Surviving Goodbye

by Morgan Parker

“Her own,” he spat back like I had just asked the most backward question ever.

  “Then she knew what she was writing.” I bit into my sandwich, once, twice, and a third chomp for added measure because I wanted to enjoy what little I would eat of my overpriced lunch. “I know she didn’t write rainbows and lollipops. But once again, this is about Elena more than it’s about me.”

  Reaching into my pocket, I produced twenty dollars and slapped it onto the table before rising out of my seat.

  “You’re not going to leave me here to have lunch by myself, are you?” Jamie asked as I started walking way.

  I turned back to glare at him at the table. “You fucked me today, Jamie.”

  He chuckled, but his face turned red. “It’s just a letter.”

  “No. It’s more than just a letter. It was the last thing my wife said to me. Good or bad, those were her last words. And you stole them from me by forgetting that envelope.”

  His mouth moved, but there were no words falling off his lips. And with time so precious now that I had limited financial resources for the next nine months, I gave him a disappointed scowl and left Toast.

  I walked the two or so blocks to the parking garage, lost in my anger and red-tinted thoughts, but I was interrupted just outside the Ethan Allen when I heard my name.

  “Hey, Elliot Fitch,” a woman said, and while nobody ever used my full name—except my mother back when she was still alive and wanted to give me hell for something— the sound of my full name from this woman’s tongue tasted sweet and beautiful to my ears.

  Stopping, I spun around and searched for a familiar face. I didn’t find it, but I did find the orange and blue delivery van parked in front of the investment company across Woodward.

  “How’s that wedge working out for you and your daughter?” the voice asked, and then I found the face that belonged to it. The woman in the orange sleeves was standing a few feet behind me, about to enter a café or deli or something.

  I couldn’t really think straight because her question had me blushing hard. “I, uh, it’s not…”

  She laughed, her lips curling back to reveal her white teeth and 100-watt smile. I wondered why such a young, beautiful woman like Veronica worked for a large-chain courier company and not somewhere else. “I’m Veronica Murphy,” she said, holding out one hand while the other waved across the embroidered name on her chest.

  I shook her hand. “Elliot—”

  “Fitch,” she finished for me with a wink. “I know. I deliver your sex toys, remember?” She grinned and shook her head. “I’m sorry. You just don’t strike me as that kind of guy. And to say it belongs to your daughter.” She gave me a tsk-tsk and shook her head.

  I held my hands up, a little defensive. “I swear, it’s not mine.”

  “Tell me about it over a pita or sandwich,” she said, indicating the deli with a sideways nod. “I’ve got half an hour to spare.” She leaned in closer. “And if you’re lucky, I’ll tell you about some of the ‘other’ deliveries I made yesterday and maybe you won’t feel so fucked-up.”

  I considered indulging in a second lunch, because Veronica owned that perfect smile and I wanted to hear her say my name again, but the budget thing gnawed at me, and I wasn’t really hungry. Jamie had not only robbed me of Karen’s last words, but my hunger too.

  “Looking for excuses,” Veronica said with an understanding nod as she removed her company-branded baseball cap, revealing light hair that stretched to the mid-point on her back. I noticed a streak of blue, the sexiest streak I had ever seen in a woman’s hair. “No worries. I’m a delivery girl and you’ve got a sex wedge waiting for you at home.”

  “I—”

  She smirked. “I’m kidding, Elliot. I’ll see you around.”

  Before I could offer any kind of explanation, let alone catch my breath, Veronica had turned and entered the deli. Hanging my head, I continued walking toward—where was I headed, anyway? Oh, right!—the parking garage and realized I could’ve easily chased after her, into the deli, and spent more time getting to know her.

  Instead, I swallowed the lost opportunity and drove home to learn more about where I might locate Nathan, Samuel, and Will.

  Except I didn’t know Nathan’s last name. Or Samuel or Will’s. Sitting at the kitchen island with the Chai Latté still warm, I wondered how I could find out more about Karen’s past lovers, the young men she had once told me about during our dating phase. I remembered lying with her in some bed, maybe even the back of my father’s truck, staring up at the stars, our fingers tracing each other’s naked bodies. They were names no man would ever forget, the names of those who had travelled through that sacred territory before I had.

