Chapter 7 #2
That evening, I arrived at the church parking lot a few minutes before seven and waited for Annie to come out of her first teen support group meeting.
I’d dropped her off at six and then had walked down to the beach to kill time.
It had been a good choice. I’d had a nice walk and felt relaxed and ready for dinner with my daughter.
A few kids trickled out in twos and threes, wearing shorts and T-shirts, looking like typical teenagers. Yet, they weren’t. They were kids whose lives had been irreparably changed the moment their loved one left the earth.
Annie came out talking to a girl with purple-streaked hair. They hugged goodbye. Strange. Annie wasn’t one who hugged a stranger. But maybe the intimacy of shared experience bonds people fast.
A moment later, my daughter arrived at the car, opening the door and sliding in, smelling of sunscreen.
“Hey, Mom. Thanks for picking me up.”
“You’re welcome. How was it?”
“This is going to sound weird, but it was actually really good. I mean, yeah, it’s so sad to hear the stories but, on the other hand, it feels good to just be real with other kids who get it.” She pulled the seatbelt across and clicked it in.
“Who was the girl you walked out with?” I asked, starting the engine.
“Her name’s Jade. Her dad died too. She’s really nice.”
“Has she been attending long?”
“For six months. She says it’s legit.”
Unsure what legit meant in this context, I waited to hear more but she didn’t elaborate, sitting quiet for a block, just looking out the window. As I stopped at a light, she turned to look at me. “I figured something out tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“You know how Dad’s note said we’d be better off without him? How he was a weight holding us back and we’d finally be able to breathe and everything.”
My hands tightened on the wheel. We had never talked about the notes.
I’d put mine away in a box with some of Jon’s keepsakes.
There was no one in his family to give anything to, but I couldn’t seem to part with any of it.
Even his last note to me. I’d assumed she had hers somewhere, but in six years neither of us had said a single word about them.
“I remember,” I said carefully.
“He said, ‘I love you too much to keep hurting you.’” She paused, taking in a breath. “I took that to mean that loving me was the thing that hurt. Like I was too much for him to handle and maybe, if I hadn’t been born, he would have been okay.”
I kept my eyes on the road, trying not to sob. How could my sweet daughter think it was her fault? That she’d been too much of a burden? In fact, it had been the opposite. I believed to this day that Jon hung in there as long as he could because of Annie.
“But tonight, Marcus, he’s our group leader, was talking about how it’s important to differentiate between what was the disease and what was them.
And I started thinking that his notes to us weren’t really from him, they were from his illness.
” She turned to look at me. “So it wasn’t about me being too much.
Or the cause of anything really. It was that he was sick. ”
“We’ve talked about that before.” Had we?
No, we hadn’t. That was the truth. I couldn’t talk about Jon or his illness or how I felt like it was my fault. And I’d let my daughter down because of it.
“We haven’t, though. I talked with the therapist about it, you know, when I was going there.”
“But not you and me.” I could barely get the words out, the weight in my chest almost unbearable.
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“It’s not, though. I’m sorry. It’s just been … too hard. I don’t know how to talk about it.”
“I know. Which is why we should go to these meetings.”
“I’m glad it went well,” I managed. “But it breaks my heart to think you’ve been carrying that around all this time.”
What else did she believe?
“It’s weird this group is already helping me. I mean, it’s not like talking about it changes anything. But it felt good to be there, Mom. Thanks for letting me do it.”
“If it helps you, then I’m all for it.” My voice came out steadier than I thought it would. “I’m grateful you pushed for what you need. Even though it makes me feel …”
“What?”
“Inadequate.”
“You’re the one who’s always talking about our village,” Annie said. “This is just another part of it. Something that even our best friends can’t really help us with. Which means you don’t have to fix everything for me. Even if you tried, it’s not possible.”
“I wish it was,” I said.
“I know.” After a few seconds, she said, “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too.”
She turned away from me to gaze out the front window at the tangerine sun sinking low over the water. “Mom, you’re really brave. And strong. You’ve been more than enough for me. Even without our village.”
“Thanks, honey, that’s very sweet.” Tears came, despite my white-knuckled best efforts.
She reached into the glove box to hand me some tissues. “Let’s get ice cream.”
“We haven’t had dinner.”
“Let’s have it anyway,” Annie said.
“Yeah, why not? Ice cream for dinner.”
We were quiet for a moment. I turned down the street to our favorite ice cream place and found a spot right in front.
Before we got out, Annie stopped me with a gentle tap on my arm. “Did Dad like ice cream?”
Her question took me aback. “You don’t remember?”
“Not about ice cream.”
“He liked it, yes. But his true passion was donuts. The man was crazy for them.”
Annie nodded, her gaze far away. “He used to get them on Sundays, right?”
“He did. When you were small. In the later years, he didn’t.”
“The disease took donuts from him. Which really sucks.”
“Yes, it does,” I said, because it was true.
She squeezed my hand. “Tonight, I want to try lavender honey ice cream. It’s the flavor of the month, and I’ve been wanting to try it but then I always end up getting cookies and cream. I don’t know why.”
“You’re afraid to make a mistake,” I said. “Choose the wrong flavor and there’s no going back. You’re stuck with it.”
She nodded, smiling. “But it’s just ice cream. Right?”
“That’s right. And if you don’t like it, I’ll trade you for my cookies and cream.”
“You’re the best.”
“You’re the best,” I said, grinning back at her.
“But I’m going to keep it, no matter what. Lavender honey ice cream is my decision, and I should have to live with it.”
“Here you are, all grown up,” I said.
“Taking big risks with ice cream.”
We laughed, then got out of the car and started toward the entrance. I have to do it, I thought. I have to go to the meeting tomorrow night. If Annie could walk into that room, so could I.
She placed her hand in mine, like she had when she was little, and that made me want to cry all over again. Not from grief. Not this time.
It was the idea of this profound, exquisite gift of love that moved me to tears. How imperfect we all were, yet capable of loving so deeply and with such grace and forgiveness that, even after the darkest of times, we could laugh and hold hands and eat ice cream on a summer evening.