I pop upright. Well, let me be clear. When I “pop,” it’s a slow, grumbling, Frankenstein rise to life with an underlying hatred of all things in my path. Mornings will never, ever be my thing (and she knows this), but let’s assume, for the sake of the argument, I do, in fact, “pop” like a damn firework.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
“Good morning, sunshine.” She hands me a porcelain mug full of liquid as dark as my soul. My fingers reject it.
“What’s the matter?” she asks, offended.
I point to the words Proud Dad of a U.S. Marine. Third tour, he took three bullets. It was a Thursday when Nell got the call. You never forget dates attached to pain. They’re with you for the rest of time. A few days after, Kam sent a text holding up this mug he bought himself as a way of praying without falling to his knees. Like if he had the mug, Dad had to get better. JJ said he drank everything from it. Coffee. Soup. Tea. Took it with him to the garden. Into town when he met his friends. It became his bulletproof vest. It’s his vessel of hope.
JJ’s eyes bulge. She pulls the drink back toward her. “I—I’m sorry.” She drops the laundry basket to steady the mug in her shaking hands. Her fingers want to reject the mug now, too. The liquid sloshes against the sides, streams of coffee dripping over.
I “pop” up to my feet (an actual “pop” this time). “Give it to me.”
She’s frozen, caught in an invisible net. I’m trying to free her, but her eyes remain as large as they are mournful. Dad is gone and he’s not coming back. Every moment is a new realization, and we’ll never escape it. Grief will hold on to us with both hands if we let it. JJ’s resilient and brave. All the things I’m not. I don’t know how to be that for her.
I don’t know how. Don’t know. How.
I carefully pry her fingers from the handle, and sip. Inside, I’m screaming, fighting not to go through these motions, but for her, I must.
Her eyes peer down. She’s slowly reeling in the state of panic I’m so familiar with.
“Mmm,” I say, pushing past the discomfort. “I love black coffee.”
I hate black coffee.
She watches me strain to guzzle the disgusting drink down. “That hits the spot.”
It doesn’t hit the spot.
Every sip I take, I imagine Kam’s lips in the very same spot. My brain screams for me to stop.
“Joelle,” Kam yells from the top of the stairs. It snaps her attention away from me. “Where’s my straw hat?”
“Probably wherever you left it last,” she shouts. Her head is tilted, but her eyes stick to the mug. “Decades in planning, development, and architecture, and he can’t find a damn hat.”
“Wow, that helps.” Kam’s footsteps trail above, from one side of the house to the other, clomping a wallop with every stride. We hear him speaking to the walls about possible places it could be. Something about the yard. Hiccup carried it off. Could even be on his head if he’d check (it’s not the first time).
“I swear,” she says, “why do I have to be in charge of everything? Go find your own damn hat. I know where my hat is.” Her ramble fades. There’s not only a tense silence between us, but this coffee mug and everything it represents. If I lower it, we’ll have to acknowledge the power it has. I hold it steady, a barricade, instead.
The clock’s hands are all that can be heard. Eventually—when Kam’s footsteps approach this side of the house again—JJ breaks our formation and lifts the laundry basket to her waist. “How about belated-birthday pancakes. Vanilla flavored, no syrup. Right?”
Much like Nell’s “okay,” the emphasis on “right” seems as though she’s searching. For acceptance, compassion, or maybe just someone to remind her that even though life is abysmal (I heard the word used in her podcast) (I’m not completely sure I used it right, but whatever), some things are still fine.
We’re still fine.
Fine.
“Three stacks of two,” I tell her.
She breaks through the barrier of grief and smiles.
“I remember.” The silence doesn’t last. She yanks the mug from my hands with a sharp tug. “Give me ten minutes to get it ready.”
