Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

  As I hear Faith shouting into her comforter again, I wonder how many have failed to try on her shoes through the near dozen foster homes she’s been in.

  I hear you, Faith.

  I am you.

  I think all this before my pre-planned path to Baked & Caffeinated—the coffee and bakeshop at which I’ve been employed a mere six days—with August Moon streaming through my earbuds. Today is my first scheduled shift, and if you could feel my heart beat, you’d assume it was about to burst (it very well may). Though Ivy Springs maintains a compact three-mile radius, it’s my first time walking alone. For most, it’s a relaxing walk. But, as my father would often tell me, I am not most people. The mere thought of the journey had me curled in a ball on my twin mattress for at least an hour. Beneath the covers, I gave my best, most inspiring pep talk about how, despite those voices telling me I can’t do it, I can and I will and I’ll be glorious.

  Mom would always lift the blankets off the bed and sit next to me. “This, too, shall pass, my darling.”

  “And if it doesn’t?” I’d say with quivering lips.

  “It will. You are my corpse flower,” Mom told me. “The largest, rarest flower in the whole world. Blooming takes many arduous seasons, but it is worth the wait.”

  The longer she’s gone, the more I understand the layers she peeled off of me. With each one, my shine radiated a little more. Mom and Dad never saw my fears in black and white; people aren’t made so simply. We’re straddling a blur of gray.

  The downtown café is fairly new to this small blip of town. Serving variations of roasted coffee beans, espresso concoctions, and freshly baked confectionaries you can smell for miles, Baked & Caffeinated is one of the few places people my age come. With school out for summer, the position of highly regarded cashier is a way to blend in slightly more than I stand out. When the manager, Liam “Big Foot” Thompson—college student and “organic medicinal specialist” (whatever that means)—barely glanced at the application I spent two long hours filling in, I’m not sure what prompted him to hire me on the spot, but there it was: an opportunity to slide into a new pair of shoes.

  “Hard work reveals who people really are,” Dad would tell me. “When the going gets tough, some hide and others rise.”

  I will rise, Dad.

  One glance at the clock and I see no matter how I rush, the seconds tick by faster than I can keep up. I’m dressed in freshly ironed slacks, an ebony polo buttoned two-thirds of the way up (I was told this is appropriate), snazzy checkered suspenders, and the taupe fedora—feather and all—I cannot live without.

  “I’m off,” I tell Stella.

  She sits at the kitchen table, a list of recipe ingredients in hand, peering over the bridge of her reading glasses. She pulls a ceramic coffee mug to her lips and sips her coffee with a slurp. It dribbles to the paper. “Ah, damn it!”

  I step back, my hands gripping my suspenders as if they’re bungee cords.

  “Sorry,” she says, standing. She squares her shoulders with mine and drives her stare through me. “I hope you have the best time.” She pulls me near—an attempt at a hug that’s strangled by her awkward, coffee-saturated positioning. “If you feel overwhelmed, take a deep breath, excuse yourself to the bathroom if necessary, and you can always, always call me. K?”

  I hesitate, fear squirming between us.

  She tips my chin up so my eyes fall straight into hers. Her eyes swallow me up in a bubble of safety, little lines spiderwebbing out from the corner creases that cling to my distress, fishing fear out of me, casting it somewhere else entirely. It’s a trick Mom used to do, too.

  “You’re going to do great,” she reassures. “Promise.”

  I nod, finally, and she releases me from her grip to deal with the coffee puddle. I watch her for a whole minute before she urges me out the door. I’m supposed to work on my time management. I lose time when my brain is knotted with worry. But how do you untangle something you can’t even see?

  Along my walk down the potholed sidewalk, my eyes carefully plot each step to not catch on a divot. The last time, I nearly broke my arm, the exact spot ridiculing me as I pounce over it with the light-footed pirouette of a cat. I’m so proud of this move, distracted by my obvious victory against that mean concrete hole, I run straight into someone.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I stammer.

  “Dude,” a boy says with a heavy grunt. “Watch it.”

