The Optimist's Guide to Letting Go

by Amy E. Reichert

  May rolled out of her cozy dark bed, kicked aside some clothes, and stepped into the hallway, still wearing her pajamas—flannel pants and a black tank top.

  “I don’t mind. They’re cute.”

  “Next time they can’t sleep through the night, you can take them, and then you let me know how cute they are.” Aunt Vicky shuffled back down the hallway toward the kitchen, spanking May’s mom on the butt as she passed her, who was clearly intending to check on her. Again.

  May pulled her hair into a ponytail high on her head so she could wash her face and brush her teeth—the bare minimum necessary for working in the food truck.

  “What is that?” Her mom pointed at her chest.

  Crap. She had meant to explain first, and then show her.

  “It’s sort of a tattoo.” Peeking down, she saw that the edge of her tank top mostly covered the words, so it probably wasn’t clear to her mom what it was.

  It took a moment for her mom to register what she’d said, her face crumpling in a growing rage that erupted from nowhere.

  “Tattoo? You got a tattoo? Why? How?”

  “I said sort of a tattoo.” May shrugged, knowing her matter-of-fact tone would irritate her—she couldn’t help herself. If her mom wasn’t going to pause long enough to really listen, she deserved no help. “Aunt Vicky took me after our dinner last night. We had to try a few places before we found one that would do it.”

  “Aunt Vicky is not your parent.”

  “At least she wants to spend time with me.”

  Aunt Vicky appeared at the end of the hall.

  “Umm, Gina . . .”

  “Nope, you’ve done enough. We’re going to talk later.” Aunt Vicky put her hands up and backed into the kitchen at the sight of the anger tornado. “And you, you put ink on your body? That was not your decision to make.”

  “It’s my body, Mom. And it’s not even—”

  “Not until you’re eighteen, it isn’t. Until then, it’s mine.” Her mom stepped closer and pulled May’s tank top down a bit so she could see what it was. “What was so important that you needed to have it on your body forever?”

  There. May enjoyed watching her mom’s face as she realized what the image right next to her heart was. The transition from anger to shock to sadness, and then back to anger. Served her right. It was the note her dad had left on her pillow the day he died. She always kept it with her, either in a pocket or a purse.

  Yam. Kick ass today. Smooshes, Daddy

  “It’s not that big of a deal, and besides Dad would have let me do it, and you know it.” May stepped out of her mom’s reach, smoothing her shirt back over the words, a little guilt pecking at her edges.

  “Your dad isn’t here.” Gina’s voice was a whisper, still taking in what her daughter had done.

  “And why is that? Why can’t you say it?” Gina’s chest rose and fell in deep breaths. Rage filled May that her mom never talked about her dad, never shared memories or feelings. She just plowed on through life, pretending his death didn’t bother her, or worse, that he’d never existed. “It’s because he’s dead, Mom. He’s dead. He’s worm food. He’s gone forever. And you may as well be, too.”

  Gina’s hand cocked back and before May understood what was happening, her mom’s hand made contact with her cheek in a blaze of pain, like the side of her face had exploded with fireworks. May covered her cheek, and her mom covered her mouth with her hand. Hot tears sizzled across the stinging handprint.

  In the two years since her dad died, her mom had never so much as knocked hard on her door, let alone hit her. In the face. Her mom really did hate her. May turned back into her bedroom and slammed the door, opening it and slamming it again a second time for good measure. If her mom had been worried the tattoo was permanent, she must not know what a slap could do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Gina’s hand stung from where it had made contact with her daughter’s face. Shouldn’t the police already be in the driveway? Shouldn’t sirens be going off? She’d committed the one sin a parent never should—thou must not hit your kid. Where was the rewind button on life? She wanted that moment back, the one where her daughter looked at her with loathing, not fear. How did the moment get so out of hand?

  “This is quite the kerfuckle you’ve created.” Vicky stood in the kitchen doorway, mascara smudged under her eyes and a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. Her hair was in a haphazard clip on the top of her head, shooting errant strands from her head like spikes. “It’s not even real, Gina. We both tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. It’s henna. Under eighteens can’t get tattoos, it’s illegal.”

