Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 12

She stared. “Ready for cake?”

  “Yep.” I feared part of Nell had ingrained itself in me and I obsessed over it, wishing I could redo this moment or erase it altogether.

  “It’s the best part of any birthday, am I right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I tapped my foot against my quilt’s hem six times directly in the center of the hexagon. Of the six, I was slightly off center on the third, so I started again. It was at this time, approximately 11:13 A.M. EST, Nell pulled into the drive and exited her vehicle with a cake and balloons—the balloons Dad was supposed to send.

  She had a solid grip on the balloon strings, but the wind picked up in gusts. It wasn’t supposed to be windy, but it was; it’s one of the first things I thought when I stepped outside. The balloons floated high above her, colliding into each other from the angry air pushing past. Panic rushed through me in tidal waves. Cue “End of the Road,” an old song by Boyz II Men. It was playing on the radio Christian had turned on in the kitchen.

  Before my thoughts caught up, before I could connect the stars in our constellation, I ran from my room and out the front door to grab ahold of the balloons, but I was too late. They fought with all their might to be free. I leapt forward, fingers outstretched, but the wind was too strong. Then. I felt it.

  The weightlessness of the balloons as they untethered from her grasp. She let go, and I let go. I counted the seconds it took for life to unmute between my ears—seven—and I wished it had happened one second earlier. Nothing settled. We unsettled. Life unsettled. As I reached from the tips of my toes, I attempted to chase those six red balloons. Always six, always red.

  Minutes later, when the balloons became distant red dots in the sky, my eyes pulled back to Earth, where this unexplainable series of circumstances suddenly tied together. A dark vehicle—a sedan—crawled alongside the curb, past the other cars. The wheels slowed to a stop in front of our house. The balloons—Dad’s wishes for me—levitated up, between the clouds, where they disappeared forever to float somewhere beyond my vision, somewhere Mom had gone.

  And then, I knew. Somewhere Dad had gone, too.

  And I counted. And I counted. And I counted. And I counted. And I counted. And I counted.

  Let me inscribe my wishes, I said,

  Fill them with helium, I said

  And set them free, I said.

  And out of nowhere,

  That goddamn Truvía song played in my mind.

  But not before “End of the Road.”

  The cross streets near downtown Ivy Springs are lined with various local vendors from surrounding counties, and there are a few I pull myself out of bed for each year. While it might seem strange to someone who doesn’t know me—“how odd for a girl who’s just lost her father to be merrily skipping [for the record, I’d never skip] around downtown Ivy Springs, sliding silken flowers behind her ears, and tasting all the samples”—but this is my version of normal: avoidance on every level. Literally. My therapist said, out of four unique styles, I have an avoidant/dismissive attachment personality—meaning I’d rather keep to mydamnself than rely on anyone else. Somewhere along my journey, I learned it hurts too much to seek security and fail to receive. Dad would totally understand and approve, but he’s not here, which is why attachments and connections are worthless to me right now.

  The moment I think it, Dad’s dead, my brain flops. With a toothpick in hand, I’m suddenly acutely aware of the crowd. The noise goes from buzzing to full-fledged commotion. I turn for JJ, but she’s lost between swaying bodies and heat—my God the Midwest and its sweltering June heat.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in an elephant-ear trailer’s silver exterior to see my Dragon Girl lips have smeared and bled across my face. What the hell kind of horror show is happening? More important, why is Nell still texting me about the gum pile? Like, let it go (the irony here doesn’t escape me).

  Penelope-Smellope: I’ve been scraping gum off for 2 hours.

  Penelope-Smellope: Just how I wanted to spend my day.

  Penelope-Smellope: Was this because I asked you to chew your gum quietly? How did this happen? Where did I go wrong? How would Ray handle this? Help me help you.

  I clasp my phone tight, as a hand grabs at me. My reaction is to swat at whoever’s touching me (they’re lucky I didn’t do the chokehold Dad taught).

  “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to scare you,” a woman—about JJ’s age with earrings that don’t rival the size of Earth—says. “You’re Ray’s daughter, aren’t you?”

