Us. The family. We’re leaving from Henrietta’s house, sometime around one.”

  “Um, yes, sure.”

  “You can come over here this morning if you like.”

  “No, that’s okay. I'll be at Henrietta’s by one.”

  Silence.

  “Is Jamie there now?”

  “No.”

  “Could you not? Could you?” Mom pauses then stops.

  “What?”

  “I hope you’ll be feeling well when you get there.”

  “What do you mean?” And then it hits me. But I wait. Let her say it.

  “Nothing. Just that I know you weren’t feeling well enough to be at the funeral home last night and I hope you don’t feel like that today.” She pauses between words and I can almost see her searching for the way to say what she wants to say.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good.”

  “See you at Henrietta’s.” I hang up without a goodbye and without hearing hers.

  After a long shower, two glasses of water and two cups of coffee, I look in the back of my closet. Still hanging in a fancy garment bag is the dress Mom bought me to wear to Dad’s funeral, never taken out of the bag.

  Black, three-quarter sleeves, sensible neck, hangs just below the knees. I’d picked it out when Mom insisted, when I was still in a daze and would have agreed to anything. I tried on three others before we got that one. I hadn’t worn a dress since my wedding day but I didn’t tell Mom I wanted a pantsuit. I just followed her, got in the car as she drove, stood there as she picked out dresses, put them on in the change room. She opened the changing room door, then she guided me out and turned me around in the better light. Until she found this one.

  The night before, the night Dad died, I had slept at Mom’s house, not wanting to be alone in my house. People came and went, bringing soups and cakes and casseroles like they contained some healing salve, like their cooking would make things all right instea
d of just giving us the trouble of figuring out where to put things and who owned what casserole dish that had to be returned.

  Maisie was there. The sensible one who organized the food but didn’t bring any to add to our burden. She turned off the light over the door sometime around 9:00 p.m.

  “They won’t leave you alone if you don’t turn off the lights,” she said, turning off other lights around the house until there was only one small lamp left on in the living room. “And you’ll need your rest now.”

  After Maisie left, Mom turned off the one remaining lamp and we sat in the dark, surrounded by blackness, encompassed in silence. Our breathing sounded like loud waves crashing over the shore, and all I could think about was that Dad was no longer doing it. Every breath in and out was one Dad didn’t get.

  It seemed like a long time before Mom spoke. “I can’t go to bed. Not without him there.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said, although I found her words odd considering how she and Dad so rarely went to bed at the same time.

  Mom sat on the edge of her bed until I’d finished putting on an old nightshirt of hers and come into the room. Only when I walked over to Dad’s side of the bed and turned back the sheets, did Mom get in.

  The pillow I laid my head on felt like a cruel hug — warm, smelling of Dad, yet empty of him. One of his hairs lay on the white pillow case and I put my cheek against it. Mom moved and her feet touched mine. They felt like ice and I jumped. When she moved her feet away, I searched the bed for them and placed my feet against them, the cold somehow reassuring. Until I thought how cold Dad’s feet must feel now and pulled away. I turned over and pulled my knees up, trying to stop the shivering that had started.

  Mom cuddled my back, and as sleep found me, I wondered if Mom and Dad always slept like that. I’d never seen them snuggled together in the nights I’d come in their room seeking refuge from colds or dark nightmares. But Mom’s arm draped over my side felt practiced, like it was a natural place for it to be.

  The night had been punctuated with the first moments of waking, when I could still believe it was a dream, before I realized it was Mom lying next to me and not Jamie. In those moments, I felt an empty, painful longing, not just for Dad but for Jamie, and when the tears lulled me back to sleep they were for both of the men I loved.