Surviving Goodbye

by Morgan Parker

  She shook her head, her lips tight and her chin quivering. “No. There wasn’t. There was only you.” She glared at me before shaking her head again, pushing out from behind the table, and hurrying to the bathroom.

  Lena was a smart young woman. She had dealt with the loss of her mother virtually all by herself. Admittedly, I hadn’t offered much support, too caught up with my own anger, depression, and other betrayal issues. Tom from work had been correct—I hated life. I hated any prospects of hope or happiness. My world had been a dark, furious place for the longest time.

  I needed that letter.

  I checked the time, wondering whether Jamie would pull through tonight or fabricate another poor excuse for not being able to provide it.

  The waiter arrived with our food, even though Lena still hadn’t returned from the bathroom. I smiled, a little embarrassed as he placed our plates before our seats.

  “Buon appetito,” he said, nodding politely and then walking away.

  Placing my napkin on the table, I walked toward the back, to the bathrooms. I knocked on the women’s door, heard nothing from the other side, then poked my head in.

  “Lena,” I said, my voice soft. “Are you okay?”

  “Go away.” She had been crying. I could hear the aftermath of dried tears in her voice.

  “Let’s talk about this,” I said, deciding that maybe it was best if I shared her mother’s confession. I let out a deep breath. “When your mother died, that day we went to the hospital—”

  “Let it go,” she said, her words exhausted.

  Before I could offer anything else, another woman approached the bathroom, stopped, and stared at me in the doorway. I nodded at her to go away; she complied without any fuss.

  “It’s time to move on, Papa Bear,” Lena said, the same exhausted breath reaching me from the depths of the women’s bathroom. “Time to move on and let her go.”

  I caught myself nodding. “You’re right, Lena.” I rubbed my face. “I’m going back to the table. Our food’s getting cold, and we didn’t come here to spend too much money on cold food.”

  I started to leave when I heard a whimper. It stopped me. I returned, pushed the bathroom door open, and peeked back inside. “Lena…?”

  And then she started sobbing. Choked, breath-taking sobs that echoed through the women’s room like thunder. It aroused goose bumps, a long trail spreading up my arms, starting at my wrists and stretching like ivy all the way up to my shoulders, across my neck and then back down my spine.

  I stepped into the bathroom, aware that people had been arrested for far less than being in a bathroom where they didn’t belong, all in an attempt to console my hysterical daughter.

  “Lena,” I said, tapping on the stall door. “Let me in. Let me hold you.”

  “Daddy,” she choked out, her sobs uncontrollable now.

  “Open up,” I threatened, “or I’m kicking it down.”

  Her sobs ended.

  The door opened.

  Makeup smeared her glistening face, and her big round eyes with a tint of red in them stared up at me, as if pleading. I understood her pain, her hope that I would move on, let go of Karen and whatever heartache she instilled in me prior to her death. Or ever.

  Reaching into the stall, I hooked my hands under Lena’s arms and reeled her against my chest, holding her and breathing her in. The memories of her infancy smashed into my mind. I knew more than ever that, despite whatever any DNA test would tell us, she was my daughter. I had changed her dirty diapers, I had rocked her to sleep, I had rubbed her back and helped her overcome her first heartbreak. My daughter. Mine.

  As if sensing my ease, she pulled back, sniffling as she wiped a sleeve across her messy cheeks. Her lips tightened for a breath as she glared at me, and then she shook her head in a display of sadness that hurt more than finding her expression of absolute loss at her mother’s funeral.

  “What is it, princess?” I asked, my voice as soft as snowflakes, even to my own ears. “Talk to me.”

  A tired, frightened sigh escaped her lips. “I’m sorry.”

  I started to ask ‘what for’ when she took a half step back to shut me up. It worked.

  “I’m pregnant,” she confessed, averting her attention. “I’m pregnant and I’m not even eighteen.” She covered her face, the chipped polish on her nails standing out more than the trembling in her hands, and started crying again.