  “It’s fake?” Gina’s voice was quiet. Maybe if she didn’t say it too loudly, she could pretend she hadn’t flown off the handle. “Why didn’t May say so?”

  “She tried. You weren’t listening to her. Honestly, you rarely do. At least not where Drew is concerned.”

  “He was the one with the special connection to her. I was the enforcer.” Gina drooped against the wall.

  “You’ve proven that in spades. He’s not here anymore and she needs you. That special-connection line is bullshit, and you know it. She’s your daughter—there’s no connection more special than that.” Vicky took a big gulp of coffee and scratched her hip. “I’m going to need at least two more of these.” She returned to the kitchen, where her kids were devouring the pancakes Gina had made. Vicky turned back to her and pointed toward May’s door. “Fix that. Now.”

  When had her little sister gotten so smart? Gina ran her fingers over the tingling palm. Every twinge deepened her regret until she was so far underwater she didn’t think she could breathe. Was she so old that she didn’t remember the painful, impetuous things a teenager could say?

  Gina reached for the green beans, scooping some onto her plate, half covering her mashed potatoes because she was too busy watching her dad for the right time to ask her question. She needed him in a good mood. The annual father-daughter dance for Juniors and Seniors was in two weeks, and this was the first year she could attend. Every girl in her class was going, wearing fancy dresses. Some of the dads even rented tuxedos. Her dad already owned one, so that would be easy. She’d already found the dress she wanted in the Seventeen magazine tucked under her seat cushion. It was bright pink and strapless, with two layers of ruffles that made up the knee-length skirt. Sequins in a flower pattern covered the bodice with a large satin pink rosette over the left hip. Just looking at it made her smile. She planned to show her mom after her dad agreed to take her.

  Her dad, forehead relaxed, glasses perched on his nose, had a newspaper neatly folded next to his plate so he could read. His hands moved methodically as he cut his chicken breast and lifted the bite to his mouth, his movements unrushed. When he looked up as he sipped his wine, she dropped her eyes back to her plate and nudged the beans around its surface, waiting for her moment.

  “How did your test go, Victoria?” her mom asked.

  “Easy. I was the first done.” Vicky sat across from her, her hair in a high ponytail with a ribbon trailing down her hair. She wore her blue and white cheerleader uniform because there was a basketball game later that night. She didn’t even have to wear it at the table—she only did because she knew Gina hated it. Freshman year, her mother had made Gina try out and she hadn’t made the squad. Vicky not only tried out and made it, but was also elected captain of the JV squad. Everything was easier for her.

  “We should talk to your teachers about challenging you. Maybe you should be moved up to the next math class. What do you think, Floyd?”

  Gina’s head swung to watch this rare attempt to draw her father into the conversation. Usually, he just stuck to his paper, unless it was time to report on their quarterly grades. This might be her moment. If he responded well here, she knew she could ask him about the dance.

  “Hmm?” His eyes looked up over the top of his glasses with his face still tilted toward the paper.

  “Don’t you think we sho
uld talk to Victoria’s teachers about bumping her up in math? It’s too easy for her. She needs to be challenged.”

  “It’s always worth a discussion. Set up a meeting, and I’ll see if I can make it.”

  Wait? He was going to go? This was the Brigadoon of fatherly moments. Now was her chance, before he turned back to his paper.

  “Dad?” His eyes flicked to her while his head kept the same position. She took a deep breath and pressed on. “The Father-Daughter dance is in a few weeks. Will you go with me?”

  Her mom and Vicky stopped eating. She held her breath. She’d never asked him to do something with her before. If they did something as a family, her mom had always orchestrated it.

  “When is it?” Her father looked over the top of his glasses at her, an eyebrow raised. She willed herself to keep her brown eyes on his blue ones.

  “Um, Saturday. March thirtieth. At seven o’clock.”

  His eyebrow relaxed.

