Every Time We Say Goodbye

by Jamie Zeppa

  Dawn’s eyes grew hot, but she refused to cry. These things happened and it was stupid to cry. Her brother was in a drunk, stoned stupor and her mother was having a dinner party for work. It was just bad timing. Frank had cancer and Vera was stricken. That was just bad luck. Her father lived in Toronto because the Soo suffocated him, and Geraldine lived on the other side of town and didn’t call very often because she and Vera didn’t get along, and Laura could only see them one Saturday a month because that was what had been proposed and agreed to, which meant there was no one to help her now, but it was no one’s fault. Nothing was deliberate, so it was pointless getting all worked up about it.

  But what would Laura do, Dawn wondered, if she just showed up? If she just went over there and knocked? Dawn saw herself pounding on the door with her fist, slapping it with her palm. When her hand got tired, she kicked the door. Up and down the hall doors opened and closed, but Dawn did not stop yelling: “Open the door! Open the door!” Her hand ached, but she did not stop pounding. She was possessed. She was on a rampage. “Open the goddamn fucking freaking door,” she yelled. Beside her, Jimmy sank down onto the hallway carpet. “Stop it, Dawn,” he whispered. “Just stop.” A sinkhole of dread opened in her stomach. She wasn’t dreaming it. She had no memory of walking across the street or getting into the elevator with Jimmy.

  There was a click, and the door opened. Laura was in a bathrobe, her hair dripping wet. Dawn pointed to her brother. “Help him,” she said. She didn’t recognize her own voice. “Okay,” Laura said. “Okay.”

  After Laura called an ambulance, she called Vera and Frank. “I made an executive decision,” Dawn heard her say. “Well, I did. Meet me at the hospital.” At the hospital, Laura didn’t know Jimmy’s health card number. Dawn sat in a hard plastic chair and tried to think if this was the same chair she had sat on when Jimmy ate the hash brownies and if everything in her life was going to repeat itself. Would a social worker show up next?

  Vera and Frank arrived, and for the first few moments, the discussion was surprisingly courteous and smooth. Frank said, “Thank you for calling us,” and Vera said, “I just can’t believe he would do something like this,” and Laura said, “I know, I know. It’s a terrible shock,” and they all stared at the floor. Since it was going so well, Dawn decided to tell them the rest, the bottles and pills and Tony Danko. Vera put her face in her hands and Laura said, “Let me get you some water.” The nurse came and said Jimmy was fine, he was asleep, they would keep him overnight for observation. Everyone thanked the nurse, Frank thanked Laura again, and Dawn thought, That went really, really well.

  Then Laura said, “We should probably talk about how we’re going to handle this.” She squeezed the fingers of one hand and then winced, as if she had hurt herself.

  Vera said, “He’s not going to see that Tony Danko anymore, for one thing.”

  Laura said, “I want to ask my colleague to consult with us, maybe tell us what programs are available. She’s a social worker.”

  Dawn thought, I knew it.

  Frank said, “Programs?”

  Vera said, “He doesn’t need a program. He needs a shorter leash.”

  “Like counselling,” Laura told Frank. “Or maybe even a prevention program for addiction.”

  “Addiction! He’s fourteen years old, for heaven’s sake!” Vera said. “You tell a kid he’s got a problem like that, and the next thing you know, he’ll have a problem like that.”

  “But he does have a problem,” Dawn interjected.

  Vera told Dawn to keep her nose out of it. She told Laura that Jimmy did not need any of that nonsense.

  Laura looked like she had been slapped. “Why is it always nonsense to you? You said the same thing to me when I was depressed and suicidal.”

  Frank said, “Let’s not go into all that now. That’s all over and done with.”

  Laura’s voice rose. “It’s not over and done with. I have to face the consequences every day of my life.”

  “You made your bed,” Vera said, her voice climbing over Laura’s. “Don’t blame us for your mistakes!”

  “I had no support, no understanding—”

  “We supported you! We put a roof over—”

  The nurse came over and asked if they could please keep their voices down. Dawn was mortified. Vera said, “We were just leaving. We’ll pick Jimmy up in the morning.”

