Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

I do the same.

  My brain knows he’s not in that urn whether I’m taking my meds or not (turns out, this whole loss situation sent me into a seriously dark spiral and I might’ve locked myself in my room, and my therapist was MIA, so Nell made me an emergency appointment with the lady she sees, Dr. Tao, and I’m fine, everything’s fine; it’s fine) (Seriously) (FINE).

  I’m not fine.

  I count 279 seconds before we pull into the old gravel driveway, just as the church bells ring throughout—an Ivy Springs standard at 9:00 A.M., noon, and 5:00 P.M.—to see the full Rodriguez house in all its glory. Off-white siding with navy trim. JJ said it felt patriotic. Stained wooden fencing lines the yard with smaller areas sectioned off for Kam’s prizewinning tomatoes. I once asked what made them “winners,” and he replied “with love, soil probiotics, and a hell of a lot of cursing.” It’s strawberry season, meaning the stems are bountiful with the fruit I can’t like no matter how JJ uses it. Jams. Sauces. Pancakes. Straight-up with sugar, no sugar, pie. They wonder how someone raised in Ivy Springs—Strawberry Capital of Indiana—could not love their beloved fruit, but I don’t.

  Dad didn’t either.

  The speed at which she’s pulling in makes me want to scream. Stop or go, already. She puts the car in park and JJ and Kam appear beneath the doorframe Kam constructed, his long arm around her hunched shoulder; their bodies two solid masses of comfort and grief all mixed into one. They’re trying not to cry because “crying doesn’t help anything,” JJ says, but their gleaming eyes say it all.

  Nell releases a long, broken sigh from the driver’s seat, looking back to the urn. JJ and Kam watch us. No one moves, and somehow, this makes sense to me. This is okay. Nell probably wonders what her life will look like when she leaves this car, and leaves Ivy Springs to return to Albany, where she’ll pack up his things and move on with her life, without him. I’m wondering, too.

  JJ rivals the pink flamingos one of the neighbors has perched in their front yard with her brightly printed neon leggings that cover her strong, muscular legs she earned by training for, and running, every marathon within a two-hundred-mile radius, and an oversize, matched tee that hangs off one bronzed shoulder. She dazzles beneath their high porch awning, just as I remember her from last summer, before I left them, and said goodbye to Dad, for the school year.

  Kam cocks his head to find me when I’m gone, yet right in front of him. It’s something he’s done since I sat on his knee at five, worrying about how Dad would find his way home if he went so far away. He’s in his usual summertime garb, complete with the button-up Hawaiian shirt Dad gave him for Father’s Day one year, and the infamous cargo shorts with the bleach stain, further emphasized by the hideous black socks and open-toed-sandal situation I’d rather un-see. The front few buttons of his shirt—eight—pop out a bit more than they did last year, but the extra weight isn’t that noticeable unless JJ mentions it (and she will), dragging him for not running alongside her for health’s sake, when he’ll inevitably argue he “doesn’t have the time,” and she’ll call bullshit since they’re both retired.

  “Now or never,” Nell says, hesitant. She doesn’t move a limb.

  “You need to lay off the Bieber references. It’s not okay.”

  “Thought you were a Belieber.”

  I nearly choke on the fire she just shot into my heart. “Not even if I had to choose between him and licking a soiled boot.”

  “Graphic imagery. But—”

  “I’d choose the boot.”

  “Got it. Adding that to my mental checklist of things you hate.”

  “You have one?”

  “I knew when I met you, if I wanted to survive, I’d have to.”

  “Aw, so sweet.”

  “You got your meds?”

  I pull the bottle and “shake it like a Polaroid picture.”

  “And the number for Dr. Tao in case you need anything?”

  My fingers fumble the business card I’d bent in half when I pretended it was a greeting card that said, Jesus Loves You! (Everyone Else Thinks You’re an Asshole).

  She inhales deeply, her eyes focused on the awning that’s tried, and failed, to welcome her the way it welcomed Mom. “Okay. This is happening. Let’s get your dad inside. I’m sure they want to see him.”

  “He’s ash,” I murmur.

  “Only physically.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What?”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Would you rather be alone for the rest of your life?

  Or only have annoying people surrounding you, forever?