  My limbs hang heavy. I attempt to nod but the movement dizzies me more.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, sweetie. He was such a good man. We’re thankful for his sacrifice.”

  Was. Was. Was. Was. Was. Was.

  “Thanks.” I pull away.

  Another hand spins me around. “Your father was a hero. We owe him our freedom.”

  Was. Was. Was. Was. Was. Was.

  “Thank you…,” I say again. This time the words trail. The heat rises, coating my cheeks in a discomfort I can’t escape. If this were a page from a magazine, I’d pluck the scissors from JJ’s junk drawer and cut myself out.

  More hands grab at me, pull at my arms, spin me in circles to see them—I see you; do you see me?—to repeat the same sentiments. Everything they offer is in the past tense. They’re all sorry. They’re all saddened. They’re all grateful. For who my father was.

  Was. Was. Was. Was. Was. Was.

  I’m trapped in a sea of apology and patriotism and I’m thankful, but I don’t need a new reminder every second. In a matter of mere minutes, I’ve been surrounded. My head spins and my vision blurs in and out. Tightening lungs try to breathe in and expel but they’re working overtime, getting little oxygen where it needs to be—my brain.

  My limbs feel weightless, swaying, pulling me under.

  “JJ?” I shout; think I shout. Maybe it’s a whisper. Maybe it’s in my head. She’s somewhere I can’t see. A tingle shoots through my feet, straight up into my head, before I fall back, crumble to the concrete. Now all of these strangers are patting my back, rubbing my hair—don’t ever touch my hair—asking if I’m okay, if I need some water, if I want something to eat, a cracker, maybe? What I want is to scream. To yell as loud as the sky will carry; I want my voice to pierce the atmosphere with such force, the skin will fall off everyone’s bones. That is the pain I’m holding, ready to break free. Not here, though. I’ll swallow it, again, so everything can be fine; it will be fine. FINE. I’m not fine. I was not fine.

  Was. Was. Was. Was. Was. Was.

  “Naima?” I hear from beyond the swell. JJ rushes toward me, a winning sprint across the finish if I ever saw one, through the pack that’s formed a trench around me. I’m trapped on this stretch of road where corn dog sticks lay at my feet. They are the moat, and I am the castle, trapped inside myself, only able to view what’s happening through the clear box surrounding me.

  I can’t.

  “JJ.” My voice is quiet. The burn of her name forces it back down my throat. Her hand finds my back. Long, gentle strokes remind me of the times I cried into her as a child. When my attachment style leaned more on the secure side and I knew I could trust. I let my body fall into her loving hands, but the feeling in me has gone. People are mere colors and shapes, vaguely waving in and out of my tunnel vision. “Maybe she needs to talk to someone,” I overhear. “Or medication.” And the loudest: “She needs her parents.”

  “Can you give us some room, please?” JJ removes one hand to swat the flies and those flies step back. Not six feet, but two. They’ve all hushed to whispers, and even the music playing over the loudspeaker calms. I hear them. She lost her Dad. Poor thing. I can’t imagine all she’s been through. Lost her mom, too. But the one I hear most, the one that rings louder than the rest, is something I hadn’t realized until an ignorant bystander who knows nothing of me said it.

  She’s an orphan.

  Dad

  cell

  November 19 at 7:27 A
M

  Transcription Beta

  “I’ve been told there is a chance I can come home for your birthday in May. I know it’s early and I don’t want to say too much until I’m sure, but I want to give you something to hope for. We all need a little hope. There are days I’m not sure where mine went. Where does it go? I asked the chaplain that very question and you know what he told me? Hope never leaves us—we’re the ones who abandon it. So don’t abandon it, Ima. Hold it like a balloon string and never let go.”

  Email Draft (Unsent)

  To

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  Subject

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  It’s funny that you

  Mention balloons

  When you’re

  The one

  To float

  Away

  Breaking: Indianapolis boy intrigued by deathly strawberries, swiftly learns lesson.