  “I have a work trip that weekend, Regina. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded a little relieved, but Gina was emboldened by his response. Maybe he just didn’t know how important this was to her.

  “Could you change your trip to a different weekend? This is a really big deal, and I think . . .”

  “I can’t reschedule. Perhaps your mother can take you girls to Chicago. Do some shopping on Michigan Avenue.” He smiled as if that solved everything.

  “Regina, help me in the kitchen,” her mom said. “Now.”

  Gina looked at her dad, who had returned to eating and reading like it was every other dinner they’d ever had. She had wanted this one special night with him, all the fun of a regular dance without worrying about being asked by a boy who’d probably drink schnapps until he threw up anyway. She bit her lip so the pain could dry up her tears, set the Seventeen magazine on the dining room table open to the page with the beautiful pink dress, and followed her mom into the kitchen. The door had barely shut before her mom started angry whispering at her, as if her dad and Vicky didn’t know exactly what was happening.

  “Since when do you bother your father about school dances? You should have asked me to talk to him and not made a scene at the dinner table out of nowhere.”

  Gina’s mouth dropped. Her mom’s face was pinched and mottled. It was at odds with her smooth brown hair clipped up on one side with bobby pins, sparkling diamond stud earrings, and precisely pressed wool pants. Was it possible that her mom was . . . embarrassed?

  “I asked a simple question. How is that a scene? I’m the only one of my friends who won’t be going. Can’t you talk to him or something?”

  “His work comes first. Always. His work is what keeps a roof over all our heads. We don’t take that for granted in this house.” Her mom slid the cross on her necklace back and forth along the chain while the lines on her forehead deepened.

  “I’ve been waiting since freshman year. There’s a dinner, too. And, he wouldn’t even need to rent a tux because he already has one. And I promise it’d be fun—”

  “Enough.” The edge in her mom’s voice told her it was time to quit, but she couldn’t handle the injustice of it all. He said he would go to a school meeting for Victoria’s math, but not take her to the dance. This sucked.

  “He never does anything with us. I wish Dad would just disappear!”

  She hadn’t really meant to shout it, not entirely. Gina’s apology was already forming in her mind when her face exploded in pain, sucking the breath from her lungs. She covered her cheek with her hand and looked at her mother, taking a step out of arm’s reach. Lorraine straightened, rubbing the hand that had struck Gina with her nonviolent one. Her nostrils flared.

  “You will not speak like that. Ever. This conversation is over. Right now, young lady.”

  Gina swallowed back her tears and ran through the dining room, pausing to pick up the magazine, but it was missing. Her dad didn’t even look up, but Vicky watched her every move. Gina ran to her room, slammed her door, and flopped onto her bed. Why couldn’t she have a family like everyone else’s? A dad who wanted to go to dances. A few days later, the bright pink dress from the missing magazine would appear in her closet, but she would never have anywhere to wear it.

  She heard her door creak and turned to see Vicky carrying a bag full of ice.

  “I thought you might like this. For your cheek.”

  Her little sister’s face said it all.

  Gina took the ice, the cold freezing out the sting but doing nothing for the real hurt.

  Her mother could be critical, but she had never hit her before. How could she? When she was a mother, Gina vowed, she’d never, ever hit her kids. She’d always listen to them and take their wants into consideration. She would be a good mother.

  Gina opened the fridge, pulling out one of the ice packs she always kept in there. At her age, body parts decided to pop and pull unexpectedly, so having something cold ready to go was a necessity. She massaged it between her hands to make it more malleable and walked down the hall to May’s closed door, guilt and dread weighing her down.

  When she opened the creaking door, May was sprawled on her bed, shoulders shaking. Gina had vowed to never be like her mother—now was her chance to try and improve. She had to at least try.

  “May?”

  She flipped over and glared at her mom.

  “Going to slap the other cheek?”

  Ouch. She deserved that. Gina sat on the edge of the bed and held out the cold pack.

  “This will help. I promise.” May took it and pressed it to her cheek. “There is no excuse for hitting someone. I’m sorry and I was very wrong to do it.” May nodded, her glare lessening a bit. “And I’m sorry I didn’t ask for more information about your ‘tattoo’ before I got angry.”

