Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

  “Might head into Baked & Caffeinated for coffee after,” she adds.

  “Sounds fun,” Kam replies. He cuts his single stack into quarters, piercing a fork into one whole pile, and I think there’s no way that’ll all fit into his mouth, but it does and I can’t stop watching him.

  “I don’t want to go there,” I say.

  “Why not? You love their coffee.”

  I hate their coffee. “Don’t feel like it.”

  “Listen here. We have plenty of time to grieve,” she says. “Today is for celebrating Naima. You.”

  “That’s what you said when I got my first period. You’re not going to make me wear all those beads and do a ‘dance of the goddesses,’ are you?”

  “That dance was specific to the female reproductive system, not a birthday. My mother did it for me. It’s a rite of passage.”

  “Right,” I say. “My bad.”

  “You should’ve seen the dance she made me do after my colonoscopy,” Kam jokes.

  JJ smacks her lips, protective of the comforting rituals her grandmother performed. “Gi Gi taught me to do whatever cleanses the soul.” She pauses, clenching the paper in her fist.

  Kam swoops in, grabs the paper and lays it next to the urn, pushing time forward. Everyone needs that person. The one who sees you stuck between the minute and the hour hands of your most painful moments, and reaches out for you. JJ’s shoulders relax.

  “The annual dance-off will cleanse all our souls later,” Kam says. “I’ve been practicing so you’d better bring your A-game.”

  “Dude, JJ’s in better shape than everyone in Ivy Springs.”

  “Psht.” He waves the comment off. “Your moves are tired.”

  My body tightens. “We can’t do it this year. It doesn’t feel … right.”

  The tradition began when I was old enough to understand Dad’s absence. JJ and Kam would bring out Dad’s old boom box, crank up whatever mixtape or CD he’d left behind, and we’d challenge each other in the middle of the living room. I didn’t forget Dad was gone, but for a short time, it didn’t hurt as much. My grandparents carried it over into every birthday, in hopes they could preemptively soothe my lonely soul. Watching them dance gives me life.

  They look to one another, silently deciding who’ll handle this one.

  “We’re doing the dance-off. Unless you’re afraid of losing,” Kam adds, jabbing his elbow into mine, and forming an L with his thumb and forefinger.

  I force a smile, but it hurts.

  Hurts. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts.

  The kitchen air goes stagnant, and all six of our eyes fall to the urn. The space where the place mat sits untouched.

  Infinitely untouched.

  “Eat up,” JJ breaks the silence. “We’ll leave in a bit. And this afternoon, we’ll go to your favorite restaurant and have all the breadsticks you can handle. Just enough to make you lose the dance-off.”

  My fork streaks the pancake stacks, knocking them over one by one. My father’s in an urn. There isn’t room in my thoughts for the farmers’ market, or pancakes, or anything else.

  JJ lowers a hand to the tip of my chin and angles it up. Faint traces of flour are splattered on her shirt, and she smells of maple. “Your birthday. That’s the only thing we’re going to think about today. The only thing.”

  Her eyes consume me, tears stopping themselves before jumping off. JJ pushes a smile. Here we are; this is us. When she finally abandons me to clean up the mess in the kitchen, I turn toward the urn and imagine myself falling between the etchings. For six seconds, I’m part of the urn, too. And maybe that’s where I feel most like myself.

  * * *

  The farmers’ market is usually one of my favorite rituals. Nell might not get the other parts—the reason I need six red balloons (to make six wishes, of course), or why I have to count everything, or why I use sarcasm and blatant disgust for her as a means of coping with all the things I hate about myself. It has nothing to do with her. I decide this is another thing I like about her—how she ignores the very real fact that I do, in fact, like her (but don’t you dare tell her). As for JJ, she carries a longer list.

  At the market, she lets me have as many cheese samples as I want, and she doesn’t ask, “Isn’t that enough?” and she doesn’t make a crinkled-up face when I try all the lotions, or ask if there’s a hand-woven oven mitt in a different color because the orange and green didn’t “feel right.” She lets me be. It’s the way of the Rodriguez house.