She sees the picture on top of the kimono and strolls over for a closer look. With a weighted gasp, she picks up the memory and holds it to her chest. I look away. If a heart can break apart more than once and survive, it’s mine; it’s hers. Every second she stands there, I feel the tears she’s holding back. I give her time to think about the faces in the frame before clearing my throat to pull the moment away from her. She rehangs the photo, rubs one hand over the surface as if to say goodbye, and makes her way to the staircase.
It’s there that she waits, and I don’t know if she’s scared to move forward, or if she knows I am. To go through the belated-birthday pancakes without Dad means something. It’s not just another breakfast, like that wasn’t just any mug. Everything means something different now.
Kam interrupts this interaction of nothingness. “Found my hat,” he says, “it was where I left it—on the coatrack with the other hats. Imagine that.”
“Want me to throw you a damn party?” JJ replies.
“Could you?” he quips.
“Might not be the party you’re thinking of.”
She follows him up, and together, their voices fade. It’s like I’m watching these scenes from a seat in a movie theater. Every conversation playing out the way it should, every ending wrapped in a bow, whether it should be or not. I keep thinking Dad’s going to call my name and tell me the pancakes are ready.
But he won’t.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
The numbers don’t take.
So I try again with more emphasis.
ONE. Two. THREEEEE. Four. FIVE. Six.
Deep breath in, and out.
And in.
Where everything is locked away.
Especially the feeling that anything good
Could ever be
Again.
Dad
cell
September 29 at 2:36 AM
Transcription Beta
“You always loved fall. Is it getting cooler there yet? It’s still warm here, but temps are dropping slowly. Should be close to report cards, right? God, I’ve lost track of time. Remind me how to focus on the seconds again. Remind me. Please. [inaudible]”
Email Draft (Unsent)
To
___________________________________________
Subject
___________________________________________
I do love fall,
Dad,
But it’s not quite cool enough,
Dad,
Report cards are out next week,
Dad,
But Nell already knows
I’m failing math,
Science,
Social studies,
English,
And life.
If you want to count the time, start with now.
It’s all we’re guaranteed.
Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now.
Today’s forecast is partially sunny with late-day woo-ing in the Blue County areas.
Dr. Peterson is impressed with my progress, but suggests there’s more work to do. She tells Stella I’m not working through my grief, but suppressing it. But I can’t recall a pain I haven’t acknowledged. I tell her I miss my parents, but that I’m aware of Stella and Thomas’s devotion. I’ve admitted to having dreams where I’m the one who died instead. I say these things, and I manage.
Today, as I was leaving her office, she said, “Life isn’t easy, Dew,” but it wasn’t her voice I heard.
“Life isn’t easy, Dew,” Dad would say as we struggled to stay warm in our compact car. “But you find a way to dance in the rain. It’s part of the journey.” His eyes twinkled even as he covered me in layers of cable-knit sweaters while I laid in the backseat. Mom would give a half-broken smile and say, “You two are my joy,” and somehow, even on the coldest
night, with the emptiest of stomachs, it was all okay. I’m trying to figure out what this means for me now—who I am, if not Andrew Diaz; my mother’s darling, my father’s heir.
Stella pulls me aside after my appointment and asks what I’ve divulged about Naima to Dr. Peterson. I shrug. Honestly I don’t recall, but she grows visibly frustrated.
“It’s a safe zone,” she reminds me. “You should say whatever you need to.” Her sentence ends as if she’s asking a question, but I’m not sure what. The conversation ends abruptly, not another word spoken about it until breakfast the next day.
“I’m really happy you’ve spoken to Naima,” Stella says mid-chew.
I look up. Faith’s watching a new documentary on her phone, about Rick Flair, aka Nature Boy, her eyes as glued to this one as the last. She’s been saying “woo” since the beginning (he’s apparently known for it), though none of us is sure how to react. To compensate, we woo in return and pretty soon, everyone is woo-ing.
