by Lisa Shelby
I was so relieved when my Aunt Lena arrived. I couldn’t get out of my mom’s fast enough. I needed to distract myself from the underlying guilt that was brewing deep down inside. I needed to stay busy. I took over the arrangements for the memorial, wrote his obituary and went that afternoon to clean out his room at the care facility.
When I checked in at the front desk, all of the women told me how sorry they were for my loss and asked if I needed help with anything. I accepted their condolences and politely refused their offers of assistance and made my way to the elevator that took me to what was left of my father.
He was my father. Never my dad.
He was not the dad who would sing you a song or read you a story before bed. He didn’t attend any school performances and he didn’t do all of those things that daddies that are wrapped around their little girls’ fingers would do. He didn’t tell me he loved me and he never bounced me on his knee or tickled me until I couldn’t breathe. He didn’t really talk to me much or acknowledge me in anything but a formal manner. I learned at a very young age to stay out of his way and to follow his orders precisely. Do what he said, when he said it, and to his liking and everything would be okay. Make a mistake and the world came to a crashing halt. At least my mom’s world did.
I will always have guilt for the times he took his anger out on her because I had done something to disappoint him. I will never forget the weight on my chest as I would cower in bed and listen to him tell her what a horrible mother she was and that she hadn’t taught me a thing. That I wasn’t going to amount to anything in this world, and it would be her fault. He provided for me and it was her job to teach me how to grow up to be a respectable woman. I was a kid. Kids make mistakes. There will always be a part of me that hates him for putting all of that on my mom and for not letting me be a kid.
His emotional abuse was just as bad as the physical abuse at times. When my father was around my Mom lacked confidence, and was a quiet and meek woman. When it was just she and I, she was a different person. We would sing and dance and we would always find something to laugh at. When I got older we loved to watch all the formulaic romantic comedies we could. We would laugh, we would cry, and most importantly we got to be ourselves. I got to see that strong, proud side of my mother. The woman who knew her own mind and had her own opinions. The woman that would sit and talk with me for hours on end about her childhood, her life before meeting my dad and her first love in high school. She gave me pieces of wisdom and taught me how to have respect for myself. God, she was an amazing woman in those moments!
Only once, during one of our all-night conversations, did she talk about the abuse that my father inflicted on her. That night she confided that her example of marriage wasn’t what she wanted for me. That she hoped that I would never fall in love with a man that treated me with anything less than the utmost respect and with love and tenderness. She followed that up by saying we can’t always control who we fall in love with, and that even though my father wasn’t always all of those things, she knew the man deep down inside and she couldn’t help but love him. She told me how sorry she was but that she simply could not, and would not, leave him.
I lived for my father’s business trips, hunting trips, fishing trips…any trip that would take him out of the house and as far away as humanly possible. Luckily for us this happened at least once a month. It was all about him and we never went anywhere with him.
Now that I’m older I wonder if there was somebody else? Or maybe many somebody else’s? Did he not only abuse his wife but did he cheat on her as well?
The thing that I appreciated most about my father’s trips was our time together. That she and I got to breathe. There weren’t any masks. It was just us. I got to see the real Miriam Stotts. It was a glorious sight to see, but it never lasted long. It was always so deflating to watch my mom’s metamorphosis right before my eyes. I could see her start to transform into the docile housewife the day my father would be expected home. The moment the door would open the transformation was complete and the quiet, scared, self-conscience woman was back.
It really is quite shocking that I haven’t become jaded. That I still believe in love.
Maybe it’s the fact that I had examples of true love all around me. Love that didn’t hurt. Love that lifted you up and made you better. I was surrounded by those people and those couples. Whether it was aunts and uncles or family friends, I was always surrounded by loving couples. I never doubted that love could be good and strong and that there was such a thing as the one.
Or maybe it was all of the romantic comedies I grew up on.
Or…it could be because of Mick.
I love that man with everything I am, but is that enough? I watched my mom love my father fiercely, but he still broke her heart every day. That was one thing my mother taught me, and I guess it sunk in. It hurts more when love is involved.
I didn’t feel anything when I flipped on the light and looked around my father’s room. I still didn’t feel anything when I picked up his things to pack them away. I could have been in any stranger’s room. I filled the plastic storage bin that I had brought with me, with his clothes and few personal items. There aren’t any keepsakes that really mean anything, but I still gathered it all for my mom. I knew she would want it all.
That was days ago and my emotions still haven’t surfaced. I can feel my heels sinking into the soggy grass as we stand at my father’s graveside. I just want the day to be over. I want my mom to finish grieving and finally move on with her life. We’re standing under a white tent and the preacher is speaking, but I don’t really hear the words. All I can think is that if he knew the real Randall Stotts he may not be saying the same things. There may not be so many tears shed today.
