2. Two
The words my dad says stick in my head like an annoying song I can’t shake all afternoon and into the evening as I make dinner.
Go through his things.
Let yourself have fun.
Let your kids have fun with you.
Let him go a little.
I look around the familiar kitchen. The same kitchen Travis had walked into every afternoon of our entire marriage. Like every day in the last year, my heart waits for him to walk in while my head knows he never will.
“Well, Nel…” he would say, loving the way the words rhymed. “Tell me how you broke the hearts of every man on this island today.”
Then I’d laugh and pretend I didn’t love how he thought that’s what happened when I was behind the bar.
The fabricated memory expands then pops like a bubble with a lash to my heart.
As I grab the carrots from the refrigerator, a faded newspaper clipping beneath a gaudy seashell magnet catches my eye.
Key Largo Pilot Travis Crawford Aids in Hurricane Irma Relief Efforts
The title is bold, just like he was, above a picture of him with his token broad smile as he leans against his seaplane wearing a Columbia shirt. His sand-colored hair is handsomely messy, and permanent dimples are carved into his cheeks. It’s not in color, but I can imagine the green of his shirt, the tan of his skin, and the gray of his eyes against the bold red stripe of the plane.
I wipe my hand on a dishtowel and trace the faded lines with a finger.
Most of the time, he had flown private charter planes in and out of the Keys, but when a hurricane hit a few years ago, he used his seaplane to help in relief efforts to deliver supplies to islands with closed bridges. He became a hometown hero.
The sound of the front door opening and closing pulls me back to reality.
“Hey, Mom!”
Marin drops her backpack on the floor and tugs at the scarf that ties back her stylish blonde pixie haircut.
I drop my hand from the clipping and smile at her. “Hey, kid! How was school?”
“Meh. The usual. Girls are dramatic, boys are idiots, my teachers are clueless.”
Her strawberry-colored lips smile, dropping when she sees the cutting board I’ve been working at.
“You cut a cucumber?”
It’s more of a question than a statement as her blue-gray eyes—Travis’ eyes—widen slightly, and she steps toward me.
“Umm, yeah.” I clear my throat. “I’m making a salad to go with burgers tonight. I thought we could eat on the patio and grill.”
I try to say it nonchalantly. I try to say it in a way that ignores the fact that for a year, most of my cooking was in the form of boxes of macaroni and cheese, frozen pizza, or reheating something I brought home from work.
“Okay,” she says, dragging the word out with skepticism.
She looks between the bowl of chopped vegetables and my face then gives me an unexpected hug—as though I’ve done something amazing—before wordlessly walking to the table and spreading her books across it to start her homework.
I stop, mid-rinse of the carrots, and look at her.
Between her spunky hair, small nose dotted with freckles, and heart-shaped lips, she looks like a fifteen-year-old fairy that hasn’t yet grown wings.
Unlike me, she handled the loss of her dad like someone who had written volumes on healthy grieving. She spent the first days by my side in my crusade to find him, convinced just because they found his plane shredded to smithereens didn’t mean he wasn’t alive.
“I’ve read about people that get in accidents and walk away without even a cut all the time!” she insisted.
After a week of dive teams and recovery efforts relentlessly looking for him and investigators explaining all the reasons they had for declaring him deceased, she accepted their words. While I continued to cling to hope and Google things like how long you can survive treading water, she read sad poetry and then went back to living her life. Meanwhile, I entered a monogamous relationship with misery and stayed fully committed.
When the front door opens and closes again, Finn steps into the kitchen, stack of books under one arm. I turn, shooting him a smile over my shoulder with a “Hey Finn,” before peeling the carrots at the sink.
“Mom’s cooking,” Marin says in a way that implies something else. Like disbelief.
He snorts but says nothing.
As usual.
While Marin is everything easy for me, Finn is not. Gone is the talkative little boy who loved me more than life itself, and in his place a reserved young man who would rather have a lobotomy than a conversation with his mother. Travis had bridged the gap, but with him gone, it’s become staticky radio silence between us most days. At seventeen, he’s at an age where he knows more than me. Every conversation I attempt ends with something that teeters on being an argument.
Don’t take it personally, Nel,Travis told me once.
I hated that advice with a passion. Isn’t the way a mother and son interact the epitome of personal?
Finn runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair and watches me from the doorway, face slanted in annoyance, wielding his superpower of silence.
“I’m making a salad, and I thought we could grill burgers and eat on the porch tonight,” I tell him, playing my favorite game of answering questions he never asks.
“I didn’t know you still knew how to cook.” The bored tone in his voice makes me want to scream. Instead, I exhale.
To a fly living on the wall of this house for the last year, there would be no denying I appear to be a woman who has no clue how to cook anything that isn’t gelled together with preservatives.
