Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

  ___________________________________________

  It’s not nothing

  But I don’t want to bother you

  Or Nell by telling you

  The things that have happened

  Almost every day

  Since school started.

  It wouldn’t change anything

  And I don’t really care what

  Those girls say.

  They don’t know me

  And I don’t care

  To know them.

  Breaking: Bath time isn’t age- or gender-conforming, but makes a great slogan if you say it right.

  Stella runs me a warm bath, sprinkling oatmeal into the basin. It smells like the cookies Dad loved; the ones Mom often burned; the ones Stella’s edited for allergens and bakes proudly.

  As I’m waiting, I replay Kam’s words on a loop, and imagine my parents standing in front of me. My vision of them is translucent. They’re fading. They don’t say a word. Dad wears this fedora, and Mom wears this August Moon T-shirt. It’s how I last saw them. Before the lady showed up at my school, when my life was in one, compact piece. My fingers rub along the underneath of the hat’s rim, the way Dad used to when he was thinking, or reading something important. There’s an indent in the fabric where he pressed the hardest, the spot of fabric his finger and thumb touched most often. I touch it, too.

  Faith practices hitting a string we hung in her doorway, occasionally missing and slamming a fist into the wall. It knocks into my wall, to which she follows with “sorry.” I sit and contemplate the plotline of my life. How I got here, the steps that had to happen for me to sit on this bed, staring at an August Moon poster, while listening to my sister shout wrestling slogans. I’m deep in thought when my phone skids across the bed, vibrating. It’s Violet.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  “So how’d that thing go you never asked me about?” she asks.

  My hands shake. I try to steady them.

  “As expected.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “It remains to be seen.”

  “What are you up to?”

  I can’t tell her I’m nearly seventeen and awaiting my bath. “Nothing. You?”

  “Just got off work. I picked up another shift because we got so effing busy.”

  “That’s a long day.”

  “I should’ve known. My horoscope said, ‘Today is a day for action,’ so it’s my fault.”

  “What did my horoscope say?”

  “Let me look.” There’s a long pause as she fumbles with her phone. I anxiously await, still reveling in the fact that she’s called me at all. “K, ready?”

  “As ready as one can be.”

  “It says, ‘The universe has a surprise arranged for you. You won’t see it coming, and you’ll be caught off guard, so be prepared for anything.’ Wow, okay. I’m spooked, are you spooked?”

  “Should I be spooked?”

  “DEW—YOU SHOULD BE SPOOKED.”

  “It’s settled, then. I’m spooked.”

  “But seriously,” she says, “what surprise do you think it means?”

  “This phone call was a surprise, so maybe this?” The line goes dead. “Hello?”

  “Yeah, no, I’m here. You just blew my damn mind.” She laughs to herself, mumbling something about how she should’ve thought of that.

  “I suppose astrology doesn’t have to be big, life-changing things for them to be accurate.”

  “Who said me calling isn’t a big, life-changing thing?”

  That blushing thing happens again. This time, I think my jaw numbs, too. I feel my nerve building, stacking upon itself to do the thing—to ask her on a date. I open my mouth, fully ready to commit to this other big, life-changing thing when Stella interrupts.

  “Dew—bath’s ready!” she says. I quickly cover the receiver as if it can rewind time and erase it completely.

  The silence lengthens. And lengthens some more.

  “Guess I’ll let you go,” she says. “You work tomorrow, right?”

  I slap my hand over my eyes, mortified. “I do, indeed.”

  “Enjoy your bath.” She laughs, and I laugh, but I’m dead now.

  When I hang up, I lay my phone next to the recorder. And suddenly it isn’t an August Moon song that fills my ears, but Faith barreling in from the hallway.

  “Dew! Dew! I did it—I have a new catchphrase,” she says.

  “Give it to me.”

  “‘Bath time, baby.’”