  Laura called down the hall after them. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

  On the way home, Vera said she would fight tooth and nail on this one. Social worker! Prevention program! She would not put up with a stranger coming in and telling her how to handle the child she had raised practically from day one. Who was Laura to say she knew best for him when she had walked out before he could talk? “People think they can leave their kids with us and then come back and get them like they’re picking up laundry!” Vera said.

  Frank said, “I know, I know. But she’s still his mother,” and Vera burst out, “Frank! I cannot do this again!” and in the back seat, Dawn listened to the strange silence that drifted over the three of them like snow. When I was depressed and suicidal. I cannot do this again. The more she found out, the less she knew.

  Vera pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, but no one got out. In the back seat, Dawn waited for Frank to sigh and say nothing, which would mean Vera had won, end of that story, but he said, “She wants to help—”

  “Well, why didn’t she help when he had bronchitis? Where was she when he was throwing up in the middle of the—”

  “And besides,” Frank said, “who knows what our situation will be a year from now?”

  It was Vera’s turn to say nothing. They all got out of the car. Dawn looked up through the bare branches and watched a thick, slow-moving cloud extinguish a line of stars. A dog barked down the street. It was horrible to think that there was a situation worse than this one.

  UNIVERSAL CONSCIOUSNESS

  Vera and Frank brought Jimmy home from the hospital, and there was about an hour of quiet before the fighting started. Jimmy fought with Frank and Vera. Vera fought with Laura. Laura’s lawyer fought with the principal of Jimmy’s school. Every time the phone rang, someone was yelling at someone. Vera yelled at the social worker who called to say that Jimmy had an appointment scheduled on Wednesday, which turned out to be the same day Frank had a doctor’s appointment, and then Jimmy yelled at Vera that he wasn’t a goddamn baby and could go to an appointment by himself, and then Vera yelled at Laura for scheduling appointments without consulting anyone. Dawn and Frank listened from the living room. “Everyone’s fighting,” Dawn said.

  “Well, they’re talking,” Frank said. “That’s something.”

  He might have been right, because previously unthinkable conversations seemed to be happening behind Dawn’s back. Vera came into the living room and said, “Geraldine says she can pick Jimmy up after his appointment. It’s two blocks from her place.” Dawn’s mouth popped open in surprise. When had Vera talked to Geraldine?

  “I didn’t,” Vera said. “Your mother called her.”

  A few days later, Vera said, “Your mother wants to know if you want to visit her this Saturday. If you do, then call her.” When Dawn pointed out that it wasn’t the first Saturday of the month, Vera held up her hand and said, “I’ve got enough to keep track of. You’re old enough to make your own schedule.”

  Vera and Frank went to an appointment with Jimmy’s therapist, and when they came back, Vera said the most unthinkable thing of all: “Dawn, do you have a number for your father?”

  Dawn brought out all the numbers, and Vera dialled every one, but either no one answered or it was the wrong number or the person hadn’t seen Dean in ages.

  Vera said, “Well, we tried.” She said it was time to start dinner, but neither of them moved. The phone rang, and they both jumped. Dawn reached for it shakily, but it wasn’t Dean. It was the doctor, asking to speak to Frank.

  When she arrived at Lighthouse
, only Justin was in the front room. “Dawn! Welcome back! Is your grandfather better?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “The others are in session,” Justin said. “But I can take you through the pre-steps.” He patted the chair beside him, and she sat down, feeling fluttery and clumsy.

  Don’t babble, she commanded herself. She was sorry now that she had worn her good blouse, a ruffled yellow affair with flounces at the wrists: it looked prim and teacherly next to Justin’s light denim shirt and jeans.

  “Ready?” Justin said. She nodded.

  First, he said, Lighthouse was not a religion. It took readings from the Vedas, the Sutras, the Koran, the Bible and teachings from all the great philosophers—Nietzsche, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi—but it was not a religion or a philosophy. It was a path, and this path was based on the recognition of a basic spiritual truth called Universal Consciousness, or UC. Everyone was already on the path to UC, whether they knew it or not, but some people were moving along the path faster than others because they had jettisoned their baggage and overcome the obstacles, the main ones being judging and fearing.

