by Amy Matayo
“I love you too, Dad.”
The words I’ve longed to say come out on a breath. Mental snapshots are stacking up all around me, but this one belongs at the top of the pile. This one is the one most worth remembering. This one is worth revisiting over and over.
My dad loves me. I’ve forgotten the way it feels, but I’m certain I’ll never forget it again.
Against my better judgment, my mind creates scenarios.
Maybe things will return to normal. Maybe I’ll have my father back again. Maybe he will move back in with me and we’ll both have a brand new chance to rebuild our family. Maybe we’ll go out to dinner and he’ll help me choose a new car. Maybe one day he’ll walk me down the aisle, carefully walking beside me so as not to step on my beautiful white gown. Maybe he’ll hold a grandchild, maybe one named after him.
As my mind swims with possibilities, I run my thumb over the soft folds of his skin…skin no longer strong and calloused but wrinkled and blue-streaked with age. It’s been almost ten years since my father first began to show the signs of forgetfulness, five since the condition became too blatant to deny, two since I could no longer care for him myself. And all the while, I’ve mapped out the passage of time by the skin on the back of my father’s hand. Once strong and taut and able to grip mine in a strong grasp, his hand is now papery and soft, covered more in folds and creases than smooth spots. In the turmoil of the last few years, I didn’t pay attention to when his hands lost their strength.
He can gain it back. In no time at all, we can find a way to get back all we’ve lost.
I glance at the door, wondering why Phyllis hasn’t appeared yet. I have so many questions. Millions of questions, and she’s the only one who can answer them.
“Did Phyllis say when she might come back?”
My father doesn’t respond, but of course he wouldn’t. He probably doesn’t know who Phyllis is, probably doesn’t recall all the times she’s changed his bedpans and switched dirty sheets for clean ones and spoon fed him dinner. To him Phyllis would be a woman with no name; a caregiver at best, a stranger at worst.
Much like me.
“I guess not,” I answer myself, tearing my gaze away from the door. I decide to enjoy this private moment for what it is. Just me and my father before people rush in and chaos ensues. I take a deep breath and smile at him.
It isn’t until I look at his face that I know.
Hope evaporates.
Possibilities vanish.
I drop the sword.
Pick up the shield.
All my organs shut down.
My heart is the first to go.
They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. But it isn’t true. It’s filthy lie meant to make people like me feel better for their rotten lot in life.
Because my father. My father is looking at me with cautious eyes; an all-too-familiar wary stare. His hand abruptly shoves mine away and roams to his stomach, patting…patting. His shoulder comes up and over, shielding himself from my presence. He scoots over, as far from me as he can get inside the confines of the bed.
Alzheimer’s patients retreat inside and out. Alzheimer’s patients don’t like to be touched by anyone. Alzheimer’s patients are afraid of strangers.
And just like that, before the future I pictured had a chance to begin, my father is gone.
I am alone.
More so than I’ve ever been.
Surrounded by loss and the remnants of a life imagined but never experienced.
“Dad?” One word laced with a hundred questions, none of which he’ll answer. I know this. I’m certain of this. Still I try again. “Dad, can you hear me?” He continues to pat his stomach. It’s the response I’m used to but suddenly resent more than ever. Life shouldn’t be this cruel. Sometimes I wonder if God is up there laughing at me.
I believe in God, but not in a cruel one. So…why? Why would He wake my father up just to drag him under once again? Why give me hope only to rip it out from underneath my feet before I even had a second to stand? Why dangle the proverbial carrot in front of a starving woman only to replace it with ashes?
Why?
“How is he?”
Phyllis walks in the room, her timing off by a handful of awful seconds. I drag a fist over my face and shoot her a look. “Back to normal.” My words are wet and laced with bitterness. My fingers are wet and laced with black tears. “He told me he loved me, and for a minute I thought maybe—” I can’t finish the words. Even to my ears, they sound so incredibly foolish.