“Did something happen I don’t know about?” Thomas asks. He worked late last night and missed dinner. Lately, he’s missed most key conversations and activities. Breakfast, the occasional dinner, and bedtime are the only opportunities in which we can bundle up our stories like a net full of butterflies and set them free. He works hard, picking up extra shifts where he can, so Stella’s not stuck counting change at the general store again and instead has proper time for Faith and me. I love this about him, but it also leaves our interactions as big, uncomfortable info-dump boxes we have to unpack in a brief amount of time.
Stella shakes her head, cuts her specially designed Lady Clean Cuisine gluten-free, dairy-free waffles with a fork and knife. “What haven’t we done to help, Dew? What else can we do?” She looks up at me wistfully.
My brows scrunch as I cut my stack into pieces. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re still mismanaging time and—”
“Hold up,” Thomas interjects. “Could you fill me in here, Stel?”
Agitated, she sighs deep and dramatic. “I want Dew to feel like he can open up to Dr. Peterson, but if he doesn’t feel we’re doing enough—that we’re not enough—I feel, I don’t know, betrayed? That’s not the right word. Hurt, maybe? Definitely frustrated when we’ve done everything possible to give him a better life.” Her words fade as she catches my surprise.
“He knows how much we—you—do for him,” he says in my defense. “They both do.”
“That’s not what Dr. Peterson told me.”
“I thought my sessions were private,” I say.
“You’re a minor; not only can she tell me what’s going on, I can sit in on the sessions if I choose.”
I drop my fork, unaware my words could be used against me.
“So that’s how you know about me mentioning Naima.”
“What does this have to do with Naima?” Thomas asks.
Stella turns to him with a snap. “You know what. She’s all he’s talking about. He’s hyper-focused on a girl he doesn’t know as a means of, in Dr. Peterson’s words, ‘redirecting his pain to not deal with it at all.’”
My face streaks with flushes of cherry-bomb heat. “I’ve barely mentioned her.”
“That’s not what Dr. Peterson says.”
Faith pauses the documentary, tosses the phone to the table. “Naima was locked up last summer. That’s why she doesn’t want you to love her.”
“Where did you hear that?” Thomas asks.
“Stella and Dr. Peterson talk really loud. Woo.”
I angle my glare at Stella. “What does she mean, ‘locked up’?”
Stella straightens her posture, stumbling over her words. “Not locked up—that’s not what I said.” She looks to Thomas, who shrugs. “She was in a treatment center for her anxiety and depression.” She fidgets in her chair. “She was … suicidal.”
“So?” Faith challenges. “Everyone needs help sometimes. That’s what you always tell us.” The guts on this kid are the guts I wish to have.
Thomas nods along, proud.
We all await Stella’s next explanation. Our eyes wiggle with anticipation as she juggles it around her mouth before speaking. “I was afraid she’d somehow … influence your progress. Or you’d influence hers, becoming so intertwined with each other’s grief, you’d both be swallowed up by it. Like The Virgin Suicides or Romeo and Juliet.”
Faith laughs. “Virgin. Woo.”
“Stella, come on,” Thomas says. “Not the same thing. At all.”
She relaxes only slightly. “Suicide pacts are a thing, so is suicide contagion. There’s research on the Domino effect of mental illness at that level. Or substance abuse they’d get into—to numb the pain together.”
“Give these kids some credit. They can help each other. Who better to talk to than someone who’s going through similar things?”
She sighs, hiding her face from us. “You’re right,” she says, a crack in her voice. “When Dr. Peterson said Dew talked so much about Naima, I panicked. I just want him to be okay.”
He lays his hand on hers. “You’re a good mom to worry, but he’ll be okay.”
“Mom” rings through, sizzling my ears like a branding iron. “Let me get something clear,” I interject. “You didn’t want me to meet Naima because you assumed her problems would become mine, or mine hers, unfairly assuming we’d decide to destroy ourselves or take our lives, together? And I’m not to even mention her because it interrupts my healing. That’s what Dr. Peterson suggested, that’s what you’re telling me?” I hold my gaze firm. Faith, in total domination, does the same.
Stella nods with a tinge of regret.
