by Kim Bailey
The interaction feels stilted and awkward, but if it looks as bad as it feels, no one lets on. His parents and siblings all choose to studiously ignore us. The way Eric refuses to look me in the eye after the chaste kiss makes me feel like he’s ignoring me too. I feel like an outsider - like the guest you feel obligated to invite, secretly hoping won’t show up.
Trying hard not to project my insecurities onto Eric’s actions, I try to stay rational. He’s nervous and fearful, and my mind is still caught up in our unfinished conversation and the way I brushed him off yesterday.
We’ve barely spoken to each other since our talk. Granted, it was more like a confessional. Eric talked, I accused, and then questioned. It certainly wasn’t a two-way-street kind of conversation. I realized afterward that I’d given him next to nothing in return for his fervent words.
After the talk we’d eventually both dozed off, Eric clutching me tightly like he was afraid I’d leave him in his sleep. Laying with my back to him, I’d kept my worries hidden.
We were both uneasy, but still managed to sleep through the majority of the day. When I woke, Eric was fully dressed, looking rested and incredibly gorgeous. After setting a large mug of coffee on the bedside table, he offered a chaste kiss, telling me he was going to the hospital to spend time with his family. There was no invitation for me to join him.
I tried not to read too much into that either. I’ve been trying to remain neutral about it all - reminding myself that he’s the one who put himself out there, the one who took a risk. I’m the one who withdrew, the one who shut him out.
When he called me from the hospital last night, telling me his plan to stay with his parents, I felt a jolt of pain so sharp my worry of heart-attack temporarily reemerged.
Of course he should spend the time with his family now, it only makes sense. I would do the same thing in his shoes. I tried reminding myself that I’d brought it on - sort of a self-imposed time out - but it still hurt to be excluded.
Today’s a different story. He wanted me here today. He asked me to meet them all first thing this morning. He wanted me to see both he and Caleb off before the transplant procedure. I promised him I’d come. I promised I’d wish them both well. Beyond that - no promises were made.
I didn’t promise to stay. I wouldn’t have made that promise, even if he’d asked.
But he didn’t ask. And I’ve already decided.
It’s not long after I’ve hugged Caleb hard - telling him how much he inspires me, how thankful I am, how I know he’s going to kick cancer in the ass - that I take my leave.
As the Andersons get situated back in the waiting room, I announce my departure. They’re shocked. All of them. Sylvie Anderson breaks down in tears when I give her the traditional Quebecois kiss - one on each cheek. I even see tears in her daughter’s eyes. Celeste, as domineering and intimidating as she may initially seem, has proven to be a softy at heart. The men, Marc and Glenn, both hesitate briefly before offering me their sturdy hugs to say goodbye.
Before turning to walk away, I observe them, taking note of how they’ve gathered together. They’re all physically connected in some way. Marc, holding his mother’s hand. Celeste, holding tight to her mom’s other arm. Glen, towering behind them all, with his arms spread wide, collecting them in a sort of group hug. Love and devotion encompasses their little, incomplete group, as they wait for the other two that make them whole.
This is the picture of a true family.
For a brief moment I’m jealous. They have the very thing I’ve promised to give my son. The thing I’m so clueless about providing.
It dawns on me - I’ve been looking at things all wrong.
Family is so much more than just a group of relatives. It’s a feeling of acceptance. A sense of belonging. An alliance against all odds, despite individual differences. All of it created by the most important people in your life, regardless of their relation.
I made the promise for Hunter, but I think family is something I want for myself as well. I think it’s something that I need.
A new optimistic hope fills me.
I can do this. I can have a family if I put myself out there and simply try. I’ll just have to keep my fingers crossed that my hope doesn’t lift me up too high.
* * *
It’s not just the Andersons that I leave when I point my car South and head back to Toronto - Hunter stays behind as well. Dylan promises to take good care of him, with his mom and step-dad prepared to step in and lend a hand, if needed.
They’re getting to know each other. Learning the boundaries of their new relationship. Figuring out how to be father and son. It’s long overdue. Undoubtedly, I had a hand in delaying their bond. I criticized Dylan for not being there but it was me standing in his and his parents’ way of truly getting to know Hunter. I put up so many walls, put hundreds of kilometers between us, just to create a barrier to my child.
Our child.
It was a protective measure but it was also a mistake. I see that now. I see that Dylan and his mom – no matter how horrible they might have been - have been trying to make it right. They also made mistakes. But the past is the past, and I have to move beyond it. Remarkably, despite our differences, they’re reaching out, making an effort. Trying to create something new.
I trust this. I have to. It’s the right thing to do.
The whole situation makes me feel like the promise to my dad has a possibility of being fulfilled. As long as I don’t stand in the way, Hunter can have some semblance of a family. It may not be large. It may not be traditional. But at least he’s got a father who’s willing to try, and grandparents who only minimally hate me. Even if nothing else works out, at least Hunter will have them. And me. He’ll have us. That’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.
So I leave him in the care of the practical strangers he will now call family.