  I didn’t recall feeling any jealousy back then—she was mine. But with one of them possibly being Lena’s biological father, I admitted to feeling more than a twinge of annoyance today. Not quite jealousy, but…okay, yes, jealousy.

  I sipped the latté and stared up at the clock. Not even two o’clock and all I had done was come home empty-handed and thought, what now, before realizing I didn’t know or remember Nathan’s last name. I closed my eyes, unable to recall finding any love letters or diaries among Karen’s stuff during those difficult days of moving all her shit from elsewhere in the house and piling it all in the guestroom upstairs. Definitely nothing to tip me off as to those three “others” who had tasted, touched, and enjoyed parts of my wife that no one else had. Nothing at all…except maybe her high school yearbooks.

  I sipped more latté and wondered how many kids named Nathan had gone to her high school. Forget about the Samuels and Wills; Nathan had been a fairly popular name back then. I decided I had no other choice. Best to start with the yearbook, even though it was largely possible that the Nathan who had fucked her—the one with the curved dick, the one who got a little rough before he blew his load, ugh—had been in a different grade, maybe even a different school altogether.

  I groaned, finished up with the latté, and headed upstairs, wondering if a better alternative existed—something automated, easily accessible, and more widespread than a single yearbook for a single school. And of course, that was when I caught up with the times.

  Facebook.

  Of course, it seems so bloody obvious now.

  Instead of entering the guestroom with all of Karen’s things strewn about, I went to my bedroom and dusted off the laptop. I commended myself for remembering my Windows password on the first try—Karen1974—and then waited for the operating system to update itself. That took some time, so I decided to take a peek into the guest bedroom after all. It wasn’t Tuesday, but with a limited budget and virtually no leads, I realized that anything I decided to touch now would elicit a different feeling, a new insight. So I entered the room (and pain) with a higher purpose on my mind.

  I started with some of the clothes that I had kept for sentimental value. The wedding dress (no pockets), the last suit she had purchased for work—something out of a magazine with a tag that said Chanel, which apparently cost more than other outfits at the store, but it made her proud and happy, even after the credit card bill arrived and after the diagnosis kicked us both in the gut. But there was nothing in the pockets of the suit. I found a lacey outfit that she had purchased for our seven year anniversary, also with no pockets.

  Giving up, I realized that searching through her pockets for clues into the identity of Lena’s father was more than just a little pointless—it was plain stupid. Why would she keep some kind of evidence of her unfaithfulness from more than a decade and a half ago in the pocket of a recent suit? And what evidence was I expecting, a DNA sample? Again, plain stupid.

  I returned to the bedroom to check on the update and found that I could finally access Facebook. I knew Karen’s passwords, so it wasn’t difficult to log into her account. Right away, I noticed the hundreds of messages, most expressing how deeply her friends, colleagues, and others missed her in their life. A couple of tears might’ve slipped down my face, but I didn’t
read any of the messages because they painted a different picture than the true, cheating whore I had married. I searched for other clues on her Facebook wall, for a face I didn’t recognize. A Nathan, Samuel, or Will, or someone else entirely.

  Of course, I didn’t see anyone or anything out of the ordinary.

  I navigated to her Facebook photos tab. I wanted faces, people in the crowd watching her with that special spark in their eye. The photos hurt because in almost all of them, I caught the forgotten happiness in my own face, the naïve belief that this woman belonged to me at least as much as I belonged to her. And despite the happiness I saw in Karen’s face, the appearance of unwavering loyalty and a titanium-core commitment, I came to realize by the tenth or eleventh picture that she had been nothing but an emotional con artist. I had believed her, believed in her when I hadn’t even known the first thing about her.

  Pushing the laptop away, I left the bedroom and headed downstairs. I needed a break. I needed—

  The front door snapped open as I reached the bottom stair. I couldn’t see the door from here, but I heard Lena’s bag hit the floor and her footsteps pound all the way to the bathroom. The door slammed shut and the same vomiting noises as yesterday ensued. I frowned, feeling my own stomach somersault all of a sudden.

