Six Goodbyes We Never Said Page 3

Before

  I die inside of it,

  Only knowing

  This life without him.

  Dad

  cell

  June 13 at 9:36 AM

  Transcription Beta

  “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.”

  Email Draft (Unsent)

  To

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  Subject

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  Dear Dad,

  I hate you for deciding to leave me again.

  Ivy Springs means nothing

  Without you here.

  I hate you.

  HATE YOU.

  Don’t go.

  New this morning, local boy to take part in downtown farmers’ market while simultaneously wishing he could be anywhere else. The weather remains rightfully unsettled.

  Faith launches four glass apple-butter jars that Joelle—the warmest version of a cinnamon-scented hug I’ve ever seen—gifted us the day we moved in next door. The glass shatters, covering a good portion of our laminate kitchen floor. Thomas has left for work at the water company while Stella kneels to pick up each glass chip, palming them, smashing them into her skin like shimmering bits of glitter dust.

  “Not today, Faith,” she says in an exhausted huff. “Please.”

  I watch from the living room couch, where I’ve been given the task of safeguarding the remaining pieces of our farmer’s market stand comprised of a canopy tent, folding card table, three bunched-up chairs, enough metal poles to start a revolution, and several cardboard boxes of Stella’s handmade, lavender-lemon sugar scrubs and lotions. Faith plops into the empty space next to me, her arms crossed against her chest like a shield.

  “Why did you do that?” I ask.

  “Felt like it.” She shrugs with a precise combination of carelessness and curiosity; an excellent execution of a girl pretending not to care, while her body language and darting eyes reveal she very much does.

  “You know it’s not helping your case,” I tell her. “Stella’s doing her best.”

  “Don’t care.”

  I angle my body toward her slightly. “I think you do.”

  “What the hell do you know?” she grunts in a voice that so clearly lost all hope at such a young age, it could never be heard unless amplified by her own vocal chords at a volume and ferocity she can no longer control. She just wants a place to belong. Don’t we all?

  “More than you think,” I say, calm.

  Her eyes narrow into small slits, nostrils flaring. “Ugh! I hate this place, and I hate you.” She marches to her room and the door slam that follows knocks a photo from the wall. The sound startles my bones awake.

  Stella pops in to pick up the cracked photo glass. “Dammit. Why today? Why now?” She turns to me, rubbing the deep lines settled in her forehead. “Can you take that stuff to the truck?”

  “Sure.”

  “If we’re not out in five, assume the worst and save yourself.” She follows Faith’s footsteps and cups her mouth against the door. “We don’t slam doors in this house. I’m going to need you to open up and apologize, please.”

  I haul the items to the pickup. Between trips, I catch snippets of Faith’s colorful vocabulary that Stella’s been told not to react to. Stella’s usually gentle, but in Faith’s refusal to open her door, her patience wears thin. The air constricts.

  “That’s it,” Stella says, opening a junk drawer and lifting out a spare key. She breezes past, eyes glaring with a sparkling mania only Faith seems to conjure. She jiggles the lock loose. “Ah-ha!” she shouts with glee, closing the door behind her. Thomas would tell her to take a breath; to remember she’s the adult, not Faith.

  A quick glance at the clock shows we’re late to what the Ivy Springs Tribune refers to as “A Weekday Summer Delight,” though, as the shouting becomes more of an operatic song of sorts (with a possible cowbell ringing along to Stella’s emphasized words of GO; GO NOW!), we may miss our chance to make our grand entrance as the solid, united front Thomas and Stella have worked so hard to build.

  I’m reminded of the one time I shouted at my father. I’d failed an important math test, and while trying to calm me, Dad rested a hand on my shoulder. I shoved it off as quickly as it landed.

  “You don’t understand,” I told him, tears building. “I can’t do it. I’m not all you want me to be and never will be. I’m not you!”

  He pulled his hand back, surprised at how loud I’d become—how disheartened. “Dew,” he said, “you can do anything. I’ve witnessed it. Don’t let one test derail your hard work. We’ll get the help you need.”