I hold onto my mom’s arm as I help her approach my father’s grave so that she can say her final goodbye and place a rose on top of his casket. I’m holding an umbrella over us with one hand and holding on to her tightly with the other. I’m waiting for her to fall apart after giving her final farewell but what she does next takes me by surprise and wakes me up and out of the fog I’ve been walking through all day. With her back to the crowd she takes a deep breath in, releases it and stands up tall with pride and strength. Wiping her eyes, she simply says, “Goodbye, Randall.”
She turns to me and smiles. “Thank you, Alexandra. Thank you for being the kind of daughter I could have only dreamed of when I was a little girl romanticizing about being a mom. Your strength astounds me, and I am so proud to be your mother.” She reaches up, touches my cheek and whispers for only me to hear. “Be happy, my sweet girl.”
She takes my hand in hers and turns us around to take our seats under the big white tent. She takes her place and as I work on closing the umbrella something draws my attention. I look up through the crowd and my heart stops. All those feelings that were buried deep within me come bubbling to the surface as my eyes take in the breathtaking man in the black suit standing in the rain behind the other funeral attendees.
He’s too far away for either of us to say anything, but by the look on his face I can tell that he doesn’t care whether or not I’m speaking to him or if I want him here. He looks determined. Seeing this beautiful man getting soaked to the bone in a downpour of rain so that he could be here to support me, if even from afar, is a sight that I will never forget.
He’s here.
My happy.
I haven’t answered his calls, his texts, his emails or his knocking on my front door and he’s still here.
All I want is too push my way through the crowd of mourners and throw myself into his embrace and let him nestle into his favorite spot. But I can’t. I need to take my place next to my mom and watch them lower my father into the ground. I know that I have to tear my gaze from his, and for the first time since receiving the news about my father the tears start to fall. The mix of the stress of the week, the moment I just shared with my mom and knowing Mick is here is the combination that it takes for my feelings
to take shape and finally release themselves.
I take my seat, and my mother’s hand and wait as the casket slowly disappears six feet underground. That’s it. He’s gone. My mom is finally free.
I make a point not to look back to see if he’s still here when we stand. My mom and I take our leave and carefully make our way through the wet cemetery to the car that will drive us back to Aunt Lena’s where everyone will gather. All I want to do is find his eyes again. His eyes that tell me he’s got me and that everything is going to be okay, but I don’t let myself. He makes me feel too much.
Simply put…he makes me feel.
When we reach the car the driver hands me an envelope and opens the door. I get my mom and aunt settled into the seats of the limo and I move over to the side seat and see that the envelope is addressed to Sweet Thing.
With shaky fingers, I somehow manage to get the paper out of the envelope. I can barely read the words he’s written on the page because of my trembling hands and my tear-filled eyes.
Alex,
I was so sorry to hear about your dad. If you need anything at all, I’m here. Please give my best to your mom.
I hope you got the flowers that I sent to the church?
I miss you every day.
I know now isn’t the time but if you ever want to talk about that night…I’m here. Day or night.
I can’t help but wonder what chapter you’re on or if you’ve put us back on the shelf?
Either way, I’m still here if you need me. Just call.
Please call, Alex.
Know that I am thinking about you and your mom. I am so sorry that you may be hurting right now, but I also hope that your dad’s passing brings you some peace. You deserve to be happy, Alex.
Love,
Mick
I bring the letter to my chest and press it against my heart with both hands. I am just barely holding on, finding it hard to breathe and to not break apart into ugly sobs. I want to read it again and scour it for hidden meanings, but I can’t see a thing through the pools of loss, pain, confusion, relief, exhaustion and love that have taken residence in my eyes.
Why did I have to get this note just as all of my feelings have come crashing down on me? Why is he still waiting for me? Why did he sign it, Love, Mick?
I can feel my mom and my aunt watching me and I tell myself that this isn’t the time or the place to be thinking about Mick. I need to be strong for the woman sitting across from me. The woman who just buried her husband. The love of her life.
More importantly, I need to be strong for me.
Holding the closest thing to a love letter I have ever received to my heart while looking into the tired eyes of my mom I realize that it’s time to take control of my life. To find my happy.
If I want my happy, I have to be ready to accept it. I need to figure out who I am. Who I want to be. I need to find the me that can let herself be happy. The me that doesn’t hold everything inside and shares her burdens with those that love her. The me that would be strong enough to have an adult conversation with Mick about what happened. The me that wouldn’t be scared to take that leap and give love a chance. The me that could bring herself to call. The me I want to be. The me I deserve to be. The me that could finally be happy.
I feel almost euphoric.
It’s strange how on a day like today, I would find that piece of me that is finally ready to try. To live fully. To have no regrets. To love myself so that I can truly love another as they deserve to be loved.
I’m not foolish enough to think that Mick will wait for me to figure myself out, and if he doesn’t I’ll be okay. He’s already been so patient. He’s given me so much just by being here today. Sharing his words and love on paper. He is my superhero in my time of need, and he doesn’t even know it.
I can only hope that once I’m ready he’ll still be willing to give us a chance. To let me catch up. To finally be on the same page.
“So, how are you doing, sweetie?”