“Oh child.” She’s holding a stack of white towels that she deposits at the end of the bed. Her arm goes around my shoulder. I breathe in the scent of Pine Sol and peppermint gum. “You didn’t think he would get better, did you?”
I shrug. “I hoped he might.” But of course he wouldn’t. Ten years of illness never disappear overnight, not without a miracle. Miracles are real but also rare. That’s what makes them so fascinating.
There’s no miracle here.
Wasn’t it only a few days ago that I argued with Cory about the benefits of believing in them? A deeper sadness wraps itself around me. Where is he now? And why haven’t I heard from him?
“Why did it happen, Phyllis? Why did he wake up just to retreat again?” I sniff and swipe underneath my running nose. “What good is that except to torture me? Why would God do something so mean?”
Phyllis sits on the bed on the other side of my dad and takes my hand. “I don’t know why people like your father are sometimes able to break free for a bit. Maybe just to say hello. Maybe just to remind the people who love them that they are loved in return. But I don’t think it’s God being mean. I think maybe it’s just His way of giving us a window into the way things will be in heaven.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care about heaven right now.” My words sound harsher than I mean them to. But still, I mean them. “I want my dad back now, here on earth. I was doing fine before this, and now I’m not.” The tears are falling in earnest. All my feelings descend like raindrops onto my lap, and there’s no way to stop them. Phyllis hands me a tissue but doesn’t let go of my hand.
“You haven’t been doing okay for a long time now, child,” she says quietly.
My eyes narrow. “Yes, I have. Why would you say that?”
Her grip on my hand tightens. “I’m not trying to chastise you. But honey, you’ve lost your mother and sister and you’ve been dealing with your father. Nobody could handle that well. And then there’s that singer.”
“What about him?’
“The news has been all over that story. There’s so much pressure on you, but that isn’t my point. My point is that with all you’ve had going on, maybe God just thought you needed a little encouragement.”
I roll my watery eyes. “Encouragement is fine if it lasts, but not when it’s taken away before it can even settle. Why bother with it if it’s going to be ripped away? I thought God was nicer than that.”
She’s quiet, thinking. “I’m going to tell you something a friend told me when I lost my oldest son.”
I inhale a sharp breath. “I didn’t know you—”
“That’s because I don’t talk about it anymore. It’s been a long time, and it’s still too painful. But here’s what she told me: You can ask why all day long if you want to. You can ask God why and your friends why and yourself why until you’re buried in nothing but that single question, but you’ll never get an answer. This side of heaven, time is the only thing that helps a little bit. So don’t give in. Don’t let the whys have it. Don’t let them take advantage of you. They’ll crush your heart and steal your peace and mess with your mind and wrap around you so tight you won’t be able to breathe. Don’t let the whys ruin your life, child. Every time they try to sneak up, push them aside and move forward. Trust me, it’s the only way you can get on with living.” She pats my hand. “And as far as being nice goes, I think God has bigger things to worry about than being popular
.”
I turn toward the window and think about her words. “What if I can’t? Let it go, I mean?”
I don’t see her smile, but I hear it. “You can. I know you can. Because no matter how hard life gets, there’s always goodness right around the corner. All you have to do is look for it.”
* * *
An hour later, I’m in the parking lot looking for my car. The sun is beating down on the pavement from its spot high in the sky. I shield my eyes to squint through the brightness. Thank God the clouds are gone—the ones in the sky and the ones marring my mood. Phyllis’s words have wound their way inside me, leaving me questioning, encouraged, and drained all at once. I keep replaying the year, everything that’s happened, everything yet to happen, everything I have to look forward to.
That last one is short, the list very small. I haven’t heard from Cory, things are bleak with my father, and my heart is battered by both. But I’m looking.
Phyllis said to look, and I am looking.
My phone rings just as I press the unlock button and climb inside the car. I slide the phone on and balance it with my shoulder.
“Hello?”
