42. Then
Then: February 20th
M om’s funeral was on Monday, three days ago. Dad planned the entire thing, which I am grateful for. It is enough just waking up in the mornings, much less planning the most dreaded part about the end of someone’s life. They tell you that life is short, but really, they have no idea.
To be honest, I don’t remember much of it. My brain has been in a constant blurry state. Dad offers to take me out of school for a couple of weeks, but I know as soon as it’s over I’ll still have to face everyone. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off now and go. Besides, it keeps me away from home, and thinking about her and what she did in there.
At first, Dad and I barely look at each other.
Despite my protests about staying home, he’s decided to take some time off work himself. Good for him. He never bothered to take enough time off for family vacations, but because Mom is no longer around anymore, he’s allowed a “vacation.” I know I’m being a bit harsh, but I’m not myself. How could I possibly be? And Dad doesn’t know the other half of it. He doesn’t know about my accident.
I don’t have a clue how I made it home that day. When I think about it, I seriously consider it as some strange miracle. As though a guardian angel (maybe it was my mother, who knows) guided me back home. I do remember parking her car in the garage and being greeted by my wailing father as soon as I came in. It only took a moment to register that he'd found Mom the same way that I had. I’d been too mad at him for not answering any of my calls, so instead of speaking to him about where I’d been, I came home and shut myself in my room that night.
I didn’t even come out when the police had come to talk to Dad and take Mom away from us. It made it all feel too real, too final. The police wanted to ask me some questions, but my father waved them off. He said if anything came up about my mother, he would give them a call. I don’t think he ever called, because what was there to say? Her death had been no mystery.
She downed all of her sleeping pills along with all of her depression/anxiety pills. There is nothing left to question. It’s plain and obvious. I’m not sure if this was worse or not, but she didn’t leave a note of any kind. Nothing. My mother, with all of her lists and poems, couldn’t find it in her to write a final goodbye. For that, I can never forgive her.
The big surprise we had planned for her birthday was her new book of poems. I’d taken her old journal and typed up every single one and bound them into a new cover Dad and I had designed. The front cover had a Phoenix bird, one of her favorite mythical creatures. Underneath the bird was her name typed out in a fancy, handwritten font. And now she’d never get the chance to see it, feel it, hold it. I’d been too late.
Since he’s been home a lot more, he’s attempted to cook a few meals. They aren’t great, but they aren’t terrible either. At least he is trying, it’s more than I can say for myself .
Tonight’s dish is classic spaghetti and meatballs. I can’t even remember the last time I had this meal, probably when I was in elementary school and I’d been a super picky eater. It’s not something Mom made when she was still alive. If she could only see us now, what would she say?
“I’m thinking about moving my position to work from home so I can be here for you more. Uh, I’m… I’m sorry I haven’t been around as much as I should’ve been, kiddo,” he says, slicing a meatball on his plate and taking a large bite.
I poke around at the food on my plate. I’m not really hungry. Everything makes me think of Mom, and it doesn’t feel right eating without her. It’s pathetic, but I can’t help it. If she were here we would not be eating boxed noodles with a canned jar of tomato sauce poured over the top. Mom would have made noodles from scratch along with her rosemary vodka sauce and homemade meatballs.
I’m not sure what he expects me to say to him, so I say nothing at all. The silence between us is common anyway, he probably won’t even notice. He does.
“Sweet P. Look at me. Please,” he tries. His gray eyes look even more tired than before. The lines underneath his stone gray eyes are even more pronounced, deeper, fuller. I don’t think he’s slept much since he found Mom. I’m not sure how it’s possible to sleep again… she looked so peaceful. I thought she’d been sleeping. I would give anything if she had only been asleep when I found her.
“Don’t call me that,” I say instead, ignoring the hurt look in his eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, and at this I look up at him.
“Talk about what?” I say flatly.
A sound like a sigh escapes his lips before he brings a hand to his mouth and clears his throat. “Your Mom. That day. You’ve shut yourself away in your room, and I’ve wanted to give you some space. ”
Space. That’s a funny thing to say. He gives me plenty of space. Like I need even more of it right now, but that’s not exactly fair of me. This time I put the distance between us. I have to.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to be angry with him. He should have answered his phone sooner. He should have been home with me. There were a lot of ‘should-haves’ that day that turned out to be empty promises instead.