  NAIMA

  I walk along the quiet sidewalk, stumbling on a large boulder used as a monument that celebrates the loss of someone else who’s been lost. I kneel next to it, wishing I’d folded up the first of the letters to read here, beneath the streetlamp. Something about it feels right enough. Mosquitos bite into my legs and arms. I swat and continue on, unsure of where I’m going, remembering only where I’ve been.

  The history of me.

  I pass a group of girls my age. I’ve seen them in passing over my summers here. They laugh and I wonder. If changing schools matters. If people really change. If I’ll always feel like the outlier. Our old neighbor, Mr. Powell, watched our life-changing news from his window. He didn’t hide from sight, probably relieved it wasn’t about his wife who deployed before Dad. They talked about the drive to Dover Air Force Base, where we’d be reunited with Dad’s remains. The word slipped and we could tell it wasn’t meant to be used. The officer grew visibly anxious, backtracking his words to clarify in a more respectful manner. But I’d already heard it—“remains.” As if the rest of Dad had been abandoned somewhere. And, I suppose, it had.

  He was in the FLOAT phase, a fallen loved one awaiting transfer. While I died somewhere in between

  Courage and cowardice.

  Darkness and light.

  Forgiveness and condemnation.

  Rising and fading.

  Forgetting and remembering.

  And all that happens

  Before death.

  I remember these things with such an ache in my chest, I don’t know where I’ve ended up until the light startles me out of the past. Baked & Caffeinated is lit from within, booths and tables full of all of Ivy Springs enjoying the same treats Dad and I used to. I press my hands and face to the window to peer inside at the smiles, pretending I’m still in there, too.

  When I let go, I don’t see a penny, but a different sign of sorts.

  HELP WANTED

  Feeling the sign between my fingers, I’m sick. A cold sweat, rumbling stomach, and dizzied haze encompassed around everything I see. If I move, the weight of me could fall over on the sidewalk, where I’ll become part of Ivy Springs forever.

  My phone rings but I ignore it. JJ and Kam want to hear my voice, to know I’m “okay.” I can’t answer. I let each ring go to voicemail, again and again. Just like I did to Dad.

  I pick up my phone to see a barrage of new texts.

  JJ: Tracking you but call if you want to be picked up <3

  Instead of replying, I decide to take myself on a tour of all the spots that mattered to Dad and me. Leaving Baked & Caffeinated, I walk half a block down to Paint the Sky. One class, we painted the constellations. Another, it was the sunrise. I didn’t realize then that he was reminding me he’d always be part of my world. In swirls of canvas color.

  I don’t stay long. The town feels a little too empty. I start toward the place the memorial will be—where the bench will sit next to the cherry tree. But I can’t. Instead, I turn, and head home. Or the closest thing to it. My finger lingers over the voicemail file from Dad. I want to hear his voice but I can’t.

  Would you rather listen to something that will break you, or always wonder what words may have been?

  My feet pick up the pace, following the route I’d taken summers past. Somehow carrying me back to Baked & Caffeinated instead. People stroll through the glass door with ease. The simple act of going in, or going out, seems impossible to me. I do this five more times. My feet grind
into the pavement, protest my indecision.

  I hold my breath and force myself inside, expecting an explosion or confetti or something so huge, I’ll wish I’d never come. But once I breeze through that same glass door, there is nothing. I find myself at the counter, tapping my nails against the marble.

  “Can I help you?” A guy, probably early twenties, asks from behind the counter. I didn’t see him last summer, but last summer is a place I’ve come to rewrite memories from, not a well from which I can pull concrete truths.

  I freeze again and I hate it. Like, please don’t talk to me and please read my mind and please be my friend but one last thing—don’t be my friend.

  “Ready to order?”

  My mouth opens, but I’m silent. Another employee, a girl dressed in a spaghetti tank and long, billowy skirt, rushes over to whisper into the boy’s ear. Her hair is adorned with a twisted metal halo, sculpted flowers along the sides. There are whispers and fingers pointing and waving. Maybe toward me, maybe not. My vision blurs in and out so I can’t be sure. Pressure crushes my every thought. I stare, blankly, at the riddle. He leans over the counter.