  Maybe it’s just a bug, I encouraged myself. Good thing I’m unemployed. No need to call in sick anymore if I catch whatever this thing is.

  I continued to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I was hungry, wanted something to eat, but there was no food inside. So I waited for Lena to emerge, keeping the refrigerator door open just in case something grew into existence.

  “What are you doing?” Lena demanded.

  “We’re out of food,” I answered.

  “Ugh. You didn’t buy my cookies!” Her voice pitched higher, toward hysteria.

  “Let’s go to that Italian restaurant you and your mother always liked,” I said.

  Lena raised a questioning eyebrow, then crossed her arms. She looked sick—no, she looked disgusted with me. I reached out and grabbed her wrist, unfolding her arms from over her chest and tugging her back toward the front door. Sliding into my shoes, I waved her out ahead of me.

  “You only get to live once, right?” I said, trying to diffuse her mood with a wink and a smile.

  She shot me a sideways glance, reluctantly walking to the Chrysler, but she didn’t open the door until I was seated behind the wheel. Like she might get punked.

  “Uh, Papa Bear?” she asked, peeking inside. “Are you drunk? You didn’t buy brownies from the guys outside the school again, did you?”

  I tilted my head sideways. “Get in before I change my mind.”

  She thought about it for a moment before jumping into the passenger seat. We could’ve walked the dozen or so blocks back into Birmingham, it was early enough, but the car seemed like a better option. I parked directly on Townsend, a couple of blocks from my run-in with Veronica earlier. The thought alone took a bite out of my appetite, but when I saw the thoughtful grin on Lena’s face, I knew I made the right decision, splurging a little at her favorite Italian restaurant.

  “Remember the last time we ate here?” I asked, joining her for the jaunt across the street.

  “Yeah, Mom was alive.”

  I nodded my agreement, my mouth watering at the memory. “She ordered the veal scaloppini.”

  “And she drank that entire bottle of wine,” Lena chuckled as we stepped up to the front doors.

  I opened it for my daughter and guided her inside the quiet restaurant. Quiet because at this time of day, most people were still at work or getting ready to pack up and leave for the day.

  When the host greeted us, Lena asked for the table where she had eaten that “last meal” with Karen, and while the thought of my dead wife annoyed me, the memories we had shared, particularly those involving Lena, would always make me smile. I missed that happy, fake version of our family.

  “Dad,” Lena whispered with a slight hiss. “That’s where Mom sat. Sit there.” She pointed to the opposite seat.

  I eased into the next chair, pulling my seat closer, and Lena’s eyes came alive as she took in the restaurant, breathing in its quiet ambience. If I focused, I could see what she saw—the people, noises, smells. When I did that, I felt as if Karen was sitting across from me, sipping her second or third glass of red wine, her cheeks rosy and eyes glassy. She had known death was waiting around one of these next corners, but tonight—no, that night—she had loved life, loved that moment with us at this restaurant.

  That night, a little more than a year ago, I had known nothing about her infidelity all those years prior; it had been a simpler night, a gullible night that belonged to me and my two special girls—my wife and my daughter—and nothing else.

  “Dad,” Lena hissed. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  I snapped my eyes opened, embarrassed as well. The waiter was standing at our table, his face stoic as he studied me. It felt like the teacher had called on me in the middle of class and I hadn’t been paying attention to know what to answer.

  “Something to drink?” he repeated.

  Oh, the obvious question, the one all waiters and waitresses asked when they first approached. I apologized and ordered a sparkling water, watched him nod and head away.

  “What were you doing?” Lena whispered, her face turning red. “Shit, it looked like you were jerking off or something, but without the…” she made a vulgar hand motion that burst me into laughter. “It’s not funny.”

  I laughed with enough intensity that tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “Dad!”

  By the time the waiter brought our drinks, I was dabbing my eyes with the napkin, but I had reined in the laughter. He shifted his attention from Lena to me, then said he would return in a few minutes with the specials.