  The way of me.

  My phone buzzes.

  Penelope-Smellope: Are you okay, really?

  I hesitate to text back; there’s nothing I can say she’ll believe.

  Me: I’m fine.

  As I pretend to eat the pancakes by tearing pieces and moving them around, my phone buzzes in bursts as if it’s just now come to life, reminding me of one last gift I left before parting ways.

  Penelope-Smellope: Well, good. Also, WHAT IN THE WORLD IS ALL THIS GUM DOING ON THE WALL BESIDE YOUR BED???

  That she even texted this is why there are now three things I like about her.

  (If you tell, I’ll cut you.)

  Dad

  cell

  October 6 at 4:11 PM

  Transcription Beta

  “Thought I’d try to catch you. Maybe you’ve joined an after-school club (not likely) or you’re plotting the new revolution (totally likely)? It’s late here. Nell is worried about you. Said you haven’t been leaving the house, or your room. Please let her, and me, know what’s going on and how we can help. Anyway, used my sweet app to have a burger. It’s pretty cool. I can order from some of our favorite places back home and have it delivered all the way out here in the desert. Even got a pint of cookie dough ice cream. Reminded me of our Sundays at Baked & Caffeinated before someone bought it out and rebranded into somewhere Nell might go, am I right? I miss those nights. I miss you.…”

  Email Draft (Unsent)

  To

  ___________________________________________

  Subject

  ___________________________________________

  Dear Dad,

  Nell said she’s done with me.

  Done helping.

  Done caring.

  Done trying to fill Mom’s shoes.

  I’ll told her she couldn’t possibly

  Because Mom wasn’t around

  Long enough to wear any.

  Coming up: Girl finds comfort in pro wrestler, boy struggles with the fact that he encouraged it.

  I dump a Mason jar full of dollar bills and coins I’ve saved onto my bed. I confessed to Stella and Thomas my plans regarding Naima and, surprisingly, they didn’t try to talk me out of them. I tuck a five into my pocket right as Faith drags in, her big blue eyes as tearful as I’ve ever seen them.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, jumping to the space in front of her.

  She lengthens her arm to show the still frame of Rick Flair, frozen on her phone screen.

  “I don’t get it,” I say in my most comforting tone.

  Her brows furrow, anger balling inside her small but mighty fists. “He was adopted and his parents hated wrestling. If Nature Boy couldn’t make his parents proud, how can I—HOW CAN I?” She grabs my shirt collar and shoves me back and forth until I’m woozy. As I said—small but mighty.

  Once I pry her sticky fingers from my shirt, she collapses, burying her face in the threads, howling as if she’s lost her best friend. Alarmed, I guide her to the bed, very aware she’s never come to me, for anything. She’s never sat on my bed. She’s never let herself cry in front of me. This, my dad would say, is a defining moment. Where we can choose to do the same thing, expecting a different outcome. Or, we can do something brave. I choose to be brave.

  “First of all, I want to thank you for being here.”

  Her eyes bulge. “We’re not on a damn talk show.”

  I backtrack, and rephrase. “Thank you for coming to me with this. I take my role very seriously
and assure you that whatever is said in this room is between us.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Dr. Peterson, the traitor, said.”

  “She’s a trained professional. I’m merely your brother.” The word hangs in the air between us. It’s stifling. She doesn’t know how to respond so I offer my pinkie. “I will not repeat a word you say.”

  A hint of smile pokes through. She wrangles my pinkie—nearly breaks it—and prepares to release the floodwaters.

  I allow her enough space; she can’t physically react without fully turning. “You are not Rick Flair. You’re far more special than that sexist womanizer, I assure you.”

  She growls.

  I adjust my posture. “Let me start over. You already make them proud. There’s nothing you can do they won’t support and adore.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  I forget how young she is. Navigating the same fears and traumas as me, only years earlier. She looks to me for something concrete; something my parents would’ve told me, or Stella and Thomas, something to help me sleep at night.