It’s been a week since my dad’s funeral. Since I saw Mick. Since I decided to do what I need to do to find my happy.
“I’m good, Olivia. Happy Hour tonight is just what I needed! Cheers!”
We lift our glasses, clink them together and have the first sips of our drinks. She with her Moscow Mule and me with my Grey Goose and cranberry.
“Okay, now that we got that superficial answer out of the way, talk to me. You’ve been through a lot, Alex. It’s okay to not be great.”
Since my epiphany at the funeral, I decided that to be happy I have to live honestly, and that meant sharing everything with Olivia. I knew that if anybody would understand it would be her. She knows everything and has even gone to a couple of meetings with me here and there. I’m pretty lucky to have her in my life. I love Cami and Emily, and they couldn’t be more supportive, but Olivia has been through some of what I’ve been through only much worse. When she says she understands how I feel, she really does. It’s refreshing to have a friend like her. She’s such a great example of how you can turn lemons into lemonade. She inspires me every day to keep pushing forward.
“It really is true. Olivia, you know how things were with my dad. Yes, it’s sad that he died and the last years of his life were what they were, but I don’t miss him. I know it makes me sound horrible, but it’s a bit of relief, and I can only hope that my mom might start to live her life for the first time since she was a kid.”
I take a sip of my vodka-cran and wait for her to tell me what a shitty person I am. But Olivia is my girl, and she does just the opposite.
“Good, I’m glad. I’m not glad that he’s dead, of course, but I am glad that it’s brought you a bit of peace. I hope your mom’s able to find that same peace and she lets herself start to enjoy life a little bit. Not to sound crass, but your dad was a piece of shit and didn’t deserve you two. Now, the other part of my question has to do with Mick. Have you talked to him?”
“Nope, I’m not ready. Seeing him last week at the cemetery, standing there in the pouring rain even though I haven’t even returned a text in over a month, was everything. It meant so much to me, but that’s exactly why I’m not ready. I need to be strong enough on my own to give him everything that he gives me. He’s always there for me and it’s so easy for me to run away. He deserves more than that. I need to keep working on me for a while.”
“I get that. I really do, Alex. But how will you know when you’re ready? How do you quantify something like that? It’s not like there’s a test you take that tells you that you’re ready to be in a relationship.”
“I know that, Olivia. I also don’t think he’s going to sit around waiting for me. But I just know that I’m not there yet. I have to figure out why I was willing to push Mick away but I let Kevin in. I’m gonna keep going to therapy, going to group and doing my best to take care of myself. I’m still so ashamed of letting Kevin in and what that says about me. Sometimes it’s hard to look myself in the mirror. I know that I act like I’m fine, but I’m not. I’ve had moments where I was fine since Kevin, but I’ve come to realize that all of those moments were with Mick. I have to learn to be fine on my own.”
“I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”
“Thanks, but I’m just a work in progress. Baby steps I guess.”
“We’re all just a work in progress, but I’m still proud of you. I know you love Mick and the fact that you’re willing to risk losing him to do what’s right, to take care of you, to be your own happy…well, that’s pretty awesome, and whether you like it or not I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, now enough about me! I’m tired of talking about me, what’s going on in your world? How’s Tom?”
After about an hour of constant chit chat and much needed girl time, I’m waiting at the bar for our next round of drinks when I notice a guy at our tall bistro table in the center of the bar. I don’t know what they’re talking about, but Olivia is shaking her head back in forth, and as he leans closer to her she’s leaning
back in her chair trying to increase her distance from him. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my need to get back to our table is next level. I grab our drinks, throw money on the bar and haul ass back to our table.
When I reach the table I hear Olivia say, “Like I said, I have a boyfriend and I’m really not interested.”
“Oh come on, sweetie. I won’t tell your boyfriend, scouts honor.”
He hasn’t even noticed me so I give him a little tap on his shoulder. He barely looks over his shoulder and when he does he dismisses me quickly and turns his attention back to Olivia.
Oh really…
“I believe she said she wasn’t interested.”
He stops leaning on the table and stands up to his full height. With my heels on I’m a couple inches taller than him and he has to look up at me just a little bit. “I don’t recall asking for your help.”
“Oh you didn’t, but I am asking you to walk away. She’s not interested, has a boyfriend and she’s here with me. You’re wasting your time and ours.”
“Bitch, who do you think you are?”
He steps closer to me, and puffing out his chest and I can feel Olivia panic behind him. He doesn’t scare me. I’m done being afraid. Especially, of assholes like him.
I don’t know where I get the nerve but I step a couple of inches closer to him and quietly say, “This time I’m not asking. Walk. The. Fuck. Away.” I use my index finger to push his shoulder gently. Just to make my point.
“You fucking bitches are crazy.” He turns, walks away and scurries back to the bar where his friends are waiting for him laughing their asses off after watching him not only get shot down, but also get his balls handed to him in a snack size zip-lock baggie by a girl.
I sit down and take a sip of my drink, and Olivia just stares at me with her mouth hanging open.