  Once I calmed down, I noticed Lena’s eyes had begun to narrow into quiet and thoughtful slits.

  “Damn, that was funny,” I said, then mimicked her hand motion and giggled again.

  “Dad!” she snapped.

  I raised my eyebrows in defeat. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.” I sighed, using that same tear-moist napkin to dab at the perspiration on my forehead. “I haven’t laughed like that since…” Since before your mother told me you’re not my daughter. I felt my entire demeanor turn stone-cold again. “It’s been a long time,” I finished.

  “Maybe that’s what you needed,” Lena said. She sipped her drink and fiddled with her straw as if a little nervous. “Since Mom died, you’ve…” She shrugged.

  I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I know. But I’m changing all of that. I’m here for you now.” That’s why I’m going to find your biological father before breaking your heart with the confession that you’re not mine.

  She drew her hand back, frowning. “No, you don’t know, Dad. You’ve been… terrible. I didn’t know whether you were depressed or angry, whether you’d commit suicide or go unibomber.”

  I chuckled, shifted in my seat, and considered Lena’s sad, worried eyes. “It’s all part of the five stages of grief,” I told her. “Remember? Anger, depression, and then acceptance, with a couple of others squeezed somewhere in there.” I tried to chuckle, keep things lighthearted, but Lena had other plans.

  “I was there, too,” she admitted. “She was my mother, remember?”

  Touché.

  “I’m now in the final stage,” she went on. “Acceptance.”

  I wanted to share with her that I remained locked in a stage that combined anger, betrayal, rage, vengeance and hatred, but I worried I would have to elaborate as to why. It was a little easier to agree with her, nod, and admit, “Me too.”

  We shared a smile and when the waiter returned, we both ordered the same meal that we had enjoyed the last time we were here. With Karen. Lena seemed to realize that as well as she retreated into herself, and a heavy fog of silence settled between us.

  “So…” I started. “What’s n
ew?”

  “Ugh,” she groaned, massaging her temples. “This is going to get weird, isn’t it?”

  Weird? Why did everything have to be weird between parents and teenagers?

  I felt her slipping through my fingers; I was losing her. What had started off as a nice night full of laughter and lightheartedness had now evolved into that awkward place that fathers often shared with the late-teen daughters that they hadn’t conceived. So I decided on the most direct question I could think up.

  “Do you ever remember your mother entertaining guys from work or the neighborhood while I wasn’t there?” I asked.

  If the “So…what’s new?” approach hadn’t been awkward enough, my question about Karen’s entertaining rituals certainly was.

  “Dad, what are you asking?”

  I didn’t let up, though. “Lena, I need you to think about this. As far back as you can remember. Any guy that might’ve hung around the house a lot when you were young, like really young?”

  “No,” she huffed, a little too quickly for my liking.

  “It’s okay if there was,” I encouraged her. “Water under the bridge, no crying over spilled milk, all that stuff. I just need you to reach back into your memory and think, Lena. Think about the men she had over—”

  “Dad, there was nobody!” she said, her face twisting in disbelief. “What are you saying? Thinking? Mom loved you more than anything, the PDAs were fucking gross at the best of times.”

  She shuddered at the memory, and I could only imagine what instance of our public displays affection flashed across her mind—the making out at the kitchen island, the slipping away during the middle of a Sunday afternoon to “do some laundry” in our bedroom with the door locked, or simpler things like the kisses goodbye each morning before we left for work. I had forgotten all about these public displays of affection that I had shared with Karen, but now that Lena mentioned them, they had definitely existed as part of that emotional con-artistry.

  “I’m not suggesting there was,” I said, shaking my head to get the memories out. Karen had cheated on me. She had fucked another man who had impregnated her. This beautiful young woman who claimed to be in the “acceptance” stage of grief wasn’t even my daughter, not biologically anyway. And I hated Karen for robbing me of the last piece of us, leaving me with a daughter who deserved to know who her true father was. I rubbed my hands down my face. “Anyone, Lena. There must’ve been someone.” Because there had been someone, and I didn’t even know where to start to find out who he was. “Just think…”