The drive back to Toronto is absolute shit. I can’t speed down Highway 11 the way I really want to - there are cops everywhere. Why did they make this road so wide and easy to drive, if they didn’t want people to go fast on it? The speed limit feels like a crawl. I really just want to get there. But my impatience needs to be tamped down, or I run the risk of being held up further with a traffic ticket.
As anxious as I am to get to my destination, my bladder can’t handle four hours without relief. I have to stop at the service station outside of Barrie for a stretch, a pee, and a coffee to keep me going.
But with just a bit more than an hour left until I reach my apartment in Toronto, I’m suddenly feeling a deep sense of apprehension. I start questioning my motives and whether or not I’m doing the right thing.
Why do I have to be so indecisive at times like this? Why do I let stress freak me out so damn much?
Sitting on a hard, wooden picnic table at a highway rest stop isn’t relaxing or private. But I loiter here anyway. Taking up an entire bench, big enough to seat a large group, I carelessly sprawl out, soaking in the warmth of the early summer sun. Or is it still late spring? It feels too hot for it to be only May. It feels like early July weather.
What am I doing? Contemplating the seasons? God, how stupid. It’s just an avoidance of the real trouble at hand, and I know it.
Trouble. It’s too simple a word to describe my current dilemma.
Trouble is the word I’d use to describe things the first time I ran away to Toronto. Pregnant and alone is trouble. Being cash strapped and vagrant is trouble. Ten years ago I didn’t feel like I had a choice. But this? Now? I feel like the fate of everyone involved is riding on my shoulders. The choice buffet is mine for the taking.
Picking the right path isn’t just trouble, it’s torture.
I’m questioning if I’m making the right choice. It hasn’t even been three hours since I left, and already my conscience is eating away at me.
That’s the problem with running away. No matter where you go, no matter how long you’ve been gone, you can’t lose trouble. It will always find you.
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With the hot breeze whipping my hair around my face, I struggle to keep my shit together. I don’t want to have a panic attack alone on a picnic table, in front of a bunch of truckers and early vacationers, as the highway traffic buzzes by in the background.
I try to pretend that the sun’s rays are the warmth I would find in Eric’s arms. His comfort has been the only thing to get me through this past week. But the sun is a paltry replica, and thinking about Eric does nothing but help the ever-present pain reclaim its spot, deep in my chest. Will that ache ever go away?
No. I have to banish this negativity once and for all.
I can do this.
No matter how many times I have to remind myself, I will remember that I’m a survivor. A trouper. A battle-scarred warrior. I won’t let one single week convert me into a dependent mess. I managed on my own before – I can do it again. Relying on Eric, or anyone else, to get me through the tough times is a nice thought but, ultimately, it’s up to me. I have to get myself through. I can be my own hero once again.
Yes, I can do this.
Now I just need to decide what the hell it is that I’m doing. I’m feeling bolder, like a decision is possible, but I’m still torn about the possibility of making a wrong call. I need to move forward. But to do that, I need to clear my past - once and for all.
I need to read the letter written by my father.
It’s still sealed, the way my dad left it. I’d tucked it away in my purse, thinking I’d read it when I was ready to cry again. Thinking, maybe I’d bring it out when I felt strong enough to face my old demons. Planning to save it for a day when I’d forgiven my own mistakes – and moved past the hurt of my dad’s mistakes as well.
But, to fully heal, it feels like I need to re-open the wound. Maybe I’ll get some strange sort of comfort from it, I don’t know. It just feels like I can’t move forward until I face it. Somehow, ripping the band-aide off seems like the only way to do it.
It’s now or never.
Fishing the slightly crinkled envelope out of my purse, my hesitation is only momentary as I look for a way to open it, without damaging the contents. Brilliantly, I fish my car key out of my bag and use it like an impromptu letter opener.
His note is a single page. Not pages upon pages, like I would have written to him. Just one single page of hand-written words that are either going to piss me off, break me fully, or free me for good.
James,
Time is a fickle bitch. We live our lives always thinking we’re going to have more of it. Until something tragic happens. And then we realize time is not infinite.
My tragedy was not losing your mother and sister. My tragedy was losing you. That was the thing I could have prevented, or at the very least, tried to reverse. But like I said; time is a fickle bitch, and I always thought I would find the strength and courage to fix things with you. But I just ran out of time. And I never had strength or courage.
Don't ever run out of time, James. Don't end up a regretful old asshole like me. And don't waste a single moment held back by fear. I let fear rule me.
I'm dying with the knowledge that I wasted all these years because of it.
You should always be bold. Take life by the fucking horns, or whatever bullshit saying you want to apply. Just go out and do it, no matter how scary it may seem. Trust me when I say; the most intimidating parts of life are the most worthwhile. You should always be fearless.
I think maybe you already are.
You need to know that your mom would have been proud of you. I was wrong when I said you’d have been a disappointment. I’m the only one who let her down. She would have been so happy to see the smart and brave woman you turned into. She would have been the proudest grandmother. And she would have bragged to all her friends about what a wonderful mother you've become.
I would like to say that I’m proud of you too, but I know you made yourself despite me, not because of me. I'm amazed by you, all the same.
I love you, Jamie girl. I'm just sorry it took me this long to say it.
Be brave, fuck fear.