  “You all right?”

  I find my balance and courage. “I want to apply for a job.”

  “Sweet sauce.” He pulls a page from beneath the counter and lays it flat. A line forms behind me. From here, I can see the booth Dad and I sat at every Sunday. I liked it because it was the farthest from the front door, closest to the counter. It’s always good to know your exits. I hadn’t been inside since the last time he was with me. I stare longingly, imagining our imprints still there, laughing over coffees—his black, no sugar; mine sugar, no coffee. No one sits there now. The booth is empty.

  Empty.

  “You want to fill it out now and then we can chat?” he interrupts my thoughts.

  I look to him, and to the empty booth again. My mouth remains closed.

  One long minute passes. Maybe two. I don’t know how much time. I don’t know.

  “Do you want some water?” the girl asks. “It’s pH-balanced.”

  I fight through the feeling of everyone watching and listening, pulling myself out of it. “No … thanks.”

  The walls box me in; there are too many people. It’s hot. It’s cold. I should’ve left before my feet crossed the line. I could redo. I don’t know how long I stand here. I can’t count with everyone watching and I can’t touch my throat and I can’t flick my fingers so all I can do is sprint through the door.

  My legs have never moved so fast. Arms pump, lungs struggling to catch any air, I run and run and run and run and run and run, avoiding all lines, cracks and splits and bumps and rocks, until I collapse at the base of the cherry tree. It already feels like this spot belongs to me. I sit in a shadow where they’ve sectioned off the dirt—the place some of his ashes will be buried—and catch my breath. I hadn’t really looked before, or maybe I didn’t want to. It’s surreal to see it, to know this is the end of everything. And as the application crinkles between my hands, maybe the beginning.

  I hate the start. Start. Start. Start. Start. Start.

  Of new.

  Dad

  cell

  March 25 at 2:40 AM

  Transcription Beta

  “I can’t stop calling. I know you won’t answer, but still. I call. Nell tells me you’ve been struggling. I’m so sorry, baby. Wish I was home.”

  No New Emails

  Update from an earlier story: Adorbsville is not an actual place either.

  Violet has ahold of my hand. I photograph the feeling, the way she delicately cradles the underneath, the smoothness of her skin. She says there are four major lines: heart, head, life, and fate.

  “You have a water palm,” she says. “You’re sensitive and emotional.”

  The store is empty, and has been for hours, so we’ve been spending our time smashed together on the back countertop with a gluten-free brownie between us while Big Foot mans the front. She says it’s like the movie Sixteen Candles—aside from no cake or birthday or really anything else.

  “Never seen it,” I tell her.

  She gasps. “Blasphemy, Dew-Was-Diaz-Brickman. Everyone’s seen it—it’s an eighties cult classic.”

  I shrug.

  “Say Anything?”

  “Like what?”

  “No—the movie. Tell me you’ve seen that one.”

  I don’t answer. She understands this as my confession, and pulls my hand closer to her.

  “Tell me about my fate,” I say.

  “Having a water palm mean’s you’re special. Not everyone does.” She angles my hand, looks a little sharper. She points to a deep line cutting through, with intermittent breaks along the path. “Oh, this is interesting.”

  “What?” I audibly gulp.

  “See how it breaks and comes back together?”

  I nod, my heart racing.

  “It’s a sign there’s a bigger force at play. Something that might wreck your world—multiple times, even—but you’ll find a way to persevere.”

  She lets go and my hand drops to my side. “Pretty deep, right?”

  “Indeed.” I dizzily walk away, contemplating.

  “Does it sound like you?” She chases me, grabs ahold of my hand again to show me the lines, compared to those in her palm. “See how different our lines are? My fate line is short. It means compared to someone like you, I’ll be seen as a free spirit and I can go from thing to thing without stressing too much about it.”