  “I mean, when you’re afraid, you’re not free, right? When you’re afraid of what other people will say about you or how they’ll judge you, it’s like being in a prison of their expectations.”

  His eyes were brown with gold flecks, Dawn noticed.

  People who are afraid, Justin said, try to elevate themselves by judging others. And their judging makes others afraid. And the cycle continues. However. Using a scientifically developed method called Psymetrics, Lighthouse helped people drop their fear and overcome the obstacles and move freely on the path to UC. That was all. It wasn’t a religion. It wasn’t a cult. It was a philosophy.

  Dawn had missed something. “But you said it wasn’t a philosophy? Or—or is it?”

  Justin said, “Oh fuck. Sorry. I’m totally screwing it up.”

  “No, no,” Dawn protested. “It’s me.”

  He tapped her knee. “No, it’s not you, Dawn.” He was looking straight into her eyes, which made her feel slightly woozy. “That was my fault, okay?”

  Dawn nodded.

  “Don’t tell Krista I messed up.”

  Dawn was unable to suppress a smile. “Why? Are you afraid of being judged?”

  Justin threw back his head and laughed. She laughed too, astonished by her own temerity.

  “Touché,” Justin said.

  “Touché,” she said back, which was totally the wrong thing, but before she could even begin to berate herself inwardly, Justin said, “We should have clinked glasses there or something.” They smiled at each other for a bit, and then Justin cleared his throat and said, “So … anyway. Does what I said make sense to you?”

  “It does,” she said. Parts of it did. The fear part, anyway.

  Justin nodded. “I knew you’d get it.” He said she could start coming tomorrow for regular sessions.

  A session started with meditation. They sat in a circle on straight-backed chairs in the back room. Krista, the facilitator, said, “Close your eyes. Breathe in, breathe out.” Dawn sat as still as she could, but parts of her itched and twitched and her eyelids fluttered. After an interminable amount of time that turned out to be twelve minutes, the bell rang and they all opened their eyes. Krista then read a teaching about how, with commitment, the obstacles were pulverized into the dusts of time, leaving only the brilliant luminosity of Universal Consciousness. At the end of the session, Krista said, “Let go of your fear,” and everyone said, “No fear.”

  “Let go of your judgment.”

  “No judgment.”

  “Where is the Light?”

  “The Light is Within.”

  “Then be a beacon,” Krista said, and rang the bell.

  After that was open floor. Anyone could say anything that was on their mind without fear. Speaking openly without fear was a cornerstone of Psymetrics. Mostly, people were so afraid of being judged and rejected, Krista explained, that they said what they thought they should say instead of what they actually thought. The hair on Dawn’s arms lifted. That was exactly what she did! If her friends at school said that punk rock was obnoxious, she said it was obnoxious. If they changed their minds, she changed her mind. Practically every exchange she had was a lie. Even at home. She said she was fine when she was not fine. She said she understood when she did not understand. She said things didn’t bother her when they bothered her all the time.

  “Dawn?” Krista said. “Do you have something?” They were all looking at her. She said, “I—I have a lot of fear,” but she couldn’t go on, because if she said any of it out loud, it would all become true and irreversible.

  After a moment, Krista said, “I think I’d like to spend a few minutes with Dawn alone.”

  It was dark when she got home. Vera was furious, banging pot lids and pans as she did the dishes: Dawn hadn’t called, and now her dinner was cold.

  “Sorry, Grandma,” Dawn said. And she was. She was sorry that her grandmother was so afraid, because Vera could be free any time she chose. Anyone could be free. Anyone could choose. They were all born with the knowledge, but it grew cloudier and fainter as they grew up. “If the doors of perception were cleansed,” Krista had said, “we would see everything as it is: Universal Consciousness.”