“Well, don’t say that until we see if it’s edible.” When I chuckle, he walks away.
Down the hall of our tiny bungalow, the only response he gives is the click of his bedroom door as it closes.
The searing pain in my chest from the sound feels like water boiling.
For the millionth time in the last year, Travis’ absence is so incredibly loud, I almost have to plug my ears for fear of going deaf.
***
“Your grandpa told me today I’m stuck.”
I don’t know why I say it, but dinner is too quiet, and my brain is too loud.
Marin chokes on her bite of cheeseburger while Finn says nothing.
Of course.
I take a sip of wine and stare out of the patio to the hedge of sea grape leaves that fan out like waxy veined saucers.
“Well?” I demand, knowing damn well their silence means they agree.
“Mom, what do you want us to say to that?” Marin asks gently, scrunching her freckled nose. “Everyone grieves differently. It’s just…”
Her voice trails off only for Finn to pick up where she leaves off.
“Let’s see, Mom,” he starts, without hesitation. “You freaked out on an entire church full of people because you thought Dad was alive after two weeks of being out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Then, you spent the last year of our lives moping around while also pretending he was just out running an errand. So, yes, I’d say Grandpa got that right.”
Finn’s amber-brown eyes look at me like he’s challenging me to a duel.
Here’s the thing I’ve learned about being a parent to teenagers—half of the time, I love them so much it hurts while the other half I wonder if shoving knives under my fingernails would be more enjoyable.
“Finn!” Marin hisses, but he’s unphased. He simply shrugs.
“Tell me how you really feel,” I mumble, stabbing a fork into my salad.
“I think what Finn was trying to say, Mom, is that you don’t seem to… have fun anymore. You go to work, you come home, you wear a lot of gray.”
Her eyes drop to my gray shirt, and I don’t miss the look of disgust she fails to hide.
“And we never talk about Dad,” she continues. “As much as we all miss him, it’s like we have to pretend he never existed.”
The words sting like a well-deserved slap.
I can’t argue with any of it. I had freaked out on an entire church. My wardrobe does resemble that of a warm weather undertaker, and I do avoid talking about Travis. But do I mope?
I scoff. “I don’t mope.”
“You don’t mope?” Finn clasps his hands together over his plate as he leans against his elbows on the table, eyebrows raised. “Marin, you know all these fancy words. Explain to Mom what moping means.”
“Sad. Gloomy. Low spirited. Sulky. Broody,” she says, ticking the words off on her fingers.
Damn her and the books she’s always reading.
I have no defense. They’re right, and so was my dad in his obnoxiously cheery retirement garb.
I look back to the leaves as they rustle in the breeze and try to figure out how to handle this news.
“Well, what am I supposed to do about it? He was supposed to be here, doing all this with us. It’s hard not to be low spirited when it constantly feels like he keeps forgetting to show up.”
My voice comes out in an almost whine even I feel annoyed by.
“Really, Mom?” Finn scoffs. “He didn’t forget to show up. He died. Though seeing how miserable you’re acting, I wouldn’t blame him if it was his choice.”
If he wasn’t my kid, I would have kindly told Finn to fuck off.
Marin whips her head towards him. “Finn!”
I hold up my hand and bat his comment away, refusing to feed into the argument he’s looking for.
“Stop right there.” I fight to swallow every ugly word I want to hurtle out of my mouth. “I got it. I suck at this. Your thoughts are noted, Finn. Apparently, you both think Grandpa is right, so I’ll work on it. Happy?”
I cross my arms over my chest, pouty child mode fully activated.
“Maybe we could go on a vacation or something?” Marin offers, hopefully.
I force a smile, but the idea of a vacation without Travis makes my temples throb. I consider telling them about my dad essentially firing me for the summer but force it out of my mind. I don’t have the mental capacity to handle that conversation on top of the lovely one we’re already having.
There’s a long pause that seems to go on for hours as we take bites of our food and live in our own heads.
“How about we share a favorite story about Dad?” I suggest. “We can’t go on a vacation tonight, and I can’t change the fact my wardrobe rivals the Grim Reaper at the moment, but I can do better about talking about him.”
It’s a moment, albeit an ugly one of sorts, where I need to show them I’m willing to pull myself out of whatever mud pit I’m stuck in and keep living alongside them. I know my kids will look back at the year after Travis left and remember how poorly I handled it. But I can’t let one year turn into two, turn into a lifetime of me being a shell of a woman.
“Me first!” Marin’s squeal almost makes me laugh, and God bless her, she’s beaming.
“Today’s favorite story is when I was six and in ballet. Do you remember?”
Finn and I nod as a silent truce forms between us from the lightness of her words.