  I’m hesitant to make eye contact, but I do—Stella and Thomas have encouraged it—alarm bells blaring. The boy’s eyes are narrow, brows furrowed. I replay last night’s news headline in my mind—TEEN SHOOTS FORMER CLASSMATE AT GRADUATION PARTY—and fold as far down as my small frame will allow.

  He rips his earbuds out, his face softening only slightly. I try to walk by, he blocks me. I move to the other side. He stands in my way here, too.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  “You should watch where you’re going. It’s a small town with shitty sidewalks.”

  “Yes,” I stutter. “I will, thank you for the advice.”

  He presses his earbuds back into place and allows me to pass with the wave of his hand.

  “Have a wonderful day,” I tell him. My voice shakes, my feet moving faster than before.

  Mom would say, “Chin up, eyes forward, not back,” so I repeat this to myself, pretending she’s here to ricochet these interactions into outer space. I’m still learning how to be my own hero. My deepest darkest fear is, maybe I never will.

  I stand outside the bakeshop and stare up at the illustrated coffee mug on the sign. My reluctance holds me in the center of this busier than normal sidewalk. I remind myself I’m okay. The crowds won’t harm me. I can breathe through it and the day will go on. It can and it will, because it has to. As the sweat accumulates beneath my hat, I think of Mom telling me “now or never,” and open the door. The bell attached to the door rings as I breeze through.

  “You’re so late,” Mr. Thompson says after I wind through the line of customers bunched near the counter. “I thought we said ten.”

  A quick glance at the time—ten seventeen—and my chin sinks into my chest. “Apologies. We did agree on that time.” Dad used to say, “The only good excuse is none at all,” so I swallow the ones rising into my throat and try to ignore the gnawing feeling in my gut that makes me want to lock myself inside the bathroom to escape all the noise and people and smells and sounds. My sensory dashboard is on overload. I imagine a little robot in a white coat frantically working to calm each circuit board before it fries. Poor fellow. His work is thankless and sometimes a complete and utter failure. I do my best to help by inhaling another deep breath, exhaling through my mouth as Mr. Thompson guides me to the space behind the counter where I’m to stand. I fumble in the small space, as another employee, a girl in a long flowy dress covered by an apron, welcomes me with a wide grin.

  “Hey, newb,” she says. “I’m Violet.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Dew.” I keep a generous distance to not make her uncomfortable, but she moves in close enough to notice how well I’ve brushed my teeth (well enough, I hope).

  “You have a really great aura. It’s blue-centric with electric swirls of pink. Very neon, man.”

  I respect her need for close proximity and we stand almost nose to nose. “Interesting. What does that mean?”

  Her eyes widen as if she’s swallowing every centimeter of mine. “You’re highly sensitive, intuitive, and have strong morals. Like, you’re honest to a fault and can’t seem to deviate from it, even if it’d serve you better to keep your mouth shut. I know, because I’m a total Purple. I can read your palms if you want.”

  I slip them into my pockets. “Perhaps later, after I’ve grown accustomed to the process and routines here.”

  She smiles and allows me the space to breathe again as Mr. Thompson waves me to a short stack of papers I’m to fill out. “When you’re finished with these, I’ll have Violet show you how to brew espresso shots for la
ttes.”

  I nod. “Sir—”

  He stops me with a snicker. “Please—my dad is sir because he’s a dinosaur. I’m Big Foot.”

  My eyes confusedly scan the perimeter of this man who is neither big nor seems to have larger than average feet. Perhaps that’s the irony. I decide I like it. “Mr. Foot,” I begin; he stops me again to remind me it’s Big Foot, “I don’t have a driver’s license yet, only a permit. My birthday is in a few weeks, though I’m not interested in driving a motor vehicle at this time. I also have some allergies that may restrict my duties outside of handling the register. I forgot to mention it when I applied.”

  He lays a hand on my shoulder. “I read the notes on the application. I have a little bro with some pretty gnarly allergies. We specialize in nut-free, dairy-free shit. It’s my duty to represent the underrepresented, you know?”