Love always,
Dad
Have you ever heard or seen something you immediately trust? Something you know is right? Maybe it’s the words, or perhaps just the intent - somehow the message rings true. It’s like you can see and feel the veracity without having to check for sources or facts. You just know.
When I read my dad’s letter, I know. There’s truth in every line.
Not just my father’s version of the truth but an inherent truth of the highest order. A truth that I recognize as being surprisingly and ridiculously insightful, coming from my father. Also, eerily well timed. It’s so perfect, I almost weep. Not because it’s sad. Not because of any feeling of regret or loss. My urge to cry is from the goddamn joy I feel bursting out of my chest. Joy that smashes all my negative thoughts, dissolving the persistent pain in my heart.
All my apprehension. All my worry. Gone.
I can do this.
Be brave.
Fuck fear.
Standing in the middle of my downtown Toronto apartment, I happily sing to myself as I take a quick water break and catch my breath. Anyone watching as I’ve traipsed around, singing and dancing, would likely have no idea my father passed away two days ago. They probably wouldn’t imagine that I’d driven away from my son and my responsibilities, either. I’m sure no one would guess that I walked away from a hospital, leaving an amazing man and his wonderful family to wait on a miracle without me.
No one watching would be able to tell. And right now, neither can I. Absolutely nothing's holding me down.
The darkness has evaporated, the part of my mind that’s been filled with annoying, self-doubting bitchiness, is now overflowing with excited confidence and lofty ambition. Feeling this kind of light optimism makes me want to sing and dance.
I love to dance. And I haven’t had nearly enough of it in my lifetime. So, screw the preconceived notions of what I’m supposed to do - I could care less about being appropriate. I’m going to shimmy, shake, and grind my hips, like there’s no tomorrow. I’m motivated to get shit done. Which is good because there’s still a lot to tick off my list.
Stopping to guzzle from my water bottle, I’m momentarily silent. Even without my unrestrained singing, my apartment still buzzes with sound. It filters in from the open window, the street below, and the neighbors surrounding me. I may be completely alone but it feels like I’m living with hundreds of other people. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about this city - even when all alone, you’re never all alone.
Being part of the masses gives a weird sense of inclusion. This city accepts you, no matter who or what you are. But at the same time, it protects your anonymity. I live in a sea of people and none of them truly know me. My neighbors don’t have names, they’re just numbers on a door. Even the couple who live above me, loudly arguing and throwing hostile insults at each other daily, are accepted as the couple from 810. No one’s bothered by them. No one complains. They’re just another part of what makes this city a unique and diverse whole.
It’s such weird contrast to the place I just left.
In North Bay, the neighbors not only know your name, they call the police when they hear or see something out of line - like a daughter trying to break into her father’s home. It’s not that differences aren’t allowed or celebrated, it’s just that people care enough to check on you when you do something out of the ordinary.
I was only in North Bay for ten days and I’ve only been back here for one but the differences are pronounced. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a little out of place. Strange how I so quickly adapted to the idea of being surrounded by trees, rocks and water instead of concrete, glass and steel.
One thing’s for sure, it’s a hell of a lot hotter here. Maybe it’s the highly condensed population of this city. With everyone crammed into one space, I wonder if the extra body heat somehow raises the temperature. More likely, it�
��s just my no-holds barred, crazy dancing that’s raised my own temperature. Whatever, I just know that I’ve had to strip down to my tank top and a pair of sleep shorts in order to not overheat, since I refuse to turn on the air conditioner before the first week in June. I’m stubborn like that. Although, the drips of sweat on the back of my neck have me second guessing that decision. Right now, I’m just hoping my bottled water supply doesn’t deplete before I can finish my work. Anonymous or not, I’m not about to venture out to a store in my underwear.
Lost in my thoughts about my task at hand, I’m startled when there’s a loud knock at my door. The lock on the front door of this building has been broken pretty much since the day I moved in, random knocks aren’t out of the question. But I’m not expecting anyone for at least another four hours. If they’re this early I’m going to be a little bit pissed off.
No, I’m going to just tell them that they’ll have to come back. I’m not ready.
Checking to make sure that my tank top isn’t too revealing, I answer the door, prepared to be diplomatic, charming if necessary. But when I swing it open the person on the other side isn’t at all who’d I’d expected, and not one bit what I’m prepared for.
Eric stands, with his arm braced against the wall. He’s slightly paler than usual, and looks a little sweaty himself. His hard and heated stare can’t hide the fact that he’s tired. So tired, I worry he might collapse from exhaustion.
“Eric! What are you doing here?” I ask in disbelief. Even though he’s right in front of me, I still can’t quite get over the fact that he’s here. “Never mind. Come in, you look like you need to sit down.”
His eyes flash with something close to anger, but he doesn’t say a word. He simply stalks past me into my apartment as I close the door behind him.
When I turn around, he’s right there. Faced with his stormy expression, I feel like I’ve done something terrible. My actions probably warrant his wrath, but it’s jarring to witness, regardless.
“Hey, so why don’t you come all the way in. Let me get you some water and then you can tell me why you look like you’re thinking up ways to murder me,” I throw out lightly.