26. Colt
26
colt
“We’re not taking that.” I zip up my suitcase. “Sloane. You do not play, nor have you ever played that banjo.”
“But PopPop got it from Steve Martin. You know the Steve Martin.”
We’ve been listening to his banjo album with Edie Brickell for weeks now. She went all through his comedy albums, read his books and has poured herself into being one wild and crazy guy.
She rolls a small bag into the room and props the banjo case with it. She’s still wearing her perennial white suit with a black tie and the fake arrow through her head. It’s all she’s worn for the past two and a half months, and we don’t know what to do about it. We , damn. I do that all the time in my thoughts. It’s not we , it’s I. Gemma’s not here. A fact we’re still navigating around after three and a half months.
I bought Sloane four versions of that suit. Gemma would have hated it, not as much as she disliked me at the end, but at least my little girl is happy or comforted by the suit. Like it has magical properties to deflect grief.
Daisy holds dual emotions at any time. Angry and excited or happy and sad. I give her a wide berth to feel all the feelings. The accurate test of a girl dad has begun. I’m incapable of doing anything right, and I’m her punching bag for her grief. She has yet to find a suit to help her deflect.
Counseling has done us a world of good. The girls went into therapy the moment Gemma told me about her diagnosis.
Before she died, I did tell Gemma the one thing I shouldn’t have. I forgave her all her cruelties, jabs and slights save one. I wanted her to feel the wrath I’ll never be able to overcome.
I told her she was selfish for refusing treatment until it was too late and that’s how stage 2 becomes stage 4, neglect and regret. She’s vain and didn’t want to lose her hair or breasts. She didn’t want to miss out on the box at the US Open or some bullshit state dinner. I’ll never stop being furious about that or understand how she could do this to her daughters. She told me I robbed her of her life when quite the opposite is true. But that’s a therapy thing I’m coming to terms. I can be angry and move on. My therapist reminds me not only will I never understand, but that her behavior was akin to suicide. That’s how I should process her death. That’s fun, isn’t it?
All things that popped up after Maggie stopped texting me. I would’ve gone to Reno or Portland or wherever she currently is to see her and talk to my friend. To sit with her and process. But something snapped in me when Dax almost died, and Maggie disappeared. It’s as if life became a laser focus of providing a path for the girls’ future where they get to choose instead of being told who to be.
I’ll always be in love with eighteen-year-old Maggie. But the times we’ve texted as adults we were laying a new foundation to something else. And once again. I don’t get it. That’s two things I’ll never forgive Gemma for.
Today’s about doing something insane, and I only asked the two people who actually matter. We’ve said our goodbyes and heard all the objections. I’ve ignored advice, counsel, and blustering from our families. I picked the country, and the girls picked the town.
I yell from the back bedroom, “Daze! You packed?”
She screams from the room next door. “I am. I hate everyone here. It’s time for me to shine and go where people appreciate me.” I roll my eyes at Sloane, and she laughs.
“You’re going to have to check your arrow, Slygirl. You know that right?”
“I do. I have rabbit ears for the plane.” She nods and picks up the banjo case and hugs it close to her.
“Fine. I’ll have Mamie ship it.” I walk past her and into the hallway of beige and cream flowered wallpaper, utterly colorless. That’s what my life with Gemma was and aside from the girls, colorless. I refuse to color inside the lines for one more fucking second.
“Let’s go get messy, girls!”