  I nod, relieved.

  “If you’re not comfortable with any part, I’ll make sure the others know to step in. Wear gloves. Wash your hands. Take your meds,” he pauses, looks me over, “you got meds, right?”

  I nod again.

  “I got you, bro. Let me know if you have a flare-up from anything, ’cause I’ve got EpiPens and all that jazz.”

  My posture relaxes a bit.

  “It’ll be all right. Come get me after V trains you on the espresso shots.”

  I nod again, folding my hands in front of me.

  Local boy freezes in the middle of summer—tonight at 10.

  “So, listen,” Violet says, drawing me closer. “My best friend, Birdie, went through major crappage this past year, and I’ve learned how to be a better friend because of it. Apparently she didn’t feel like she could trust me with her most important secrets, so I totally reevaluated my life choices and decided, with a cleanse, to start anew.”

  “Good for you.” I stop to wonder why she’s telling me, a perfect stranger, this.

  “Point is, I know we just met, but as this new, improved me, I’m good at reading people. And it looks like you could use a little encouragement.”

  She pulls a notebook from the cubby beneath the register, the words on the front flap, Book of Silver Linings, catching the gleam of the fluorescent lights. I watch her fingers flip and fumble to a specific page. “Confidence grows when we step out of our comfort zone and do something different.” Her mouth hangs open, half smiling, as if she’s waiting for my reaction.

  “That helps. Thank you.”

  “No problem. I think you’ll be okay, Dew—what’s your last name?”

  “Brickman now, was Diaz.”

  “I think you’ll be okay Dew-Was-Diaz-Brickman.” With a wink, she packs the notebook away. “So you’re gonna be a sophomore or…?”

  “Correct, you?”

  “Only here for the summer, then off to pre-college; a year of exploratory learning.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Caramel School of Massage and Healing Arts, about forty minutes from here so I can go home when I want. Do you know what you’re doing after high school?”

  The question strikes me as abrupt. I’ve thought about the future, but not in the context of who I’ll be in it. “Undecided.”

  “I was, too. Don’t stress too much. It’s only the rest of your life.” She laughs, but it’s glaringly obvious it’s not a joke.

  I turn to the stack of papers, still unsure of which boxes to check, which address to write, what emergency contacts to state. My initial reaction is my old Indianapolis address, Plum Street, and my parents’ cell numbers, which I’ve memorized. I have to stop myself and carefully think what is true today—a Pearl Street address in Ivy Springs, and numbers that belong to Stella and Thomas. It’s a habit I wish I didn’t have to break.

  As I neatly write my answers, I look up to see a man reminiscent of my father, dressed in desert-camouflaged pants and a tan fitted T-shirt. He orders a large coffee, black, no sugar. I have a penchant for details. They’re the difference between knowing someone in 2-D or 4-D. Violet pumps the fresh java from a carafe while the man slides inside a booth near the entrance. The large window lets the sun seep in, coating him in a sunshine glaze; almost angelic. Perhaps it’s my dad inside my bones, moving my feet—he never passed a service member without thanking them for their service—but I find myself standing at the foot of this man’s table.

  “Thank you for your service,” I say dutifully.

  “Thank you,” he says with a warm smile. “I appreciate that.”

  “Well, I appreciate you appreciating me, so I suppose we’re at an impasse of gratitude.” I grin, my hands tucked behind my back to fidget with reckless abandon.

  He chuckles as his phone rings. “I’m sorry, but I have to take this.”

  “Have a great rest of your day,” I say. “And thank you again.”

  “No, thank you—” He stops himself with a palm over the phone speaker. “We could go on forever.”

  Violet brings a steaming cup to the table. “This cup signifies my gratitude. Plus, you have a really great aura.”

  “Thank you,” he tells her before his attention returns to his call.

  The crowd has thinned out and I slink back behind the counter without incident. Violet joins me moments later. I study the way the man holds himself, strong and steady. I wonder who he’s leaving, or coming home to. I wonder where he’s been and where he calls home. I don’t mean to eavesdrop. But his dutiful brawn, his voice, his presence, they almost resound in our small space.