  “Okay, I’ll give it to you straight.”

  “Please.”

  I glance at the August Moon poster, song bursting through the air. A vision of my parents manifests, they’re looking on. They nod to me. “It doesn’t matter who you make proud, as long as you find peace within yourself. Make yourself proud. What does Faith need to be happy?”

  Her tears cease. She looks to the phone, and back to me with a devious smile that borders on terrifying. “To make grown men beg for mercy. I want to wrestle, and I want to be good—the best.”

  I arch an eyebrow, and my fingers fumble through the money left on the bed. I scrape together enough to fund what she needs. “Then you’re going to need some costume supplies. In the name of Nature Boy and all his gender-biased, questionable-fashion glory. It’ll at least give you the confidence to see you already are the best.”

  She beams. There is no hug, no pinkie grab, and no words. There are times when words can’t fully capture the heart of the story. I look to the poster again and marvel that everything my parents were is still part of me.

  As Faith runs out, woo-ing through the house, I realize I may have awakened the beast. Whatever I’ve done, I sing a little song, and say a little prayer, and preemptively ask for forgiveness, just in case.

  RED BALLOONS

  Every birthday Ray was gone, he arranged for Naima to receive six red, biodegradable balloons. Each represented a wish he had for her, and once she released them into the air, the wish remained in her heart, even if it didn’t come true. Naima knew the balloons were only a symbol of what her father left behind, but there was always a part of her hoping that when one went astray, it might float back down to earth with her father attached (a childish wish, if there ever was one).

  Because news of Ray’s death came the very day of Naima’s seventeeth celebration of life, she’s vehemently opposed to any balloon, red or otherwise, for the duration of her stay on this planet. The problem is, just because a balloon isn’t present doesn’t mean she can’t wish for things.

  Or that they won’t come true.

  NAIMA

  Church bells ring, clanging against township walls, bouncing in through every crevice of this old, two-story home. Dad used to close his eyes to hear them. Said the sounds filled the empty spaces in his heart. I’d ask, “What empty spaces?” and he’d tearfully smile and point up to the sky to reference Mom. This once, I do the same, hoping for the same peace, but I’m still empty. The God I know hasn’t responded to any of my texts, deletes my voicemails—my God has blocked me on social media. If Dad were here, he’d laugh at that, but he’s not.

  He’s not.

  Not.

  Not.

  Not.

  Not.

  Not.

  Not.

  After we eat (and I’ve re-formed what’s left of my three stacks into even layers), the sun splashes through the clouds against the grass, heat clinging to my neckline, where I feel the curls spring to life. As I walk, I hear that vague sound of annoyance I’d heard the day before, only this time, I know enough to keep moving.

  “The glorious songbird buzzes along, wondering where all the nectar has gone,” the voice—of Dew GD Brickman—says in a gross, unpleasantly pleasant tone. If there were ever a spring to a voice, as opposed to a step, he has it and it needs to stop.

  I attempt to order my feet to move along, but they’re curious, tricking my brain into thinking there’s something worth stopping for. I shout into the void, politely but firmly, asking them to go, but they’re planted in the yard like disobedient children.

  “She pauses, a sunlit goddess against the dreary backdrop of all those who’ve soured,” he continues.

  I look toward the hole in the fence, where the voice is echoing like a bullhorn. “What do you want, man?” I ask.

  He hides between fencing slats so I can’t see his face, or even his eye, in full view. It would be romantic if we were in a dumb rom com. Girl meets boy with hidden, mysterious face. Bam! Instalove! Until she discovers he doesn’t actually have a face, but is a giant Lucky Charms additive instead. She breaks his heart immediately, because no respectable girl would date an additive. Too basic. Marshmallows all the way, or nothing at all. If you’re not on this side of history, bye.

  “To observe, respectfully.”

  “Whatever.” I sigh. “I don’t have time for this weird shit today.” My feet decide to cooperate, letting me take the steps backward I’d taken forward. I have to land in the exact places I did before, or I’ll have to redo everything.

