23. Colt
23
colt
“Not kidding. Get dressed and get out of there. Carpool will be here in five, and I will be by at two to run you to your dentist appointment.”
Daisy throws her arms in the air as she passes me. “Mom made that appointment.”
She does this little barb thing to me all the time. Like her grief has micro-darts meant to hit me in unexpected ways.
“I know, and we need to honor her by getting your teeth cleaned.” She seems satisfied.
“That’s the best Daisy turn around yet. Just tossed it right back. Nice, Daddy,” Sloane says.
Maggie: You up?
Colt: Yes, and insane with chaos around the house. I have to get to work, which I fucking hate. You okay?
Maggie: Yeah. Bored grading papers for an online class I’m teaching.
Colt: Up early?
Maggie: Not so fast there, Mister. No time zones.
“Dad! Are you even listening to me?” I am not. She only says valid things every twenty minutes or so. If I miss Gemma for no other reason, it’s teenage jabbering. She could listen for hours. I wonder if she hated it too, or we just never talked about it.
“What is it you think I missed?” She still falls for this every time.
“That Stacy invited Rhett to the dance, and I am not going to go because I think everyone is looking at me because Mom is dead.”
I pull her into my arms as the car honks. “No one is looking at you. They don’t know what to say. But you do not have to make them feel okay about their own weird emotions. Just ride whatever your emotions are and validate those. That’s what Dr. James said. You should go to the dance because it would be good for you to not sit on the couch with me arguing about what to watch or if I’m breathing too loudly.” Daisy laughs and kisses me on the cheek.
Sloane tugs at my back, and I turn to face the eight-year-old. “Hey, Dad.” She straightens her black tie, and I tighten it on her neck. She started dressing like Steve Martin two weeks ago and asked if I’d teach her how to tie a tie. Gotta be honest, never thought I’d hand down that skill as a girl dad but she’s pretty good at it. The arrow through her head appeared a week ago. She has to take it off for gym, but a little girl with a dead mom gets her a lot of latitude. She tucks her copy of Shop Girl into her bag. I kiss the top of her head surprised she hasn’t dyed her hair white yet.
“Come on, Daisy.” And then she mimics the accent, “We’re two wild and crazy guys.”
Daisy turns to me and rolls her eyes. “Dad. Seriously, stop her.”
I smirk. “Never. Tonight, we’re having pot roast and catching the end of season one of Only Murders In The Building , okay?”
Sloane squeals, tosses me some finger guns and she’s out the door.
Daisy mutters to herself and leaves. I lean against the door and exhale.
Colt: I think I’m going to quit.
Maggie: Will they all think it’s grief and not believe you?
Colt: I hate my fucking job so much. And we’re fine financially. I don’t want to plan other people’s futures anymore.
Maggie: Then don’t.
Colt: Simple as that.
Maggie: What do I know? I’m teaching online classes instead of doing crafts with tiny people.
Colt: I’m going to do it.
Maggie: Will it piss off your dad?
Colt: Yes.
Maggie: Will it do anything bad to the girls?
Colt: No.
Maggie: Will it Make you happier?
Colt: Yes.
Maggie: Then you don’t need me to tell you what you should do.
Colt: Will you craft something for me today?
Maggie: Yes. But only if you ruin a perfectly good career.
Colt: Deal.
I’ll do it this afternoon after my standing Wednesday appointment that Gemma did not make for me.
With my elbow on my knees, I keep staring at my hands. They look older but can you truly remember what your hands looked like when you were younger. I know thirty-three isn’t old, but when you’ve been expected to adult since middle school it feels old.
“Colt, talk about the emotion you’re having.”
“Guilt. How many times can we fucking talk about my guilt?” My voice booms through the office.
And then my words hang there in the air between us. I sit back and rub my hands down my thighs. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t your fault.”
She recrosses her legs and smiles at me. “You think I’m offended if you want to transfer your stuff on me? Is this the same guilt or different guilt?” she asks and it pisses me off because I don’t even know why I come here if I’m still feeling the same fucking emotions all the time.
I’ve been dancing around this my whole fucking marriage, her sickness, and her death. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t possibly be expected to hold this in. I’ve held everyone’s expectations, secrets and lies. I’ve held my tongue, my foot in my mouth and that damn woman’s hand through better and much, much worse. And I’ve held my daughters, but I can’t hold this one more fucking second.
“Same guilt, I guess. Haunting guilt since the day Daisy was born.”
