How Many Letters Are In Goodbye?

by Yvonne Cassidy

  Do you like making lists? I do. Lists are like the subway—you can’t get lost in a list.

  Today, I got out at 116th Street, on the 1 Line. You know where that goes. That’s where I’m writing from—Columbia University. It’s not my first time here—I came on Wednesday, but I couldn’t come inside the gate. I don’t know why—I got off the train, like normal, go up the steps with everyone else, just like normal, but when I get to the top, right outside the gate, I stop. I just stand there on the sidewalk, watching people go in and out the gate, down the main path or along the red-brick ones on either side, up the steps into buildings that I’ve read about in their brochure. I stand there and I try and move but it’s like my body won’t let me move any closer, so after twenty-five minutes I get back on the train to go and meet Sergei.

  Today, I walked through the gate. I made a kind of run at it and walked really fast looking straight ahead so I wouldn’t have to think about it. I walked past J-School and Hamilton Hall like they’re any old buildings. And now I’m sitting on a bench outside the Butler Library where your book Will You Please Be Quiet, Please? is now twenty years, five months, and fifteen days overdue. Right now, it’s in my backpack next to me, along with two pairs of jeans, my navy Champion hoody, three T-shirts, five pairs of knickers, four pairs of socks, one bra, and my sketchpad, which I haven’t looked at since I left Florida. Fifty thousand times a day I kick myself for taking that and forgetting my Discman and my CDs.

  The book is one of the only clues I have, along with the subway map and the two photos of you that Dad gave me. Not that it’s much of a clue. There are no notes inside, no turned-down pages. Did you even read it? And if you did, which of the twenty-one stories was your favourite? Did you mean to steal it or did it come to Ireland with you by accident, hidden in your luggage? I’ve read them over and over, those stories, and I want to love them but I don’t love them. If you want to know the truth, I don’t even like them really. I don’t get most of them—nothing happens, no beginning, no middle, no end. They’re kind of like life, not like stories at all.

  Do you want to know about the two photos I have?

  The first one is of you taken here. I know it was taken here because it says “Columbia, 1978” on the back in loopy writing in blue pen that Dad says was your writing. The ink is faded now and I keep it in a Ziploc bag, inside the Raymond Carver book, so I won’t wear away any more of it.

  If it wasn’t for the writing, I wouldn’t know where it was taken—it’s just a close-up of your face, you can’t see the background. You’re very pretty, smiling and young-looking. I wish I knew when in 1978 it was taken. It looks like the autumn or winter. You were born on 23rd November 1959, so if it was before that you are eighteen and if it was after that you are nineteen. I think you are eighteen. I’m nearly eighteen but you look nothing like I look. Our hair is the same colour, but yours is straight and brown and clips your chin and mine is only stubble since Sergei shaved the rest of it off except for the long part at the front. And your eyes are brown, like Aunt Ruth’s eyes, and mine are blue, like Dad’s. You have this amazing smile, it’s a really real smile, almost a laugh. Your mouth is a bit open. It’s not a fake camera smile. You are wearing a polo neck in the photo and something with a cream collar. I decided that it’s a trench coat, am I right? Did it have those funny things on the shoulders? Did it have a belt? Who took the photo? Who made you laugh?

  I can never decide which photo I prefer. I love the Columbia one because you’re happy in it. I like the second one because we’re both in it, like it’s proof that we were on the same planet together for a while, even though it wasn’t all that long. But I wish it was taken somewhere else instead of on the beach in Rush. Dad probably took it and he must have had shaky hands because it’s a bit blurry, but you can make us out, just about. You’re wearing a black bikini and your skin looks really white. Your hair is longer than in the Columbia photo—down to the top of your bikini straps—and your sunglasses are huge, blocking most of your face. I’ve got a bucket in one hand, a spade in the other, and I’m wearing a huge red sunhat so you can’t see my face properly either.