  That’s a tough one I lament over. She swings the car door wide open while I remain. Stuck watching the back of her, tapping my nose six sharp times. That long, stringy red hair that swishes with her hips could be one thing I won’t miss seeing. I can’t un-scrunch my toes until we move past the still objects, JJ and Kam.

  If I do,

  Life will keep going

  And I will be lost

  Somewhere in Tennessee

  Where we stopped

  So she could “potty.”

  (The bathrooms were nice, though)

  Dad

  cell

  June 29 at 12:35 PM

  Transcription Beta

  “I know you won’t have access to your phone while in treatment, but I wanted to hear your outgoing message. It’s become a comfort of sorts. My greatest comfort. This place sure doesn’t feel like home. It’s hot, dry. Feels like I can’t breathe sometimes. Anyway … I’ll check in with the front desk, but [sigh] JJ, Kam, and I miss you so much.

  Clouds mixed with sun throughout a day that becomes transplanted Ivy Springs student’s metaphor for life.

  I’m sitting in a hunter green chair across from my new therapist, Dr. Peterson, as we finish my first session.

  “Thank you for speaking with me,” she says, opening the door.

  I exit, and she signals for Stella. They huddle together while I take the chair next to Faith.

  “Did it go okay?” I’m hesitant to ask.

  She forces her posture away from me.

  “Same,” I tell her. It’s not a total lie. Whenever I get a new therapist, I have to rewind back to my origin story. That means starting from the beginning again. Peeling back the Band-Aids again. Tackling the strategies to overcome my obstacles again. There comes a point when I think, Maybe this is a feeling I have to learn to live with.

  She turns a bit, adjusts. “I hate talking about any of it.”

  “Me, too.”

  She may not mean to, but she leans into me, her shoulder grazing mine with the lightest of touches. I offer a sympathetic grin—a “we’re in this together” kind of thing—and while she doesn’t reciprocate, she doesn’t have to.

  “All right,” Stella interrupts the moment, “let’s go.”

  “Practice what we talked about,” Dr. Peterson tells me.

  I tip my hat—Dad’s hat—the way he used to. The showstopper, he called it.

  “She mentioned guiding you through a couple of exercises,” Stella says on our way to the truck. “Did they help?”

  “Perhaps if I practice them.”

  “Perhaps,” she says.

  “Perhaps,” Faith adds, lacking her usual sarcasm. We both stop and turn to her. “What? You both said it. I wanted in.”

  Stella’s eyes find mine. We share a smile and pile into the pickup.

  “We’re making a pit stop,” Stella says, revving the engine. “Dr. Peterson gave me an idea that might help you, Dew, before we attempt EMDR therapy to work through your traumas.”

  “What about me?” Faith asks. “Can I get something?”

  “Sure—within reason.”

  Faith smiles wide, knowing the last time that phrase was uttered, she walked away with a PSP 4 bundle and four games. I fold my hands together in my lap, paying close attention to the twists and turns. We end up downtown. Stella puts the truck in park.

 
; “This is going to be one weird trip,” she says confidently.

  Faith hops out first and skips inside, happily ready to spend any cash Stella offers up, while my feet drag. Therapy drains me. It’s like walking out of one version of myself and into another. Spaced, dazed, and rethinking every last answer I gave—like the one about the nightmares I’ve been having—it’s possible to open specific veins while holding all the rest closed. If the wrong vein is opened, it’s a virtual bloodbath. It’s all I’ll be thinking about until the next session.

  The old store is a mishmash of rare bird wants and needs. Bits and bobs, odds and ends, this is where you go to find the thingamabob, or doohickey within the menagerie of fever-dream aisles.

  Faith abandons us to navigate the store by herself—something that’s gotten her in trouble more than once—while Stella hums quietly behind me.

  “Wasn’t sure what all they’d have,” she says. “But I’d call this place a win.” She pulls a ceramic clown into the air and waves it in the direction of a pink flamingo attached to a metal yard stick nearby. “I mean, seriously.”

  I point to the row of “gold” watches nestled next to maxi pads that have been stacked into a triangle. “Can I just live here?”

  She laughs and covers her eyes with star-shaped plastic sunglasses. “Only if I can.”