As I pull onto the road, I can’t help but think that maybe this is it. Maybe this is when my world might shift a bit to make room for the good.
Maybe.
“Sam, it’s me.” Hannah sounds out of breath and frantic. “I need you to come to work now. A pipe burst in the storage room, and everything is flooded. I need help moving furniture before our inventory is ruined.”
I close my eyes.
My day off. I get one day off, and it’s turned into the worst day in memory.
Staring out the windshield, I count the yellow lines on the pavement as they pass by in a blur. After telling Hannah I’m on my way, I absentmindedly turn off my phone.
And throw it behind my head.
It clatters against the back seat and falls to the floor. If I’m lucky, it shattered enough to never ring again.
So much for looking for goodness.
Whys assault me from all sides.
CHAPTER 29
Sam
“Have you heard from Cory?” Hannah asks.
I roll my eyes, because what’s the expression? If I had a dollar for every time she asked me. I know one thing, I sure as heck wouldn’t be here unloading boxes in a musty storeroom. There’s more sweat under my arms and behind my neck than if I’d just run the Boston marathon. This is a guess, of course. I don’t believe in things like running long distances. Or exercise in general.
“Still no.” I sing the words much like a tired mom would sing demands. Brush your teeth…go to bed…leave me the heck alone. Hannah doesn’t catch the tone.
“Do you think he’ll call? I don’t understand why he would leave the way he did. It doesn’t make sense.” She opens a box and peers inside, then shuts it with a grimace. Where our inventory is concerned, the news is getting worse and worse.
“He probably just lost interest.” It’s harsh and not something I want to keep telling myself, but that is the only answer I can think of. No matter how many times I’ve analyzed his departure in my mind, it all points back to the same glaring black mark on our relationship. He’s a famous musician who rubs shoulders with the wealthy and powerful on a daily basis. I’m a wanna-be indie author who rubs shoulders with the dust inside an old antique store. To quote The Hunger Games, the odds aren’t in our favor. Especially not mine. They never were.
“There’s no way he lost interest in you,” Hannah protests.
I shrug. “Then maybe the guilt got to him. Maybe he thought it was too morbid to consider dating the girl whose sister was hit with his tour bus.” I’m being sarcastic in the worst way possible and the words sound wrong. And bitter. But what else am I supposed to think? Even the tabloids have questioned the fate of our friendship. This morning’s headline made me angry enough to consider taking a hammer to my computer: Minor Flees Springfield, Leaving Older Sister Crushed by His Departure. Catchy. Original. And just the latest in a long string of tacky quips.
“You don’t really think that, do you?” Hannah asks.
Of course I don’t. But maybe I do. I don’t know anymore. I tell her as much.
“I don’t really care.” It’s only a small lie. “I have more important things to think about than Cory Minor’s ever-changing moods.”
That seems to put an end to the questions, and we work in silence for the next half hour. Hannah fills up a garbage bag with ruined products, and I head to the back room to retrieve another one. The front door opens and closes in the minutes it takes to find what I need.
“Sam, you have a package. It’s a pretty big box,” Hannah calls.
I turn on my heel and head back her direction just as the delivery man drives away. Hannah is studying the mailing label, but the address is one I don’t recognize. But then I remember last time, I’ve been here before. My heart breaks into a gallop, and I reach for the scissors. Hannah gasps when the tape falls away and I peel back the lid.
“Your books! There are so many of them!” Unable to contain her excitement, Hannah reaches for a copy and stares at the cover. “I thought you weren’t releasing it for a few more weeks.”
“I’m not. These are proofs. Not for sale.”
“Sam, they’re beautiful.”
Hannah is right, they are. I gaze over her shoulder at the vivid colors, the picture of two girls walking side by side, barefoot on a white sandy beach. One girl wears a pair of denim cutoffs and a tank top, long chestnut hair blowing in the breeze. The other girl is slightly shorter and carries a pair of sandals dangling from her fingers, her profile hinting at a soft smile lining her lips. It is the kind of realistic picture that makes you want to climb inside and join them on their walk beside those white-capped waves on that perfect, cloudless afternoon.