  I’d stomped off to my room like Faith, but when the door slammed, I sat along the edge of my bed and sobbed—not because I’d failed, but because of how I treated a man whose only mission was to make sure I felt supported. After he died, that memory floated to the surface faster than most because it wasn’t until I left my room, ready to apologize, that I saw him secretly buried in Mom’s arms crying about how he’d failed me.

  I never raised my voice at him again.

  I wait in the small foyer, my hands tangled together, as Stella emerges, holding Faith by the crook of her elbow. Stella’s long, fire-dyed hair falls in sporadic directions and heights. She’s part triumphant warrior, part defeated parent.

  “We’re ready, aren’t we, Faith?” Her breaths are short, but she manages a slight smile.

  “Ready,” Faith repeats, pulling her elbow back to her side. Once she’s managed freedom, she pushes past me, through the door, and out to the truck, without us.

  “I won’t ask,” I say.

  “Better that way.”

  Once everything is secured, we pile into the rusted red truck like a hurried row of baby ducks. Our bodies press together in total silence. Faith’s long, blond locks drape over my shoulder. I carefully knock them away, but she notices and does it again, testing boundaries. I wish Faith would accept there’s nothing she can do that’s bad enough for Stella and Thomas, or even me, to “send her back.”

  “The weather is pleasant,” I say, breaking the silence. The lie soaks through my T-shirt.

  “The weather is shit,” Faith mumbles. Stella holds her gaze to the road, seemingly unfazed.

  “People who swear have a higher IQ,” Stella explained once in defense of Faith. “And they’re proven to be sincerer than the rest of us. So, as much as it stings to hear ‘fuck you and the fucking horse you rode in on’ from a ten-year-old’s mouth, we need to let her express the hell out of herself. Maybe then, she’ll see we’re not going anywhere.”

  “I hope people buy my scrubs,” Stella says now, pivots. “You never know what kind of crowd a new town will bring. Especially one as small as this.”

  Faith remains quiet, her hand weaving in and out through the window’s air, her fingers swimming through pockets of atmosphere with gentle fluidity.

  “If only I had all that apple butter Joelle gave me,” Stella adds. Faith’s hand stills.

  “Perhaps it’s for the best,” I say. “It could’ve been tainted. You wouldn’t want to poison the whole town so soon after we move in.”

  Stella smiles. “That’s what I’ll tell myself.”

  “See?” I nudge Faith. “You did her a favor.”

  Her hand continues its journey of flight, and I know I’ve somehow unlocked the next level in her secretly guarded video game.

  Breaking news: Girl accidentally smiles, may do it again in the future.

  Soon we reach the parking lot across from a community garden—where fruits and vegetables are harvested by the local food bank for the whole town’s use. Thomas said, “It’s so no one goes hungry,” something I know too much about. We had lost our already small, cold apartment and slept i
n our cluttered and cramped car. But the being hungry part was the hardest to explain—how you pray for bedtime to come fast so you can pass the time without feeling the pang. When things turned around and we could eat a complete, hot meal we didn’t have to share, it stuck with me: baked chicken with vegetable medley. It’s my favorite to this day.

  “Maybe I should look into volunteering,” I tell Stella, lifting as many cardboard boxes from the truck as I’m able.

  “That’s a great idea, Dew. Oh! There’s Nancy,” Stella says, pointing to the woman who runs the summer market. “You two head across, and I’ll be there in a few.”

  She leaves in a rush, scurrying up to the small-framed woman in a wicker hat. Faith stands with her hands shoved in her pockets, while the boxes I’m carrying threaten to topple. It feels as if all the air in town has crowded in around me. Sweat drips into my eye, blurring my vision.

  “What’s with you?” Faith asks.

  “Perhaps the weather isn’t as pleasant as I previously thought.”

  “Like I said—hot as shit.” She watches me struggle but offers no help.

  “We’d better find our spot.”