  Without the benefit of a prepared script—fuck, I hadn’t seen that coming—all I could do was reel her back in and hold her. I held her because I loved her, she was all—no, she was everything I had left.

  She was my daughter.

  My daughter.

  Forever.

  Chapter 5

  Haunt. Taunt. Gaunt. All of them with “Aunt” in them, but each more sinister with that extra consonant added. I searched for the right word to describe my relationship with Karen’s family, steering my Chrysler onto Shore Drive four hours later than planned. Killing the radio, I slowed the vehicle and crept the remaining half-block in the dark, pulling up to Jamie’s estate and parking at the edge of the driveway. I stayed in the driver’s seat for a bit, studying the glow from the lights that shone down on the home’s decorative, stone edges.

  Jamie’s wife, or Lena’s Aunt Jane, had taunted me all of those years. In so many ways, I had been the undeserving under-achieving deadbeat finance guy who had married Jamie’s sister, the same loyal and loving husband whose body and spirit had grown gaunt in those final months of her life. There, taunt and gaunt. That left haunt, and as I stared across the brick driveway to the front door, the lights pouring down through the dark and lending the house something of a haunted character, I admitted to myself that haunt was what best described Jamie’s family. They haunted me, like ghosts that kept reminding me of Karen’s cruel confession.

  Snapping open my driver’s side door, I headed to the front porch and hit the doorbell. I didn’t care that Jane and Jamie were likely massaging each other’s feet and whispering creepy lullabies about love and togetherness to one another. I didn’t care if they were licking ice cream out of each other’s haunting navels. I hit the doorbell again.

  After a brief wait, I began pounding on the door, my balled fists sending echoes through that house. Yes, haunt worked well for these fucktarts.

  “I want my letter!” I shouted.

  The lights came on inside the house, one room at a time, and then I heard someone’s approaching footsteps on the other side of that door. At last, the bolts started clicking—all three of them because this was a nice suburb of Detroit, on this pretty and trendy lake. And then that big slab of wood opened up for me.

  In a purple, silk bathrobe straight out of Rocky-The Scrawny Detroit Version, Jamie spread his arms in a gesture that said: what the fuck is going on, Elliot?

  I pointed straight at his chest. “I want that fucking letter, Jamie.” I stepped into the house, not giving a shit if he wanted me here or not. And then I repeated a little louder, so Jane could hear me, “I want my letter!”

  Jamie hushed me, whispering, “Christ, Elliot, calm down. Jesus. Calm the fuck down. Shit.”

  I leaned closer, sniffing the air, but the booze from last night was gone. He’d gone sober today, which was probably why he hadn’t produced the letter at lunch. “You promised me that letter. I need it. I want it.”

  “Fine,” he said, considering me as his eyes jumped from one of my eyes to the next. He was looking for madness, for some kind of lunacy that could give him a button to push, a reason to call the cops rather than deal with me himself. “Fine. I’ll get it. Just calm down.”

  I pointed out the door. “I have a daughter at home, Jamie. She doesn’t fucking know who…” I stepped back, took a deep breath. Does he know? Did he know the entire time? Another deep breath. “I have some unanswered questions, Jamie.” I forced a fake chuckle. “I’m sorry for intruding on you. But that letter…that letter can answer…it might answer some of those questions.” I sh
ook my head.

  “Okay,” Jamie said, keeping his voice low and nodding. “Okay, I understand. Let me get it. Stay calm.” He made a condescending hand motion to make sure I didn’t erupt again. “Stay here.”

  After maintaining eye contact for another half second, as if for good measure, he turned away and scurried up the stairs. I turned my back to the rest of the house and stared outside through the narrow window next to that big wooden door. The lights were still on in the Chrysler, meaning I had left my keys inside the car. After patting my empty pockets, I wondered just how isolated from the big bad city Shore Drive really was. Would someone try to steal my car here?

  “Uncle Elliot?”