  “Your arms?” my mother asked, pointing, after I tasted a bite of strawberry cake. English, her second language, broke apart back then. She caught on to most parts but got stuck inside others. Splotches. Radish-red splotches. She ripped my clothes off in a rush, and ran a cool bath. The water never fully heated anyway, so when she turned the knob all the way right, the tub filled with icy water. I remember the burn. From the tips of my fingers to the very bottom of my feet. Mostly in my mouth. I tasted fire. Mom threw in handfuls of oatmeal and a splash of milk as she cried, “why why why,” running through the small space to understand what had happened. We didn’t have a house phone or cell, so the only way to contact Dad was to knock on the good-fortune neighbors’ door for their phone, trek to the pay phone down the road, or take a bus to tell him in person because he drove our only car.

  It was almost dinnertime, so Mom decided to keep me in the water until he arrived. I sat there, my skin shrinking, while she searched the kitchen for an answer to my reaction. I hadn’t gone much to doctors, so she couldn’t have known about my food allergies. It wasn’t until I went into anaphylactic shock that Mom burst through the door with my dripping wet body in her arms to beg the good-fortune neighbors to call an ambulance.

  I don’t remember much about what happened after, except when I awoke, my mother was in tears at my bedside. “What happened?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know,” she wailed. “You’re allergic. Milk. Eggs. Nuts. Dairy. Even strawberries.”

  And so the good fortune and happiness others could find would not be the same for me. But I still can’t help but believe in the good fortune of strawberries. It was a risk, but the night Staff Sergeant Rodriguez first told me about Naima, I decided she deserved the good fortune my mother, father, and I didn’t.

  Just in case, I keep an EpiPen handy. Stella and Thomas have intricate instructions from my doctor about how to use it, and what to do if I’m having a reaction. This is also the story of how Lady Clean Cuisine came to be, and why our food and general way of being are sometimes separate from those of the world.

  And sometimes, why I am.

  NAIMA

  I rub my eyes to clear the blur. JJ kneels next to me. “This is my fault. You’re not ready.”

  I think on the string of carefully constructed sentences. Not ready. How do I become ready? Are you ever? She brushes a stray curl from my cheek, cradling my face in her hands. The sun gathers around her, darkening her features but illuminating the rest. Reminds me of photos of Mom—my heart stops again—and Dad, now, too. I hold my stare as long as my lungs inhale, silently thinking breathe six times.

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “I want my cheese now.”

  She releases her hands and helps me to my feet. “Not too fast.”

  My head deflates as if I’m the one who’s been filled with helium. Sounds gradually fill in, and faces clarify.

  “Should’ve eaten your damn pancakes. Blood sugar’s probably low.” JJ’s voice is calm, soft. But there’s fear in the way she pauses between words. As if seeing me this way reminds her that I will always struggle with my mind; it will always scuffle for control. The point is that I never let it keep me down for long.

  She reaches deep into her giant sack of a purse and hands me a bottle of water. I take a swig. It’s tepid, all the minerals heated through. We’re interrupted by another bystander, a tall man wearing an electric-blue apron. He abandoned his stand to offer me a small paper cup filled with liquid.

  “Here, drink this,” he says. His shadow is as long as the town clock is tall. It bends with his every breath. His hands shake the cup in front of me as if gesturing a ball I’m to fetch.

  I shove the cup out of my personal space with blunt force. “You might’ve drugged it.”

  “Uh,” the man stutters, “I promise you, it’s not drugged.”

  “You probably drank from it. I don’t want your spit in my mouth.” The sun is in my eyes; his shadow moves, slinking behind him. Dad said you can see a man’s truth in his eyes, but I can’t see. “Also, stranger danger, and all that jazz.”

  His face scrunches up in wrinkled layers.

  Most of the people have gone on with their lives. The music is turned up, and the whispers have grown to full-throttle conversations. A few still linger and can’t believe Ray Rodriguez’s daughter could be so rude to a kind stranger. Gasp!

  JJ steps between us and grabs the cup, sloshing the water onto the tops of my feet. “Thank you so much.” She catches the weight of me when my feet threaten to tumble.