  “I hate people. Why do we have to be here? She doesn’t need us.”

  I tell myself to breathe; I’m okay. But the farther I walk from Stella’s view, the more I wish to disappear.

  “Right?” Faith repeats, more desperate than before. “We get in the way. At least, I do.”

  We cross the street where I stop along a brick wall and set the boxes to the pavement. While relieved at the lack of weight, I suddenly feel exposed. Like a raw wound still bleeding to the world. I take a step behind the boxes.

  “Listen to me,” I say. “That’s not true. She appreciates when we help.”

  “I don’t even do anything. I’m, like, a waste of space.”

  Though people are now passing with greater frequency, I take another breath and move in front of the boxes so Faith can see she is heard. She holds her arms tight against her chest.

  “Never say that again,” I say. “Stella loves you. I love you. You’re a delightful use of space.”

  Her expression sours like the deflated fizz of a lemon-lime soda. Fists clenched, eyes shooting imaginary lasers through me. “Love is a lie.”

  Strangers weave in and out of our space. My body tightens.

  “Love is a verb.” My mother’s face passes in a wisp. I reach for her, but she disappears before I can grab ahold. “Stella and Thomas may not always say the right things, but their actions prove they’re filled with love for you. I hope someday, you’re able to accept that feeling.”

  For a moment, the people surrounding us fade. I see the fear in Faith’s eyes. Like if she lets go of all her grief, she’s letting go of who she is, where she came from. I soften my stare. Her posture relaxes ever so slightly.

  “You’re pretty fantastic at a lot of things that have nothing to do with getting in anyone’s way,” I tell her. “Please know that.”

  “Such as?” She’s standing on a cliff, precarious. I tighten my lasso.

  “Throwing things. Shouting. Your tantrums are revolutionary. You could be a major league player or singer in a screamo band. We should all be so lucky to contain so much fiery rage in such a beautifully compact package.”

  “All of this is true.” I get her to semi-sort-of laugh—another level unlocked—and temporarily forget the crushing sensation inside my chest. The sidewalk becomes busier with each passing second. “Are you ready?”

  “Ready.”

  We make our way to where we’re to set up our things. I may not be able to maintain eye contact with a perfect stranger, or win the game of Faith, but I am a farmers’ market pro at sugar exfoliation and the art of a sale.

  Stella arrives minutes later to pitch the tent. Faith finds relief in switching between Minecraft and funny cat videos on my phone while we set up in, quite possibly, the worst best space in town. Worst, because it’s in the epicenter of the crowd, and best, for the same reason. Once everything is properly aligned, and customers begin to line up, Stella finds me huddled behind everything.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I manage, but the word bubbles and burns against my tongue.

  “Are these made with anything synthetic?” a woman interrupts, holding a jar of sugar scrub.

  “All natural,” Stella reassures her. She turns back to me. “Do you feel okay?”

  “What is jojoba oil?” the woman asks.

  “It’s a moisturizer,” Stella answers, a littler sharper.

  She turns and moves toward me. The sounds overlap and compound. My eyes move from thing to thing in rapid succession. And my heart kicks wildly. Everyone, and everything, smashes me into a flat disc, unable to reinflate.

  “Will the lemon extract irritate sensitive skin?” the woman asks.

  Stella’s eyes expand. She turns to the woman, slow. “YES. IT’S THE WORST FOR SENSITIVE SKIN. DO NOT BUY.”

  The woman frowns, setting the tub on the table. Stella refocuses on me, but I’m seeing many versions of her that flash in and out. Now, she’s too close. I feel Faith’s eyes, too. Everyone is watching me. My hands begin to claw at my shirt, as if ripping it away will unblock my tightened lungs. I abandon our tent and sprint to the corner of the general store. I fall to my knees in the nearby grass, and try to catch a full breath, but my lungs have revolted. Stella and Faith run after me. Stella kneels, too.

  “You were doing so good,” she says, fingers brushing the side of my face. “What happened?”