  Did you have other photos that Dad got rid of afterwards? I think you must have had some of your family or friends or something, but the only other photo I have is part of a newspaper clipping of your dad and his business partner at that awards ceremony. Your dad doesn’t look like you, at least not in this photo—he’s not properly smiling, only a half-smile, and he looks very serious, standing there holding the plaque they won. At first, I thought it was weird that the other man was sitting down while your dad was standing up, until I noticed he was in a wheelchair. You’d only know it was a wheelchair because your dad’s hand that’s not holding the plaque is resting on the handle at the back. The wheelchair man has a bigger smile than your dad—it’s a kind smile and he looks happy to have won the award. He must have been looking right into the camera because it’s like his eyes can look out and see me, right from the photo. The caption says: “Commercial property partners Cal Owens and Jerry Davis are recognised for their role in redeveloping Upper Manhattan.” Underneath, it talks all about these new buildings that are zoned and planned and it has a quotation from Mr. Owens but not from your dad. You must have been proud of your dad, for you to have kept that.

  I thought there were more photos. I was sure I remembered a blue packet of them—square ones with white borders. I was sure I’d find them when I cleared out the top part of Dad’s wardrobe, which is why I insisted on doing it, even though Aunt Ruth offered a million times. But I didn’t find anything at all. Apart from his winter jumpers, there was only a Hendrix tape with a broken case, three plastic combs, and an out-of-date driving licence. I was throwing them all in a black plastic bag, along with his trousers and shoes and the Homer Simpson tie I got him one Christmas, when Aunt Ruth came in and asked me again if she could take over. When I said no, she sat on the bed and said she knew it was an upsetting thing to do, which just shows that she didn’t know me at all, because I wasn’t upset. I was fine.

  It’s funny how it seems like forever ago—clearing out the house in Rush, putting it up for sale—when it’s not even two years yet. Would you think I was fifty kinds of crazy if I told you that sometimes I forget that Dad is dead? That sometimes I think he’s still back there, in Rush, which I suppose he is, except he’s in Whitestown Cemetery next to Nana and Granddad Farrell who I never met, and his little brother who died when he was only four.

  Did you get the train to Rush that Tuesday or did you take the bus? I think you took the train. Sometimes I imagine you, Mum, walking down that road from the station, all the way into the town. It’s a long walk. What kind of shoes had you on? Did your feet hurt? Were you nervous?

  You would have walked past Whitestown and I wonder if you’d have stopped and looked at the gravestones and made up stories about the dead people’s lives—but maybe it’s only me who does things like that. If you’d been buried there too, if you had a dash in between 23rd November 1959 and some date in June 1984, I might have gone there to make up a story about your life too. It might have been nice, something to do after we stopped writing to you, but you didn’t have a dash because you weren’t buried there. You’re not buried anywhere—because they never found your body.

  This bench is cold, I can feel it through my jeans. And the lights just flicked on, which means it won’t be long before the rats are out. This is the part I hate, when it’s dark enough for them to come out and bright enough to see them. It was around this time last week in Central Park when this huge one ran out from under a bench, right in front of me, its long tail slinking across nearly the whole path.

  I’m not going to call Aunt Ruth, I’m never going to call her, but seeing a rat like that would make you think about it, just for a second.

  If I called now, Laurie might answer. She’d be home from soccer practice by now. That’s if she’s back at soccer, but
why wouldn’t she be? Cooper’s hardly going to make her stay home from school and everything. He’ll want life to get back to normal as soon as it can, like it was before I came.

  I’m meeting Sergei at the pizza place at Port Authority. Slices are $1.50 everywhere but this is the best place because the slices are bigger and they give us pepperoni for the same price as plain. One time, this guy, some tourist, bought me and Sergei an extra slice each, and Sergei ate his in four seconds but I wanted to save mine. Sergei laughed at me smushing the pizza up into my pocket in a napkin, just like he laughed at me the time I suggested saving our money and going to a soup kitchen instead. But later, on my own in Penn Station, I was glad I had that pizza, smushed up or not.