  I slip on a pair, along with a pink feather boa. “Guess this is home now.”

  “Who will tell Thomas about our fancy, new lives?”

  I point toward a cardboard cutout of the infomercial guy who sells stain remover. “He seems trustworthy.”

  Stella laughs—with the kind of full throttle joy that makes you feel like you’re the funniest person alive; so similar to my mother’s, my father’s, too. I instantly lose my smile.

  Faith rushes through and stops. She’s equipped with a tall stack of WWE magazines, a pine-scented candle, a plastic necklace, and a roll of pink Bubble Tape gum.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Better question,” Stella replies, “what’s with the wrestling stack?”

  “I asked you first.”

  I’m frozen again. Stella reacts by swiftly removing her accessories. “Just messing around. Now you go.”

  “I fell into a WWE Raw trap. I need to learn how to do a full nelson STAT.”

  She nods along. “You’ve got a lot of stuff there. Do we need the candle?”

  “If you want the house to smell like pine we do.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted it to smell like pine.”

  “Didn’t you, though?”

  Stella’s brows crunch together. She senses my sudden absence and guides Faith out of my space until I’m able to break through the invisible wall. “If you help me find the thing I came for, the house can smell like disgusting pine.”

  Faith sighs. “Fine.” The two disappear out of sight while I try to shake Mom’s laugh from my brain. But it’s stuck; a record caught in a groove. My pulse picks up. To avoid a full-on panic, I frantically look around in hopes of salvaging a good afternoon with a good counselor, with a good mother person, in a good corner store.

  As I’m about to lose control of my breath, I see it—a rare August Moon and the Paper Hearts poster, live from the Fillmore in San Francisco. My eyes alight. A magnetic force draws me in. Mom’s voice echoes. “The Fillmore. An American dream. Someday, my darling, Dad and I will be more than an opener; more than a warm-up. Someday.”

  I feel them inside the confines of this vibrantly colored poster, where I pretend their names to be. Pencil etchings of their outlines twirl between my fingers. There’s a pinch in my gut.

  “Dew,” Stella shouts, “we’re ready.”

  I find them at the register, poster in hand. Stella’s eyes find it with quiet understanding. “Put it up there.”

  “Thanks.”

  She winks. “No thanks necessary.”

  We watch the items float down the belt. The cashier scans them one by one.

  I pick up the item Stella laid to the front and hold it in front of her. “What’s this for?”

  “Dr. Peterson mentioned some things that could help with your anxiety in crowds. It reminded me of a project I did in college where I recorded my thoughts for a week. Like a live journal.”

  I study the small handheld voice recorder. It fits in my palm. There are several small tapes that go inside. “What’s the point?”

  “To pinpoint emotional obstacles so I could learn how to deal before they ruined me.”

  Faith leans in intently. “Did it help?”

  “Didn’t hurt.”

  I spin the small recorder between my hands, put it to my lip, and decide I like the feeling it gives me to hide behind it. “I’ll try it.”

  “If you like it, I’ll talk to Thomas about ordering a fancier version online. If it helps. At the very least, it’s good practice for your future as a news reporter or weatherman, right?”

  Faith’s eyes are consumed by our interaction. Maybe she sees now, she’s not the only one trying to find a place here. We’re all looking for something.

  Stella watches the total owed go up as items are scanned. She digs into her wallet and counts barely enough, a slight panic in her eyes, items still yet to be rung through. I dig into my pocket. Empty.

  Faith reaches for the Bubble Tape and puts it back, and two of the four magazines. “I don’t need these, I guess.”

  Stella grins, and I think—maybe the thing we’re all in search of is right in front of us.

  A SUMMARY OF NAIMA’S MEDICAL HISTORY

  The question that plagues Naima most often is the simplest and most complex. She’ll never have the answer, because she’s busy picking out Lucky Charms marshmallows from the first of six boxes, via an intricate system that resembles a meth lab setup. She assures her stepmother it’s on the up-and-up, though it still remains to be seen. Naima’s therapist in Fort Hood said Ray’s continual absences triggered her generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), which triggered the obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), which also re-triggered another anxiety disorder, all resulting in massive dips of depression that would, at some point, come back up, only to dip way back down. It’s a neat, inescapable circle, only disturbed by the wrong medications and, at times, questionable therapists for whom Naima rarely cut herself open and offered her pain to.