  Hiccup, the SOB, barks at the back door, scraping his little mud-covered paws all over the window to get outside. It interrupts everything. Dew GD Brickman. My thoughts. My feet. Time. He’s all I can focus on—that furry face, cataracts gleaming against the sun, tongue falling out of one side of his mouth.

  “He’s so majestic,” Dew says. “Like a canine god.”

  My shoulders hunch. “Do you see the same dog I see?”

  “I do.”

  “Maybe you have cataracts. Also, you should be polite enough to ensure proper pronouns before declaring the title of ‘god.’ You don’t know how the dog identifies.”

  He snickers.

  “I’m not joking. Don’t be ignorant.”

  “Apologies. I’ll ask next time he chases my ankle. What are your preferred pronouns? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  Quietly impressed, I meet his eye contact. “‘She/her.’”

  “Wonderful. I’ll make a mental note.”

  JJ opens the back door to let Hiccup out to do his business. “Don’t mind me,” she says with a wave. Hiccup’s feet hit the yard, and he immediately wants back inside and repeats the same actions in reverse. Maybe me and the damn dog have more in common than I thought. My feet let me continue on my path so I can put Hiccup back where he belongs (in hell) inside.

  Dew raises his voice over the barking. “When she walks away, her heart anchors into the earth, forcing her to turn around.”

  I don’t smile, don’t turn. Because that’s precisely what he wants from me.

  What I want from me, too.

  I retreat to JJ’s car—a less-than-roomy Beetle—where I’m alone with my thoughts and a grand view of the empty back alley. The car smells of cardamom and roses, and filling the two cupholders are equal parts spare change and gum wrappers, likely Kam’s doing. Lost in decrypting the mass of different types of gum wrappers, I’m startled by a face in the rearview where JJ’s Marathon Granny chain hangs. My body turns, at which the strange boy, Dew, waves, so I spin back and slink into the seat. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  I look again. He’s gone.

  As I’m turned to one side, I’m frightened again—this time by JJ swinging the driver’s door open. “Lord,” she huffs, tossing her suitcase-size bag into the backseat. “Thought I’d never get out of there.” Her movements are slowed as she catches a breath—someth
ing I’d think a runner wouldn’t experience but hell if I know. “Ready?”

  I nod, trying to ignore the shadow quickly approaching. “Go, gooo!” I say, helping her turn the ignition.

  “What are you doing?” She slaps my hand away.

  “We have to go.”

  She’s puzzled, stopping to figure me out. I reach for the keys again, she slaps again. “I’m getting to it. What’s the rush?”

  Tap. Tap. Tap on her window. I point. To him.

  She rolls the window down with a smile. “Hey, there,” she says. “How are you, babe?”

  This close, too close, I see him. Dressed in a black T-shirt (like me) and loud pants (like me), and one of those taupe fancy fedoras with the feather in the back (so not like me; ew). His wide eyes and freckled Latin skin mirror mine. He notices me noticing these things, so I slouch toward my window, before my thoughts are heard, too.

  “Can’t complain. How are you?”

  She leans into him as if it’ll keep me from hearing her response. “I don’t have an easy answer for that.”

  He removes his hat, lays it against his chest, revealing his lightly curled mop of dark hair. “I expect you don’t.”

  “I hear you’ve met Miss Naima.”

  He bends to see me, and I see him, and we see one another in the bounty of the light, or whatever. “I’ve had the distinct pleasure, yes. She’s as wonderful as you’ve said.”

  “Ugh,” I groan.

  “Ima!” JJ snaps.

  I turn my head away completely.

  “I appreciate her unfiltered honesty,” he says. “It’s refreshing. If she were a news clip, I’d be riveted.”

  “She doesn’t mean anything by it,” JJ replies, as if I’m not even here.

  “Yes, I do,” I blurt. “I mean a lot of things by it.”

  He laughs over JJ’s massive eye roll. “Staff Sergeant Rodriguez was right.”

  I snap to attention. “Excuse me?”

  “Aside from your grandparents, I’ve also spoken with your incredible father.”