  Lying in bed that night, Dawn went over all the things Krista had told her. She wasn’t possessed by the devil, and she wasn’t going crazy. “How do you know?” she’d asked Krista, and Krista had reached over and taken her hand. “There is no devil, Dawn,” she said. “These feelings are your own feelings.” Dawn nodded, her throat aching with the terrible truth of it.

  Krista also said these feelings were understandable. “My god, Dawn. Your mother left. Your father left. Your stepmother left. Your little brother is coping with his problems by drinking. Your grandfather has cancer. You can’t talk to your grandmother. Who wouldn’t feel like they were going crazy?”

  Dawn had suffered losses, Krista said, but there was good news. First, on the path to UC, nothing was ever truly lost, because UC contained everything and once you were connected to UC you were connected to everything. Second, Dawn was already farther along the path than many people who had been studying for years. She was already a beacon. And finally, Krista said, “You’re not alone anymore, Dawn. We’re here for you.”

  In her room, Dawn lifted a strand of her hair to her face and sniffed; it still smelled faintly of jasmine incense. She drifted into sleep and stayed asleep until her alarm woke her in the morning.

  Dawn went every day after school. Annette and Cassie, whose shifts at Rossi’s didn’t start until 6:00, were usually there already. Perry arrived a few minutes after Dawn. They both took out their homework, although Dawn didn’t actually do hers and Perry’s seemed to consist largely of highlighting passages in Introductory Forest Science. Annette brought sandwiches or banana loaf, and someone would make tea, regular or Radiance. Around 4:15, Dawn would go to the bathroom to check her hair and reapply her lip gloss. Justin always arrived at 4:30. She was happiest when he slid into the chair next to her; if his arm brushed hers or his knee bumped against her, she would feel the warmth of it for hours. But even when he sat across the room, she was happy. They had their own greeting: “Touché.” Sometimes they just raised imaginary glasses to each other.

  If Krista was there, they talked about Lighthouse projects: pamphlets and an open house and fundraising strategies. Krista had been planning to go to Montreal, but her cousin had this commercial property in Sault Ste. Marie, so Andre told her to take Lighthouse to Ontario. Andre had been Krista’s psychology professor in California. He had developed the core UC teachings and was already conducting sessions when he realized the university itself was full of professional judgers and fear-mongers, so he left and opened up the original Lighthouse. It began as casual meetings of friends, but Andre noticed that people who just dropped in very soon dropped out. You could not dabble your way to UC. Plus, it cost money to run
Lighthouse and spread the message. So now there were fees for membership and meetings. Krista waived these fees for Dawn. “You contribute in other ways,” Krista said, and everyone nodded in agreement.

  If Krista was not there, they played charades. At first, Justin and Dawn were on the same team, but they got separated after Dawn gave the signs for movie and four words, and Justin said, “The Wizard of Oz.”

  “It’s true,” Justin said, “I can read Dawn’s mind.” He put his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes. “I’m getting … wait … becoming clearer … She thinks you’re morons and sore losers. Am I close, Dawn?”

  If they weren’t playing charades, they just talked. Dawn liked it best when she and Justin had the couch to themselves. He always wanted to hear more about her family, and she ended up telling him everything: how Laura had left when Dawn was three and her brother was a baby and then had returned, years later; how she and Jimmy had lived with their grandparents, then their father and stepmother, then their grandparents again. Justin killed himself laughing over Vera’s expressions, but he especially loved hearing about the time with Dean and Geraldine. “Whoa,” he interrupted. “Whoa. There was a stolen car. In your garage.”

  She had to laugh at how he spat out the words. “Come on,” she said. “You don’t want to hear this. Or … tell me about your family.”

  “Are you kidding me? You wanna hear the absolute worst thing that happened to me growing up? My father didn’t assemble my swing set properly, and I fell off and broke my wrist. That’s it. Oh, and once my mother had too much Baby Duck at Christmas and burned the gravy. We are the most boringly normal family you will ever come across, kiddo.”

  Sometimes he called her that. She liked it better when he called her Delta Dawn, like the song. When she sat beside him in session, she wished with all her might that he would slip his arm into the space between their chairs and hold her hand. She imagined other things, too. She hoped he couldn’t read her mind.