  I’ll write more later. Or tomorrow. Maybe I will. The problem about writing is that I start to remember things I want to tell you. And sometimes the things I remember are the same as the things I want to forget.

  Your daughter,

  Rhea

  King Street, New York

  24th April 1999

  11:52 p.m.

  Dear Mum,

  We have an apartment! Me and Sergei! Well, it’s not really our apartment, it belongs to Michael—this Wall Street guy Sergei was with two nights ago. Last night, he asked Sergei to stay, and Sergei said he’d only stay if I could stay, so we did. Michael lives somewhere else on the weekends, and we were meant to leave this morning when he was, only it’s raining and Sergei starts bitching about having nowhere to go, so, eventually, Michael takes a key off his key ring and tosses it at him and says that everything had better be just like he left it when he gets back.

  We don’t leave all day and it’s brilliant—both of us on the black leather couch, clicking through the channels, eating fried rice and pork dumplings that Sergei ordered and blueberry Pop-Tarts we found in the freezer as a kind of dessert. A Law & Order marathon is on and Sergei loves it too, even though he’s never seen it before. Everything is perfect, until we hear the key in the door and then Michael’s standing there, with his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, saying he’s decided to stay in the city after all.

  This couch is okay for a couch but shit for a bed and I don’t have a blanket or anything. Law & Order is still on, I’ve turned it up so I won’t hear Michael and Sergei in the bedroom, but it’s one I’ve seen before and I can’t get into it. Olivia’s comforting this woman whose daughter was murdered and she’s been crying in every scene in the episode.

  Aunt Ruth was always on about crying, after Dad died. It seemed like those first few weeks in Rush, she was always manipulating it into the conversation—all this stuff about crying and grieving. She tries to be subtle, as if it’s general chitchat, as if I’m stupid and don’t know she’s talking about me. I don’t really say anything back and it’s a couple of days before we’re due to leave when she finally comes out straight and says it. I’m on the floor in my room, sketching one of the stones I’ve picked up from the beach, when she comes up to my door and knocks on it, even though it’s already open.

  “Hey there,” she goes. “What are you doing?”

  It’s pretty obvious what I’m doing, so I don’t answer her, I don’t look up even, just keep adding in shading on the underside of the stone.

  “You want anything to eat?” she goes.

  “No thanks.”

  “Cookies and milk? Some toast maybe?”

  My eyes flick between the stone and my drawing. “I’m grand.”

  I hear her move and I think she’s going to leave but when I glance up she’s only rearranged herself against the door frame, her arms folded.

  “How are you doing, Rhea? You know … about your dad? You’ve hardly said a word about what happened. I haven’t seen you cry once.”

  There’s a pause, no sound. My pencil moving on the paper, a dog barking outside.

  “You know you can always talk to me about him … if you want to.”

  That’s when I look up properly. One hand is still across her middle, the other is pulling down her fringe.

  “Why would I want to talk to you about him? You two hated each other.”

  Her eyes go big. “Why would you say that? I didn’t hate your father, honey. You know that’s not true.”

  “Honey.” It sounds so fake, just like those cards she used to send with the fakest messages inside. The messages that sounded hilarious when Dad put on his ridiculous American accent and read them out.

  “Maybe you didn’t hate him—but he hated you.”

  She makes that face then, you know the one with the twist in her mouth when she’s trying not to cry? I feel guilty for a second, until she makes her face hard again and rolls her eyes.

  “I don’t know why I bother, Rhea, I really don’t,” she says, and shakes her head. I go back to my drawing and when I look up again, the doorway is empty and I can hear the sitting-room door slam.

  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t said that, things like that, but I couldn’t help it. Lisa said I was mean to her, but it was okay for Lisa. Her biggest problems were liver for dinner on a Monday night and how to sneak her sister’s jeans into the wash without her noticing she’d worn them. She annoyed me then, Lisa, she was supposed to be my best friend but those few weeks she was always sucking up to Aunt Ruth—bringing her over a lemon for her tea and asking her to show her how the breakables should be wrapped for the shipping company. Not that much got shipped, most of it was sold or thrown away. It was funny how quickly the house changed. You think a house is permanent, a home, but it’s not. It only takes a couple of weeks to clear it all out so there’s only carpet and bare walls left and it’s ready for someone else’s life.