“You need to say it.” She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, then leans over and fills my water glass from a pitcher with lemons in it.
“How are you always so fucking calm?” I ask her.
“It’s literally my job. Colt.” My eyes whip up to hers and I see her cock an eyebrow. “You have to say it. It’s time to say it out loud and don’t give it any more sway over your guilt or mood.”
“You already know.” I bluster and sit back on the couch and cross my arms.
“There’s a difference between knowing and acknowledging. And it’s time you acknowledge what you already know.”
I let her words weigh down on me like there’s a giant pushing down on my shoulders. It’s too heavy to carry. I squint my eyes and wipe them with my thumb and forefinger.
The words should erupt out of me but instead they drift out of my mouth as if I can’t stop them.
“I didn’t love her.”
And then I sit forward again to stare at that gray patch that’s slightly darker than the rest of the rug. It’s easier to concentrate on that spot sometimes than admit anymore shit to my therapist. There’s very little she doesn’t know about me. We started in couples counseling. Gemma eventually got her own therapist, but I stayed here.
“And?”
I rear back, “And I’m a terrible person for that. She’s dead.”
“And if she was alive would you love her?”
“No.” I blurt out, surprised by my answer. Then I point at the doctor and shake my finger at her.
“And did she love you?” I swallowed down all the shit spoon-fed to me my whole life, but reality hits differently when you’re presented with it in such a simple way.
I shake my head and swoop my bang out of my face. “No. I don’t believe she ever did. I get your point. But that doesn’t excuse that it’s awful I didn’t care about her.”
She points her finger up, then points at me. “Did you care about her?”
I search my mind and space around me for a moment for what I think will end this conversation faster. I’m done for the day.
“Sure.”
“Come on.” She nudges.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because she was a good mom.” My therapist makes a buzzer sound as if I got an answer wrong. “You can’t tell me I’m wrong about my answer.”
“I can if it’s avoidance. Colt. Why?”
“Because I’m supposed to.” I spit out without thinking carefully about my words.
“Exactly. But you don’t have to like her. You can respect her memory, care for your children, admire her as a mother, but you are under no obligation to fake emotions for her. You can both care for the woman and not love her. You can care for your children and not feel guilty about your emotions. Or…”
“Fuck. What now?” I stand and start to circle the space to the left of her chair.
She puts her iPad down and turns toward me with her hands open in front of her in surrender. I grin. “New subject.” She says.
“What?”
“What would you do and where would you go if you could do anything right now?”
I don’t hesitate. “I’d go to Italy.” I’ve often thought about running away, and I always end up in Italy in my mind.
“Why?”
“Because Gemma never wanted to go. And a girl I used to know thought Italy was magic. And that girl was magic.”
I laugh at the idea of Italy and squeeze my eyes tightly. Then once I’m composed, I say, “Unprompted, Daisy once told me she wanted to live there, and I never told her anything about the idea.”
“Then go,” she says with a straight face.
“There’s school and how will that look? I’m supposed to be in mourning. And running to a foreign country when your father happens to be the steward of American democracy doesn’t look great.”
“And? Are you in mourning?”
“Yes. Regardless of what I feel, my life as I knew it doesn’t exist anymore. And I don’t know how to fucking build a new one. But?—”
“You do,” she interrupts me, which she has done only once before. “As long as you know, you take all of this with you, you should go. All of these complexities will follow you, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t have a new experience to maybe put the rest of this into perspective. And I’ll be on the other end of a video chat. I know this won’t magically fix anything. And it certainly won’t cure your lifetime of guilt over a myriad of subjects but what’s the harm in doing something for yourself and in return showing the girls that self-care can be a good thing?”
I sit down in the chair next to hers as if the wind has been knocked out of me.
“Where would I go?”
“Let the girls decide.” She grins and I sit in silence for five minutes. I pick at the loose thread of my jeans. I notice a scuff on the bottom leg of her coffee table and a smaller one on my loafer.
“I don’t think I have an excuse not to.”
She puts her hand on my arm. “Then go.”
And for the first time in a very long time.
“Go at least for a moment. Break up something in your life so you can rebuild it the way you want. It’s time.”
I swallow down air and then push it out as if it’s releasing old tethers. I feel free. I feel an ember of joy I didn’t know I could still produce. Wonder what Maggie will think. First, I should figure out how I feel about it. But as Tony would say, ‘To Adventure.’