  May nodded. How had they gotten so off course? “Henna, huh?” May nodded again. “That’s actually a brilliant idea. When you turn eighteen, you can get the real thing.” Gina took a deep breath before continuing. “I know . . .” This was so hard for her to say. Just thinking the words set her tear ducts into motion. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “I know Dad is dead.” She had to swallow before continuing. “Of course I know it. I know it with every part of me. The part that still rolls to his side of the bed every day looking for a good-morning kiss, the part that turns to him in the kitchen to share a story about something amazing you did, the part that starts to call him when the truck’s engine makes a funny noise. Did you know that I still pay his cell phone bill so I can call it and hear his voice on the recording? Isn’t that pathetic? Sometimes I even leave messages telling him about my day, then I go into his phone and delete them.” Tears fell from her face, matching the ones on May’s. She pulled her daughter into a hug she could only hope conveyed how sorry she was.

  “I don’t talk about him with you because I can’t. I’ve accepted that he’s gone from my life forever, but I can’t seem to accept that he’s gone from yours, too. That he’ll never see you graduate, or intimidate a first boyfriend—he was so looking forward to that—or walk you down the aisle at your wedding. He’s going to miss out on watching you become the amazing woman I know you’ll be. And that is something I cannot face.”

  Her arm tightened around May, who still didn’t seem to want to speak.

  “I’m not enough, May. I can’t be both him and me, and you deserve to have him. You deserve to have all those moments, and I’m so fucking angry that you don’t get them. I never had them with my dad. You should have had them with Drew. But, instead, you’re stuck with me.”

  Gina lifted May’s face and wiped away her tears.

  “I need to talk about him, Mom. I’m forgetting things. I don’t remember what he smells like anymore. Or his laugh. I don’t want to forget him.”

  Gina understood, because she had the same fears.

  “I’ll do better. We’ll find ways, like your henna, to celebrate our memories—keep him more a part of our days.”

  May nodded, an
d Gina smoothed back a few strands that had fallen out of May’s ponytail. Her hand kept going until it reached the orange stripe.

  “And do we need to talk about this, too? Did you mean to make it this particular shade of orange?”

  Even though her face was still red and swollen with tears, May chuckled.

  “I wanted it blond.”

  “I think every brunette tries to go blond at least once.” Gina wrapped the hair around her finger, thinking of some options. “We could bleach it again, and try a fun color. How about hot pink? Or green?”

  “Blue—dad’s favorite.”

  “Perfect.” Gina pulled her into her arms, and May wrapped her own around Gina’s waist. Gina kissed the top of May’s head. “We’re going to be okay.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  So wait, you and our real dad used to live under Roza? I can’t imagine you living in that tiny little apartment.” Victoria asked.

  Lorraine nodded at the question.

  Yes.

  It was day five poststroke and she could move a little better, but words were still difficult. She could say yes now, but it was so much easier to nod. Erin the Therapist would tell her the practice was good for her, each attempt helping to strengthen the thought-speech connections. That sounded great until every fourth attempt sounded like she’d drunk an entire bottle of chardonnay. She didn’t like her daughters seeing her weak. A nod was confident, and there was no confusion about what she was trying to say.

  Sitting in the reclining chair next to the window in her new room at the rehab facility, Lorraine could look at everyone at the same time. The entire family was here—Regina, Victoria, May, Roza—and even the littlest members, Jake, Greta, Maggie, and Nathan. The younger ones watched a colorful cartoon on the floor, blessedly quiet for now.

  The winter sun warmed her lap. Between the girls, Roza, and her head gestures, they’d worked out a system. If Roza didn’t know the full answer to one of the girls’ questions, they would ask a Yes or a No question. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but they were finally talking. If only she were at home rather than in this godawful facility. At least the food was better than at the hospital, though the decor was still clearly designed by a man, all earth tones and no flair. Would it kill them to use something other than brushed nickel on every light and water fixture?