“Like Thomas said, maybe it would’ve been beneficial to know someone was going through things—really hard things—like me. So I could feel less different from other kids; from you.”
My blunt comments leave her taken aback. “I know.” She sighs. “I was wrong.”
“You want me to break through some magical barrier with my grief, but disallow me the chance to do what might help. Do you see the irony?”
“I do.”
“I sure as hell do,” Faith blurts.
“So, it’s decided,” I add. “Because you officially made us star-crossed lovers without my permission, it only seems fair I’m allowed the chance to decide whether or not she’s imperative, or detrimental, to my progress.”
“He’s right, Stel,” Thomas says. “You meant well, but we can’t interfere like that. He’s almost an adult and he’s in therapy, doing the best he can. Let him learn to sort stuff out on his own unless he asks us for help. Faith, too.”
Tears fill her eyes. “I only want to protect you from more pain. That’s all I wanted. I’m sorry.”
With the sigh of a thousand lifetimes, I soften my stance, and immediately, Faith does, too. “I agree with Thomas. You are a good mom; but you forget we had lives before you.” The words float between us, pausing in the air like a new picture to hang on the wall.
Her tears blossom until they burst from her lashes, streaking her cheeks. “I get it.”
Thomas pats her hand until she calms. Faith watches this unfold, carefully pressing her eyes between her screen and us, hoping to go unnoticed. Perhaps she’s not witnessed a family in this light. One that smashes into pieces but finds their way back together. Perhaps she’s waiting to release a full breath when she knows, whatever this is, it won’t change anytime soon. I did the same.
The table is quiet. We all eat in peaceful unison except Faith, whose attention is fully on the documentary. The glow cast from the screen illuminates a joy we’ve not managed to evoke, and for the first time since we’ve become a family of four, it actually feels pretty darn close to home. Woo.
NAIMA
When I finally settle on an outfit suited for small-town life that screams “Please don’t talk to me” (a pair of printed leggings and a black tee with a skull and crossbones), I finger-comb my unruly curls with my favorite jasmine-scented pomade and slap on a f
resh coat of Dragon Girl red to head upstairs, where JJ and Kam are sitting at the kitchen table with their hands clasped as if waiting on me for an intervention. As soon as my feet hit the top stair, Hiccup pounces from the living room couch to catch me, chewing bits of cloth from the bottom cuff of my leggings.
“GO TO HELL!” I snap, trying to shake him loose. The little shit breaks skin beneath the leggings, burning a memory of Dad through my focus. He said those words when Hiccup nipped at his feet. But I’ve never said them. Why now?
“Hiccup—fetch.” Kam, who’s wearing the hat he’d “lost,” tosses a chewed-up stuffed cat toy—Hiccup’s favorite—to distract him long enough for me to find my seat at the table, though we all know it’s only a matter of time before he searches for another pant leg to gnaw.
“Dad” is still at the table. There’s an actual place mat and utensils in front of him/it and I’m not sure if they’re messing with me, or if this is us. As if the loss redefined our very beings to a strange and absurd state.
I slide into the chair next to him. “What’s up, Dad?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Cool. Same.” I Googled “cremation,” to be sure this isn’t a panic-inducing scenario, and know the kiln destroyed all the bacteria and microscopic organisms in Dad’s body. He’s as sterile as he’s ever been.
I feel JJ’s eyes, but she refrains from commenting.
“Your leg okay?” Kam asks.
I feel the sting of blood. “Yep.”
“What do you two have planned today?”
A newspaper is sprawled out in the center of the table. The headline references the Fourth of July memorial, citing a “local fallen hero.” I stare, unblinking.
“Farmers’ market day,” JJ answers. She shoves the paper out of view, replacing it with my plate of pancakes. Three stacks of two. Like every year. Always three stacks of two. Not two stacks of three. Not one stack of six. Not even three and three. It has to be exactly the same as it has been before. There’s no other way.
Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 9