I don’t answer him, not right away.
As if he can read my thoughts he says, “I should have been there. I should have picked up the phone and came to get you from school. You never should have walked yourself home. I should have seen Mom first, not you. Nobody should have to see their mother that way, and I wasn’t here to protect you from that. I wasn’t here… I wasn’t…”
Dad’s voice breaks, and for the first time ever he sits there and sobs in front of me. Big fat tears are rolling down his unshaven face. I can only recall seeing my dad cry twice in my life: the day of the funeral and right now.
At the sight of him burying his head into his hands, my eyes moisten too, and a single tear escapes. It’s at this moment I realize something—or maybe I’m just remembering something I’d forgotten… Dad is broken too. I’m not the only person that broke when Mom died. He did too. He is hurting right here with me. I am not as alone as I feel.
I scoot out of my chair and walk around the table to him. His body is like a rollercoaster, heaving up and down with every breath he cries. I’ve never seen him cry this hard, and it only makes me want to hold him tighter. It’s not just daughters that need to be held by their fathers; sometimes, it’s the other way around.
I lean across his back with my arms draped around him in a bear hug, the warmest embrace I can manage. We stay like this for a while, until finally he starts to lift up, the tidal wave subsiding. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and sit back down in my chair, watching him. Hoping he’s okay .
“Dad?” I say softly. Gently. I don’t want him to retreat back inside the shell he often hides in.
“I failed you that day, P. And I’m so sorry. So unbelievably sorry,” he says, and I know full well that he means it. He means it with his whole heart.
I shake my head. “No, Dad. You didn’t fail. It’s no one’s fault, okay?” That is mostly true. If I am allowed to be angry at anyone, it should be Mom. We wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation if she were still around. If she had only stuck around… but I can’t go there right now.
He’s not to blame. And he still has no idea what else happened that night. The terrible mistake I’ve made. I am not guiltless. I am to blame for my own wrongdoings. A sin he may never know.
He hesitates, but he nods his head in return. “Okay, Sweet P.”
“Dad…” I say, quirking my eyebrow up at him. It takes him a minute to figure out what I’m talking about and then a tiny smile crosses his features.
“I’m sorry, it’s a habit. I’ve always called you that.”
“I know,” I say, quietly averting his gaze, adding, “but so did Mom.”
I don’t have to look at him to know he now understands the weight of it. What hearing that name does to me every time he says it. But a small part of me doesn’t want it to go away.
“Okay, I’ll try my best not to use it. I want to be here for you, okay? I need you as much as you need me. Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” I lie. Neither of us are fine. I don’t think we know how to be “fine,” but nobody ever means it when they say it anyway.
He sighs and eats another bite. I stare down at my plate, poking and prodding, not eating.
“I know it’s going to take us both some time to get there. Probably a long time. Just… know that I’m here okay? I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
At this I look up at him, my eyes intense and angry. Like a switch has been flicked on, suddenly the anger I’d pushed down is now bubbling up to the surface.
“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that to me. Mom used to promise me things all the time, and she hardly kept any of them. So don’t you dare promise me you won’t leave me too. Nothing bad will ever happen to you, and I won’t be left alone to fend for myself. Don’t,” I spit out, rising from the table.
His eyes flash something I’ve never seen before, but he just sits there, unmoving. Stunned by my outburst.
“I’m not promising anything…” he says carefully, cautiously, afraid of me.
I’m afraid of myself.
“But as long as I’m able to, Lord-willing, I will be here for you. That, I can promise.”
I excuse myself and leave the room. I spend the rest of the night reading through Mom’s journal. I fall asleep reading the last poem she ever wrote, one that she’d written for me. The one I’ve read so many times I know it by heart.
“Phoenix”
Eyes of fire, full of desire
My little girl this is for you
You’re my spitfire, my ride or die
I’d do anything for you.
You take hold of the pen
Like nobody I’ve seen
And you dream
Higher than the moonbeams.
Light of my lif e
You light up my world
If only I could keep you
In it forever.
My little girl
Stay young, stay bold
With wings like a phoenix
And a heart made of gold.