  “Sounds accurate enough.” She elbows me and follows me to the utility closet, where I grab the broom.

  “Can I ask you something personal?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why are you always late? Today it was twenty minutes, yesterday seventeen. You don’t seem like the slacker type, or the dude who’s okay with people being upset with him. What’s the deal?”

  I grip the top of the broom. “I have a weird thing about time. It gets away from me.”

  “But, like—and stop me if this sounds too rude—people who are consistently late are usually avoiding other issues. Is everything okay at home?”

  I hesitate and she backs off. “I’m sorry. Totally not my business.”

  I decide to peel back another layer. For me, this time.

  “Being on time reminds me that my parents are gone. I guess there’s a part of me that’s decided being late is safe—because if they had been late, they’d still be alive—and so I’m always late. I don’t know what that says about me.”

  Her eyes well and she leaps toward me, wrapping her arms around me, snug. I drop the broom. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I wasn’t expecting you to get that deep. Thank you for trusting me with something so painful.”

  “It feels good to say out loud. I never do, really. I’d rather pretend it’s part of someone else’s life while I move on with mine. It’s easier that way.”

  “My dude,” she says, “you sound like my girl Birdie. Eyes forward, chin up, don’t think about it, don’t talk about it, don’t acknowledge it. Because the second you do, you’ll combust. I get it. I’d probably react the same way.”

  We share a long, silent stare that borders on too long. When she lets go, I feel a release of sorts. Like I’ve been submerged underwater for a long time, and suddenly, I can breathe again.

  I deviate from the awkward as I pick up the broom. “We’ve been working together long enough. You should know something about me other than my love of August Moon and the Paper Hearts.”

  “Yes, please. A girl can only take so much.”

  “My mom and dad were part of their band for years, then became openers for other bands before they … nevermind. I could listen to them every second of my life and it wouldn’t be enough.”

  Her head drops. “Damn you, Violet,” she tells herself. Then, looking up at me: “I don’t mean it that way. The music isn’t bad, it’s just that, it’s all we’ve heard and … you know what? I’m going to stop talking now.”

  “It�
�s okay. Not everyone understands why I have to listen to them. How the melodies remind me of the good times. Even when life felt unbearable, I still had my parents through the music.” I feel a little too exposed. To fill the space, and avoid eye contact, I begin to sweep the floor around us. “Tell me more about you. Why are you always perfectly on time?”

  “It’s strange, but I have a weird thing with time, too. Ever since Birdie’s little brother was in that accident, I’m almost afraid of it. The way the fates lined up for such a horrible thing to happen kind of haunts me. Makes me wonder how much control we even have. Over anything, really. Maybe me being on time is similar to why you’re late. Somewhere in me, I’ve decided it’s safe and so, I’ll always be on time.” She winks, but there are more tears she’s holding back.

  “I get it,” I say. “I’d probably react the same way.” Now I wink, but it’s more like my face contorts. I play it off by pretending a bug flew in my direction.

  She asks more about my parents, how they managed to birth someone so “awesome,” and something about my adoption, when I hear that voice.

  “Sorry about before,” the voice says. “Running out of here was weird and inappropriate, and I’m kind of working on it but kind of failing. Please don’t judge me.”

  “No judgements here, friend. It’s cool,” Big Foot replies. “I get anxious in new situations, changes, when storms roll through, and when there aren’t enough Oreos in my Blizzard. We all have our things, you know?”

  “True … so I don’t have a rèsumè or anything, but I like baked things and the smell of coffee,” she says. I inch my way to the edge of the doorframe to see Naima standing before Big Foot. I retract my body as far back as possible, my ears opening like satellites.

  “Are you available for random shifts—evenings and weekends?” Big Foot asks.

  “I have no life, so yes,” she replies. “As long as it’s a schedule I can rely on. I don’t like last-minute changes. I’m not that person.”

  “Minimum wage to start but there’s tips and room for advancement. Free coffee drinks and one allergen-friendly brownie or cookie per shift.”