  I veered away from the door and found Jennifer on the stairs. Yes, a family of J’s—Jane, Jamie, Jennifer (the one on the stairs) and Jasmine (probably asleep with her teddy bears, which wasn’t creepy at all, considering Jasmine was two years older than Lena).

  Grinning at the sight of my niece in her pajamas, I asked her, “How’s school, sweetie?” I knew exactly how school would change for Lena—possibly a delayed graduation, sacrificing the parties and pub-crawls that Jennifer likely wouldn’t be allowed to enjoy anyway.

  She started to respond but Jane appeared next, her face crunched up with concern or disgust, maybe both. “Back to bed, Jenny. You have swim practice tomorrow.”

  Jennifer gave a timid wave. “Goodnight, Uncle Elliot.”

  I nodded goodnight, then faced the true demon of the household. She tightened her bathrobe across her chest like I had any interest in seeing what might be underneath. “This is unacceptable, Elliot,” she scolded me. “Coming to our house like this at ten o’clock on a school night.”

  I allowed a shallow grin. “I’m really sorry for the interruption. This late at night…”

  “Maybe you should get yourself some help,” she started.

  But before she could share more about what she felt I needed, Jamie appeared. He chuckled, waving the envelope at me as he came down the stairs, tapping Jane on the ass as he passed her.

  “Here you go, Elliot,” he said, handing me the envelope.

  I didn’t notice whether Jane had disappeared or remained on those stairs. I didn’t even take note of whether Jamie remained. All that mattered was the envelope in my hands. The haunting calmed, the storm had passed, and the only thing I sensed was the connection between my fingertips and Karen’s unknown words.

  A smile tugged at the corners of my lips. I looked up. “The envelope’s been opened,” I said, my eyes digging into Jamie’s.

  He glanced away, a little uncomfortable. I watched him struggle for a beat before I reached back and turned the doorknob. “Once you find out who this guy is, I’d like to know.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry about all of this, Elliot. You were always real good to my sister.”

  “Goodnight, Jamie.” I waved the envelope over my shoulder as I walked toward the Chrysler. “And thank you.”

  The drive home took an eternity. Despite the lack of traffic at this time of night, the open envelope on the passenger seat seemed to speak incessantly. I imagined a million different things Karen might’ve divulged on that page, and hoped—no, I prayed—that she’d offer some kind of hint as to how I might track down Elena’s biological father.

  At the next traffic light, I grabbed the envelope and deliberated reading the note, right there. But I didn’t know whether it was a single-page letter or a multiple-page essay. Either way, once I got started, I knew I wouldn’t be able to put it down. So I placed it on the seat, unopened, and brought my hands back to the steering wheel, watching my knuckles turn pale under the streetlights but knowing this was the best place for them.

  And really, I didn’t know whether I wanted to know what those finals words were. As I drove past a vacant warehouse type of building on the left with the For Lease sign on the front lawn, I realized that once I read Karen’s final words, I would have none of her left. I had worked hard to move on, to forget about her, just like the owners of that failed warehouse had worked hard…I didn’t think I could step back inside that room with her. Especially if there was no attempt at reconciliation in her words.

  Once I arrived at home, I grabbed the envelope and stepped inside. I heard the television noise from downstairs and headed toward the stairwell. Lena had left the door to the basement stairs open, which meant she had probably fallen asleep. I considered going down to check on her, tuck her in and lower the volume on the television, but I changed my mind before taking that first step and headed to the living room instead. Settling into the leather reading chair, I flicked the switch for the floor lamp.

  The envelope in my lap burned into my thighs.

  After a deep breath, I reached inside while my heart pounded with a steady force. Fuck. I started to remove the page from the envelope, but stopped before getting too far. While I wanted to know her words, I also didn’t want their goodbye. I looked down at the paper jutting out from the envelope, hoping for a hint. At the very most, I saw that she had indeed been the one who wrote the letter. It was handwritten, not typed. Even with Death breathing down her neck, Karen had known I would question the legitimacy of a typed or printed letter.