  The petite doctor with sharp knobby knees never understood Naima’s humor as a means to cope, which further separated Naima from healing. She often redirected to Nell’s pain and sacrifice instead, which wasn’t totally off-base, but nothing Naima wanted to unpack. When asked, “Why are you here?” Naima replied with “My dad’s making me,” and the good doctor said, “No, why are you here, on this planet?” and so Naima spent an entire month sobbing in her quilt wondering the same goddamn question—“WHY AM I HERE?”—because if there was a right answer, or something logical, or a reason for her existence, she didn’t have it, other than, “My parents drank too much and banged. Nine months later—voila!” There’s no mystery to her, or any other, existence. But the way the good doctor phrased it, like there should be a mystery to it, made Naima wonder how much she really understood about life (or sex, for that matter).

  “What do you believe your purpose is?” was the follow-up question every week after. Dr. Rose would emphasize “purpose,” like by saying it more pronounced, the reasons would become more obvious. Naima told her what she told everyone else: “To live a life worth remembering” (because she saw it in a book, or something). To which the good doctor responded, “And how are you taking steps to fulfill this?” and Naima stared through an irregular pocket of air for an unknown length of time before saying something like, “I’ve written to General Mills multiple times about the dissolution of Lucky Charms as we know it, so they’ll replace it with an all-marshmallow version.” She then confessed to having a life-hack conveyor belt built with a milk carton, pens, and a roll of drawing paper. She had to manually turn the belt via the pens with one hand, and yes, it’s a l
ot of work to go through just to watch the marshmallows move down the line, dropping into a separate bowl at the bottom, but it’s exciting to watch and—DON’T JUDGE HER.

  “And how’s the writing thing going?” Dr. Rose asked, her words dripping in judgment.

  “They told me to stop or they’d forward to Legal.”

  After that, Naima clung to a different protest—Truvía, the sweetener. The commercial’s song gave her migraines and a newly found hatred of singing and voices and people and life in general. They declined to respond to her emails, but at some point, the commercials stopped airing. Dr. Rose pointed out the obvious fact that Naima was diverting—something she’d become very good at—reminding her of the core issue at hand, saying, “It all circles back to your dad leaving.” Naima, inevitably, replied with “It circles back to the fact that opossums can lie in a comatose state for forty minutes to four hours.” The doctor asked what the point was and Naima countered with “How long is this session?”

  The only time Naima heard any sense was when Dr. Rose told Nell there were reasons for the disorders and the things they caused Naima to do, no matter how odd or time-consuming those things appeared. They were not “quirks,” but to Naima, a way to maintain control of something.

  After Naima’s suicide attempt, and Ray gone again, Nell worried something was “wrong” with the stepdaughter she never could get close enough to. She knew most people had anxiety-related disorders, but always felt like Naima’s might be beyond her capabilities. She tried to help, and advocated relentlessly on Naima’s behalf, despite Naima’s continual protests.

  Naima wouldn’t dare tell her, or anyone, about the times she thought about sticking her fingers into an outlet or stepping in front of a semi, because she didn’t think she’d actually follow through. They were just thoughts, but Naima feared the thoughts might someday become actions. For the moment, electricity scared her, cars scared her, pain scared her. Dr. Rose called these thoughts “intrusive,” and changed her medication.

  Pinch the toes between passing objects becomes snapping the fingers together between stoplights becomes scratching a forearm until it bleeds becomes clawing at the throat to let the air escape becomes counting the seconds she can’t get back becomes counting everything with repetition becomes the thought that, should she miss an object or a snap or a scratch or a claw or a count, cut in like a knife to remind her of all the ways pain exists in life and death with flashes of wonder that become “what if” that become the anxiety that strangles her every breath that becomes the beat of her heart at full-stop becomes the day she could return to the past to tell her father, and mother, she’s sorry because maybe she doesn’t deserve to be here becomes the guilt becomes the nagging pull of an anchor dragging her to the very place she’s most terrified becomes the death her father suffered and back to her mother and round and round until the end of time.