Much like today.
“Oh Sam, the picture looks just like—”
“I know.” I study it, working hard to breathe around the cotton in my throat. “I thought the same thing when I first saw the image a few months ago. I didn’t realize how timely the photo would come to be, though.” I can’t take my eyes off the cover. I’d always wanted to take Kassie to the beach, but we never went. There was never enough time, I always planned to do it later. Isn’t that the motto of most people’s lives? Later. As though later is a given rather than a moment in time that slips easily through the fingers.
“You should send Cory a copy.” Hannah returns the book to the box, and the moment sours. It’s a terrible idea, one I won’t even entertain. I ignore the comment and close the box. Balancing it on my hip, I turn to face Hannah.
“Do you need me to stick around? If not, I’m going to head home.” I’m exhausted. Emotionally. Physically. Completely stressed from a day that has taken me through more twists and turns than is fair for a woman my age. I’m twenty-five years old and feel three decades past that.
“No, you can go.” Hannah speaks around a paperclip pressed between her lips. “Go get some rest, and thanks for coming in on your day off.”
“No problem.” With a sigh, I back out the front door and into the early evening air. The sky is pink and orange, in the throes of a full-on sunset. I prop the box against my car door and take it in for a minute, then rummage through my purse for keys. Opening the door, I hear the phone ringing just before the sound stops. I haven’t given it a thought since I threw it in the back seat earlier. Of course now I have to find it.
Stretching myself across the floorboard, I check under the seats, feeling around with my hand in the near darkness. I’m not exactly the neatest freak around, so I’m more than a little worried about what I might find. My hand brushes over a pen. An Old Navy receipt. A McDonald’s wrapper from who knows when, complete with dried ketchup on the side. I swipe a finger across the carpet to remove the stickiness from my knuckle. Disgusting. But of course there’s no phone. I’m on the verge of giving up when a voicemail alert chimes from across the seat. Cra
wling over my box of books, I find the phone standing upright between the back door and passenger seat.
Breathing heavy, I stand up and check the screen. Four missed calls and two voicemails, all from a number I don’t recognize. In no mood to talk to anyone, I roll my eyes and drop the phone into my bag. Just as it slides inside the phone rings again out of spite, so I have to fish around for it. I hate technology.
“Hello?” I bite the word into the air in front of me.
A throat clears. A male voice. “Hello. Is this Sam?” There’s something in his tone. I recognize the voice, but I can’t place it.
“Yes. Can I help you?” I’m nervous but I don’t know why.
A long sigh, followed by silence. I picture the man pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to compose himself. It seems like a silly image until he breathes, “Thank God.”
That’s when it starts to come together. “How did you get my number?”
“From your landlord, sorry.” I consider getting angry but he keeps talking and there’s no time. “I had to talk to you. This is Kyle. I’m Cory’s brother?”
He tells me his name like it’s a riddle I can’t solve. I’ve solved it. I’ve solved it a hundred times in two seconds flat and now my heart is racing.
“What’s wrong?”
He sighs. “It’s Cory. He’s in trouble, and I need your help.”
CHAPTER 30
Cory
“Let’s run through it one more time.”
More groans come from behind me, and I shoot the band a look. They’ve complained all afternoon like a bunch of whining second graders mad about a pop quiz. When you’re the star of the show, you can make the rules. For now, play your instruments and shut up. I would say it out loud, except I wouldn’t mean any of it. I might have a bit of an ego, but I’m not a douchebag and I’ve never talked to any of them that way. They’re tired and I can’t blame them. We’ve attempted to record this same song a dozen times already, and every botched attempt has been my fault. A cracked note. A flubbed lyric. A forgotten word. My list of mess-ups has grown with each effort, and if I don’t get a grip soon we’ll have to start all over tomorrow.