  The couple next door are fighting now. Screaming.

  She screams first: “You never loved me the way you loved her!”

  Then him: “Fuck you!” Louder. “Fuck you!”

  Something smashes.

  Fighting or fucking, that’s all people seem to do in New York. You hear them, all over the place, having rows on the subway and in the street and in McDonald’s. They’ll cry anywhere too, they don’t care who sees. At least in Ireland we only have rows at home.

  I didn’t want to fight with Lisa on that last night. I’m not even sure why we were fighting, except that she kept going on about how her mum could drive me and Aunt Ruth to the airport instead of us getting a taxi. She went on about it for the whole walk down to the harbour and back around by the beach. She didn’t get that I didn’t want any more time to say goodbye, that I wanted to skip to the part where I was already gone.

  On the plane, I’m really quiet. Aunt Ruth doesn’t know I’ve never been on one before and I don’t tell her. It’s not as if I’m scared or anything, I always used to want to fly back to America with her when she visited, until I didn’t anymore. As soon as we sit down, I put my headphones on and pretend to sleep and when I open my eyes she’s sleeping too. She sleeps through the meal so I eat hers as well as my own and fall asleep properly then, so it’s not until we get to Orlando and take the second flight to Fort Lauderdale that we have to talk at all. In the taxi to Coral Springs, she fills up the space by chatting a mile a minute about Cooper and Laurie and how they’re dying to meet me, and how we’re all going to go for lunch tomorrow to one of Cooper’s restaurants. She talks so fast there is no room for me to say anything, so I just sit there as the taxi driver leaps from one lane to another, his driving as jerky as all her talking.

  When we pull in through the gate, the house is just like I pictured

  —low and white with a semicircle driveway. The front door is open already and there’s Laurie, standing on the porch steps in bare feet, one on top of the other. Cooper is behind her, both hands on her shoulders. The first thing I notice about him is his slicked-back hair. He’s smiling, Laurie’s not. Her blonde hair covers one of her eyes and she’s sucking a strand of it in a way that makes her look
really babyish, and I wonder then if I got her age wrong and she’s not fifteen at all.

  “Here we are, honey. Home sweet home,” Ruth goes, her voice shrill. She brushes her fringe down before she opens the car door. I feel a blast of heat. “Coop! Laur! Look who’s here!”

  I reach over to open my door, get out. The sun reflects off everything, making me squint. It feels like it is seeping into my black Hendrix T-shirt, my Docs, like they have no place here. Like they will be the only black items in their white home.

  Aunt Ruth is paying the taxi driver. Before I can get my backpack from the boot, Cooper is already there, still smiling.

  “I got that,” he says, lifting it from me easily with big hands. He gives me a quick half hug with the arm not holding the backpack. A strand of his slicked-back hair comes loose.

  “Laurie!” he calls. “Laurie, come and meet your new sister!” He says that, actually says that, I swear I’m not making it up. At first I think it’s a joke, that he’s being ironic, but his smile hasn’t changed, it’s still the same, fixed. You can’t smile for that long and have it be real. Laurie comes over slowly, her feet in flip-flops now that she slides across the grass. She’s still chewing her hair, holding it with one hand, the other making a visor on her forehead. Even through the shadow on her face, I see her eyes are a piercing blue.

  “Hi,” she says in a flat tone, so I know she’s bored with me already. She drops the hand holding her hair and reaches it out formally for me to shake. Too late, she realises her mistake and her expression changes—the two blue eyes widen, two white teeth press down on her lips.

  I know what to do—I’ve been doing it all my life. I take it with my left and shake it, even though we’re not really shaking, more like holding hands. Right before she lets go, I notice how cold her fingers are.