  “Sir,” he says, shuffling in his seat. “I hadn’t intended to—yes, sir. I understand.”

  A sudden, hard silence falls like a gavel, cutting his booth into before-and-after: the pleasantries before the call, and his tightened jaw after. He holds the phone steady in the air, parallel to his ear, before clutching it inside his fist. All the color fades from his face. I want to look away, I should look away. But one moment he’s a floating warrior, levitating through fields of all he protects; the next he’s human, weighted by a sharp blow of someone’s brandished words, and I can’t.

  “I know that look,” Violet whispers. “Heartbreak.”

  She says it like she knows the term well. I refrain from spilling how deeply I understand its etymology, my focus still attached to this man—a mere stranger I feel strangely connected to—if only because my story has had a few chapters that didn’t end so well.

  He dials a new number. His face contorts into different expressions, shaking the tightness loose to find some kind of smile.

  “Smiling tricks the mind and body into thinking you aren’t in pain,” Stella taught me. As he forces his lips to upturn, mine do the same.

  He clears his throat. “I just wanted to say … I … I love you. I wish I could stop time, you know? Of course you know. It’s always about the time, isn’t it, baby? We need to talk later.… Let me know when you and JJ are back from the farmer’s market. I love you.… So much … Talk soon.”

  Violet sighs. “Man. I feel for him. And whoever that message is for.”

  I quietly decide I’ll do my best to unearth his buried treasures in the event there is an answer among them—one I’ve been searching for since everything in my own life changed.

  “We all have things buried so deep, it would take a dedicated search team to pull them to the surface,” my counselor told me once. She said it after my parents died, when I first learned of the Brickmans’ interest in fostering me. It was a time when I only felt the pieces of me that went missing. This man is missing something, too.

  As the clock moves forward, I feel that pull of time passing. Like oars dropped in the ocean, I scramble to grab ahold. But, losing time doesn’t change what’s happened.

  In tonight’s top headlines, new Ivy Springs resident and soon-to-be high school sophomore Andrew Brickman finds something he hadn’t intended during his first shift at Baked & Caffeinated: the crushing realization his parents aren’t coming back.

  NAIMA

  Would you rather lose every item
in your possession, or a lifetime of memories?

  From the moment we enter the village township of Ivy Springs (too many nail-tapping hours later), we’re greeted with light posts adorned with vibrant American flags, patriotic yard signs of thanks and memory, and red, white, and blue everything suited for the small town’s upcoming Fourth of July celebration—the day we’re to memorialize Dad. Surrounded by streets aligned with every last drop of my father, I’m both surrounded by him and absent from him in the same frozen breath. The word “hero” chokes me. My chest squeezes tighter, shooting electric tingles across my body. If it were a heart attack, it might start with this same tightness in the chest, coming and going with the added discomfort in my left arm or jaw. I could become nauseated, dizzy, and right here in the front seat of Nell’s SUV, my heart could beat for the last time. This could be my final moment. Nell’s clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles; she senses the same.

  One breath. Two. Three breaths. Four. Five breaths, six.

  “Look at that,” she mumbles, pointing to the vibrant display of geranium, poppies, bluebells, and zinnias near the community garden. There’s a crack in her tone; a thorny burr she swallows. My eyes swell, taking in the etchings of the place that created my dad; created me.

  Last summer, when Dad came to stay at JJ and Kam’s with me for a couple weeks—something he did to preamble another leave—we’d weave in and out of these same streets. Because of how many tours he’d been on, there were times I thought about what it’d feel like to navigate the path to JJ and Kam’s without him. But I never knew it’d feel quite like this. Hollow.

  Staying in Ivy Springs with my grandparents is how I always imagined summer camp to be (without weird bunkmates), but with the added bonus of being near people who actually get me (humans who are not Nell). But here, without Dad, it feels like a dream.

  A nightmare.

  Someone should wake me from