  I rose from the chair, put out the light, and headed upstairs to bed, placing the letter on the bedside table while I stripped out of my clothes, brushed my teeth, then drew the sheets up over my body. I tried to lose myself in the details—fluffing the pillows, getting rid of the alarm so I could sleep in—but even those finer details couldn’t help me ignore the envelope a few inches from my face. I swore I could smell her on the paper, that sweet perfume that belonged to Karen, her wide-eye smile and laugh.

  Rubbing my eyes, I snatched the paper out of the envelope—a single page, well-written, but you could see the unsteady edge to some of her letters, an edge that whispered pain and finality—and allowed the back of my head to sink into the now fluffed pillow. I noticed how warm my bed felt all of a sudden, the warmth pooling underneath me.

  Deep breath.

  And then I read:

  Hey Elliot,

  By the time you read this, I’ll be dead. I hope I had the chance to tell you this myself, but in the event that I couldn’t, I want you to know that from the moment we met, I loved you. So, so, so much. And these past few months, dealing with the reality of my mortality has allowed me to reach into the depths of that love and see that what is sweet on one hand, is devastatingly sad on the other.

  You loved me with a depth and truth most people never know. And because of that (here’s the devastating part), I know you won’t let go, even once I’m gone. It’s sweet to know that I owned your heart, body, and soul for all of these years, but it crushes me that you’ll bury these things with my body and not only deprive yourself of life, of enjoying and sharing it with someone else (another woman, or even a man if you choose to swing that way, since I know that despite your joking nature about it, you’ve always said Christian Bale was chiseled out of a slab of perfection, hahaha) but from love altogether…and that is the tragedy here. You deserve to live, breathe, taste, and love again. Elliot, that is what love is, and that is what I want for you once I’m gone.

  I. Love. You.

  And with true love comes letting go.

  Now the hard part. Elena, your princess, the little girl that could only fall asleep on your chest until the age of seven, the little princess whose ears you had pierced behind my back, and you came home with pride in your eyes because she didn’t cry at the pain, the little monster that crept into our bed each time she had a nightmare and always snuggled into you…well, she’s not yours. I’m sorry. I wanted to give you the gift of a child, a perfect child, and when nature refused to accommodate us so early in our marriage, I resorted to that one option no wife ever wants to…

  Please forgive me, Elliot. You have and always will be my air, the same air that I savored every moment of my life, and the same air that will carry my soul every moment in death.

  Elliot, you a
re my everything.

  I’m sorry.

  I read it again. And again, until my eyes burned and I couldn’t keep them open any longer. Somewhere in the hurt and pain that would haunt me until I found Lena’s true father, I collapsed into the impossibility of sleep.

  The following morning felt like a hangover, with those three words from yesterday’s drive bouncing around my head like a ping-pong ball. Haunt, taunt, gaunt. As I descended the stairs, one footfall at a time, I felt all three words, and they hurt like hell, like the sun cutting into the darkness of a migraine headache.

  “Hi, Papa Bear,” I heard as I walked toward the vacant kitchen.

  Frowning, I glanced around, not seeing Lena until I heard her in the bathroom, door open.

  My jaw muscles flexed at the onslaught of annoyance. As if reading my mind right through the walls, she shut the door, and the click of the latch made me smile. I grabbed a K-cup and dropped it into the Keurig, hit the brew button, and watched the chai tea drip into my coffee mug. A second later, I heard the running water from the flushing toilet. With my back to the hallway leading to the bathroom, I sensed Lena’s presence as she came into the kitchen.

  “I read the letter,” she said, her voice low.

  Her words froze me. I waited for her to say something else, something to cut through the ringing in my ears, but there was nothing. And when I turned around, she had left.

  “Lena?” I asked, my own voice coarse as I headed to the living room to look for her—not there—the front foyer in case she was leaving a little early for school—nothing—and then finally to the basement door. The lights were on at the bottom, so I angled my head into the stairwell and listened for movement, her voice (she sometimes sang to herself while getting ready for school), anything.