  “Just trying to help.” The man reluctantly goes, his eyes turning back every few steps. She pulls me into the open pocket beyond the crowd. We pause somewhere between the general store and my favorite—Paint the Sky—the place Dad and I took a few classes together. I try not to notice, but the sign hangs above us; if there ever was a literal manifestation of Dad plus a sign, it’s here. Like, right here.

  “People worry,” she says. “You can be a little nicer about it.”

  “I don’t feel like being nice.”

  “I know.” Her nails dig into my arm when she grabs ahold. “I don’t always feel like smiling in church when Hattie Gillespie tells me my hips have widened since retirement, but I damn well do. Kindness matters. Not only when it’s hard—especially when it is.”

  A giggle escapes. “She thinks your hips widened? Has she looked in a mirror?”

  JJ’s grip lightens, and she smiles, too. “Listen—it’s not gonna be easy. It’s just not. If we acknowledge our right to feel like hell, for as long as we need to, maybe others will give us a little more breathing room, you know? Then, they’ll be kind, and you’ll be kind in return, and round and round we go.” Her eyes dazzle me, remind me this pain isn’t only mine.

  I nod.

  “We can do this next week,” she says. “We don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s tradition. You said it yourself.” When she says “here,” she doesn’t mean the farmers’ market, but “here” as in the sinking grief. And I get it, I do, but it feels like there’s no way out of it. I’m so out of my body, I imagine a red balloon moving with the crowd. I close my eyes, shake the idea from my mind. It’s gone. Magic.

  “It’s fine,” I say, quiet, “can we walk?”

  She reaches for my hand; I take it and together, we walk.

  We find a steady rhythm floating between stands. It’s okay, she’s okay, I’m okay—we’re okay. We finally reach the cheese stand (i.e., the most glorious spot in the whole market), but JJ leads me to a different tent. I see the cheese, fingers reaching, but can’t get to it. Everyone takes the samples held by toothpicks. One by one, they disappear. I try to contain the panic, but JJ’s guiding me to this sugar-scrub stand and all I want is to break free from her shackles and get a few cubes before they’re gone.

  Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

  “Ima!” JJ forces my attention to the petite woman standing behind a long table covered with sugar scrubs that smell like weeds and sour fruit. Her long, fire-sp
iraled hair climbs down the length of her black tee, which says, BABES UNITE. I’m pulled toward her magenta cat’s-eye glasses framing her perfectly angled face, to her nose pierced with a metal ring, down to her matte ruby-red lips. “This is Stella,” JJ adds. “Dew’s mom. And Faith’s. Have you met her?”

  “Nope,” I manage.

  “Can I hug you?” the woman asks.

  I hesitate. “I mean, I hate germs, but okay?”

  She walks around the table and tightly wraps both hands around me. Like, she didn’t even consider how terrible I feel. I imagine shoving her off, into traffic—intrusive thought alert!—but distract myself with the off-kilter pattern on a passing woman’s shirt. Her chin folds into my shoulder as she sways us back and forth. JJ takes a step backward to allow us the room to do whatever this is.

  I abruptly push her away. “Actually, I’d rather not touch, thanks.”

  “Oh,” she says. “That’s what you meant by the germ thing. I’m so sorry for imposing.”

  “She’s not much of a hugger,” JJ adds.

  “Neither is Faith. I completely understand.”

  Faith flashes a thumbs-up from Stella’s shadow.

  “I know words don’t help much, but I’m very sorry about your dad,” Stella says. “Very, very sorry.”

  I force back my urge to shout, instead lowering my voice to a throaty growl. “You’re right. Words don’t help.”

  JJ grimaces, so I look away as Stella’s hands cup over her mouth, eyes watering the way condensation builds with early morning dew (DEW!). I turn to JJ. “Can I get my cheese?”

  Her jaw falls agape, hand firmly on one hip. Like I’m the one making this weird. “Hang on a minute.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stella says, moving back behind the table. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s all right,” JJ says. “She has strong opinions, especially when it comes to germs and cheese and most everything.”

  Stella chuckles. “I respect that.”