“I was so scared to go on stage, so Dad stood with me backstage. When it was my turn to go out, he just hoisted me on his shoulders and danced with everyone else.” She laughs. ”All the parents were so shocked, and the other ballerinas were giggling, but I felt like a queen up there.”
Her hands are over her head as she finishes talking. She looks every bit like the six-year-old girl who twirled on top of her daddy’s shoulders.
“I remember how pissed that mom sitting next to me was that he was stealing the show from her daughter.” I say over the rim of my wine glass, making them both laugh.
“Finny, your turn! Tell us something good.”
Marin takes a bite of her burger while she stares at her brother like he’s about to reveal the secret of life.
“When I was fifteen, I got invited out to the sandbar with some friends, but Mom said no because she didn’t trust them.” His eyes meet mine, but shockingly, there’s no contempt in them. “Dad knew everyone was going to be out there, even Emily, who you know I was convinced I was in love with.” He wipes his hands on his napkin. “Anyway, Dad felt bad I couldn’t go, so he took me up in the seaplane and landed near where everyone was, letting me get out and swim for a little bit. Boats are a boring way to arrive at any party, he told me. And then we flew home and never told anyone about it. On Monday, nobody could stop talking about it. Even Emily. Who I wasn’t even in love with, apparently.”
He smiles again, and my heart expands and collapses with the grotesque beauty of it all.
“God, that sounds like your dad. And he had a knack for finding loopholes when I told you guys no, didn’t he?” I smile, shaking my head.
“Your turn, Mom!”
I wouldn’t be surprised if Marin’s enthusiasm had an actual pulse.
“Hmm….”
I have a collection of encyclopedias worth of stories I can tell, but I know, in my heart, all the good ones start at the beginning. I set my wine down and lean back in my chair.
“I was home from college, working at the bar, of course.” I smile as I say the words, feeling like I’m there again.
I’m twenty-one without a care in the world, working at my dad’s bar for the summer. I can smell the fish and feel that sticky dryness of my skin that only happens after way too much time in the ocean. I can see the pelicans that line the docks as they wait impatiently for whatever scraps the fisherman will throw their way.
“I was behind the bar at the time of day the fisherman and day drinkers started trickling in, and in he walked, taking a seat on a stool and ordering a beer. I noticed him, but I knew better than to think beyond him buying beer. I chatted with him the way I did with all the customers, teasing and swatting my bar rag at him, trying desperately not to get lost in those gray eyes of his. But he stayed on that barstool all afternoon, flirting relentlessly. When he finally stood to leave, he asked my name. Nel, I told him. He smiled his crooked smile, laid cash down, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, ‘Well Nel, I bet you break the hearts of all the men on this island when you’re behind that bar.’”
They both look at me—almost fascinated—as a wet sheen forms over my eyes.
As bad as it hurts to relive the memory, it feels good. So good. They knew we met at the bar, of course, but they had never heard the story of why he always said ‘Well Nel’ at the end of every day.
In this moment, I desperately don’t want to feel sad. I’m so damn sick of sad, it’s suffocating. I want the magical spell of happiness we had cast over the table for the first time since he left us to stay.
So, I reach for it.
Spinning my wedding band around my finger, I blink back my tears and lean against the table.
“And then we made out on the dock where they unload the fish after I got off my shift.”
My grin is so big it hurts my face.
Finn shakes his head and rolls his eyes while Marin snorts and throws her napkin at me.
“Way to ruin it, Penelope.”
I laugh—both at the use of my name and the reaction.
I don’t bother telling them what happened a few weeks later on their grandpa’s boat. I figure some stories would always be just ours.
***
As Marin and Finn do the dishes after dinner, I open my computer to finish the work my dad derailed me from earlier. Opening my email, I’m shocked to see there’s already a response from the restaurant owner in Maine.
Penelope,
Thanks for the message. I’m no expert, but I’m flattered by the question and happy to help. Ask away.
Also, I have to know—apparently?
Ethan
I was so annoyed by my dad’s request I almost hoped my email was as far as this was going to go.
Clearly, he picked up on said annoyance.
I blow out a breath and hit reply.
Mr. Mills,
Thank you so much for this. I’m not exactly sure what to ask. My area of expertise is the bar, and my reaching out to you is regarding the restaurant portion of our business. We currently order from distributors for most of our food—do you do the same by finding ones that are Maine-based, or do you go smaller than that and find local-to-you farmers and go from there?
No rush to respond—we won’t be making changes until our slow season anyway, which is summer.
Thanks,
Penelope
I reread, making sure I’ve asked questions that will help whatever it is my dad is trying to do, then add,
P.S. If you don’t understand my use of the word apparently, then I’d say it’s pretty apparent you aren’t in business with your dad. That’s an experience that really expands your vocabulary.