  My words hiccup, tears explode from my lashes. What happened is, I want so badly to fit within this family. What happened is, my parents’ death shot a hole through me that may never repair. What happened is, standing in a field, surrounded by a sea of faces, intertwined with me, standing in a cemetery, surrounded by a sea of faces. Everything, and nothing, are triggers all the same.

  Faith kneels, too. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Go back to the stand.” Then reassures her, “He’s fine. We’ll be there in a minute.”

  Faith lingers, I look up and catch her fear-soaked eyes.

  “Faith—go,” Stella repeats. Reluctant, she does as asked, but turns back every few steps.

  “Is he okay?” a woman asks.

  Stella preempts the woman’s movements by shoving her arm between us. She becomes my barrier. “Yes, thank you.”

  The woman goes. Through my erratic breathing pattern, Stella gently guides my eyes to hers. “Hey, hey—look at me, look at me. We’re going to breathe together, okay?” she says. “Deep breath in,” she breathes in, “and out,” she breathes out, long and slow.

  I try, and fail. The oxygen leaps in dotted attempts.

  “Okay, listen.” She presses her forehead to mine and hums the August Moon song—“Forever.” I imagine my mother doing the same, the lingering scents of lemon and lavender intermingling with her rose oil. I close my eyes and breathe, forgetting everything around us.

  Mom’s voice breaks into the hum and Stella’s fades into the background. I pinch my eyes tighter, forcing the stray tears down my cheek.

  “Good,” Stella’s voice breaks in. “Again.”

  I breathe a full breath. And another. And another. Until she’s hummed the length of the song. Then, she cradles me in her arms like Mom once did. I could argue my caseworker revealed these comforts, but aside from my inherited love of August Moon, they’re things I’ve never said aloud.

  I finally let my body fall slack. She releases me from her grasp. “That was embarrassing. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, sweet Dew—you have nothing to be sorry for.”

  Nevertheless, my body crumbles in exhaustion. My panic attacks, the counselor explained, may come without warning, but the triggers are almost always related to my parents. PTSD, she called it, from the sudden loss of the only two people in my world. Inside the panic I’m not the ruler of my universe, but a prisoner.

  “You wanna go home
?” Stella asks.

  I manage a slight nod. She ruffles my soft curls with a wistful gaze.

  “You want me to drive you?”

  I glance to Faith. The table is surrounded by people. She ignores them completely, eyes locked on me. “No,” I say. “You need to stay. I’ll walk.”

  She looks me over. “You sure you’re okay?”

  I pull myself up to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the store window. It’s a shadow of who I was minutes before, but a survivor’s shadow. “I’m fine. It’s passed.”

  She tilts her head as if trying to decode my complex, and PTSD-altered, chemical makeup. “Can I hug you?”

  “Please do.” She wraps her hands snug around me, reminding me there is a space in which I’m unequivocally safe, and loved.

  A verb.

  “Once we find a new therapist here, we’ll find a way to make all this better. Okay?” I nod, but can’t manage a word. She rubs the tip of my chin before jogging off to the tent. Faith is still fixated on me. No smile or frown. No wave hello or goodbye. She’s just … there. I shove my hands in my pockets and keep my eyes to the ground as I walk off, because maybe I’m just … here, too.

  The instant the judge granted the Brickmans legal custody of me, my parents’ ghosts turned to dust that blew away with the wind. When new people surround me, especially in the name of trading my Diaz roots in to become more of a Brickman, I feel them come to life. It’s an unmistakable pain only loss of memory could bring. Maybe someday, it won’t hurt so bad.

  Until then, I press my invisible Band-Aid into place, and sing August Moon a little louder.

  For them.

  NAIMA

  Every turn of the wheel pushes us closer to our new, totally effed reality. As Nell slows the car to a crawl along Pearl Street, her eyes turn to the rearview mirror, where her fingerprints have stained the corners from adjusting and readjusting her line of sight—as if she’s looking back at the ashes, trying to remember what he felt like sitting next to her—but the angle never feels quite right.