Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

  Even if,

  I don’t deserve it.

  Dad

  cell

  May 10 at 10:09 AM

  Transcription Beta

  “[sigh] Ima … I need you to know, I’m sorry for missing your birthday, for not being there for you. For everything. Take care of Nell and Christian and always remember that [call ends]”

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  Of course you’re missing it

  Like you missed everything else

  That matters

  Just like when

  You missed

  The moment I tried to

  Die last summer.

  It’s because of you, Dad

  You.

  Just stay gone.

  Forever.

  Coming up: Run-in at local church causes quite a stir for one family.

  At the church, Stella, Thomas, and Faith sit along a plastic-covered table with plates full of various potluck foods. Faith is wearing the general store’s feather boa, a cowboy hat, and sunglasses shaped like stars. I hold the umbrella I brought—there’s a chance of rain—and pin it to my side like a protective battle sword. The flap is torn, and the latch you’d normally push has a strange malfunction where it pops upright without warning, but it’s one of the first things Thomas gave me, so there’s no other I’d rather have.

  “Wasn’t sure if you’d make it in time,” Stella says, watching the cat video Faith shares with her. Their faces are consumed with the screen’s brightness.

  “I had a small altercation with life.”

  “What happened?” Thomas asks.

  “I misplaced my recorder but Joelle found it in her garden.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I’m glad she found it. We could’ve bought you another.”

  “Dr. Peterson wants to wean me off it. She thinks I rely on it too much.”

  “I think it’s helped. Think of where you were before it. Now you have a job, and you’re in a full church, without so much as a panicked sweat.”

  I consider her words. “You’re right. But so is Dr. Peterson. I need to learn how to cope without it.”

  Thomas pats my back. “I’m proud of you.”

  “We all are,” Stella says. “And of Faith.”

  “Yeah yeah yeah, everyone’s proud of everyone,” Faith says. “We got it.”

  I casually scan the historic church that’s filled with a rainbow of faces. Mary from the general store. Louis, who sits on the bench near the community garden I pass on my way to work. Enrique from the bank. But no Naima.

  “She already left,” Stella says with a smirk.

  I pretend to act confused. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “Sure.”

  “She had a major breakdown,” Faith interjects. “Screamed real loud. Everyone checked on her and she was fine. It was weird.”

  “Was she hurt?” My blood pumps a little harder. As if whatever happened, happened to me.

  “No,” Stella says. She signals for me to come closer, so she can whisper. Joelle and Kam are approaching. “The church must’ve reminded her of her parents.”

  Now that she’s said it, I realize the stained glass resembles similar etchings from the church where my parents’ funerals were held. My stomach drops, melting into a puddle along the taupe-carpeted floor. “Is she … okay?”

  Joelle interrupts, hands intertwined. “So glad you all made it,” she says. “And happy I was able to brighten your day, Dew.”

  “Thank you again,” I say, though I can’t manage to hold my smile. Thoughts of Naima wrenching in pain are all I see.

  “Heard about the new fence that’s going up in the community garden,” Thomas says to Kam. “If you need more volunteers, let us know. We’d be happy to help. I know Dew’s interested in helping, aren’t you, Dew?”

  My eyes fixate on a carpet thread that’s come loose. I’m unable to move them.

  Kam holds out a hand to shake. “I appreciate any help we can get. It’s been a long time coming. The zoning alone was somethin’.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Joelle says. “Don’t get him started. We’ll be here all night.”

  Faith sighs loud enough for everyone to drop the conversation.

  “And you, Miss Thing, you look marvelous,” Joelle tells her. “Very fancy.”

  She tosses her boa back and decides now is a perfectly good time to practice her latest catchphrase on actual people. “Gonna mop them boys up.”

  Their eyes bulge.

  Stella swoops in. “She’s decided to be a wrestler. This is her shtick.”

  “Now, that’s something,” Kam says.

  “What’s your stage name?” Joelle asks.

  “The Conniption.”

  Joelle slaps Kam’s back as she erupts with laughter. “You’ll have to let us know when you have a match or meet or whatever it’s called. We’ll be there doing whatever wrestling fans do.”

  Faith offers a thumbs-up, her attention diverted back to her phone.

  My attention drifts. Violet stands near the front of the church. She’s dressed in a sunny yellow romper, her hair swept up in a loose bun as she converses with the parents of her friend, Birdie. A gleam across the floor catches my eye.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  As I lean over to pluck up the shiny penny—Joelle told me it’s a sign someone above is watching—another hand reaches out.

  “Found it first,” the voice says. He looks up and a wash of red coats his face. Dodge. He drops the penny and backs away. In here, he looks like someone else. Long hair sideswept and clean. Crisp shirt tucked into smooth pants.

  “You know the Paxtons?” I ask.

  “Everyone does.”

  Sweat forms beneath my fedora. I tuck my chin to my chest and lose eye contact as he towers near. Not another word, not another breath in my direction. He shoves past and leaves the church altogether. So, I do the thing Mom wanted me to. I think of stepping inside his shoes, and I follow.

  NAIMA

  I can’t stop thinking about what Bess Paxton, the mother of the boy who was hit by the car, said before I left the church.

  “Grief will kill you if you let it. Some things are out of our control.”

  It was the way she said it. I could feel the gratitude of life in her words, but also the heavy sorrow within the context, that her son survived, albeit with a traumatic brain injury. There’s acceptance in her cadence. She’s right.

  I’m in control of nothing.

  Rounding the corner from the memorial spot, I’m mere doors from Paint the Sky. I’ve already thought of all the words I could use with those letters, PTS: Pass the Shit, Peasant Trash Soap, Pit-Tee-Stain, Please Talk Softer, and my favorite, People Tell Secrets, because I’m living it now. The historic row of buildings in the heart of downtown represent a time and place most of the world has pulled away from. The sun is at its brightest, hottest; heat bounces from the old brick and mortar. The orange flames lick the top of my head, revealing a long shadow in front of me. When I reach the steps to the shop’s door, I relive the memory of a package that once sat there; a package meant for me.

  I peer inside the window. It’s now empty as their hours have become by-appointment-only, but the space I can see reminds me of the year Dad missed the father-daughter dance in Fort Hood. He promised he’d be home to take me, but at the last minute, couldn’t. Nell and Christian offered to take me, but no—I was so upset I painted all the words I could think of (the not nice ones) onto the paintings he and I made together. When he made it home, he saw, and I could see how much it hurt him. But I didn’t care. He’d hurt me first.

  Months later, when he was gone and I was here for the summer, I received instructions to come to this very spot for a belated birthday present. I didn’t want to, but
my curiosity got the best of me. He somehow planned for a box to be here when I was, and inside was the gown I wanted for the dance he missed. And I looked into this very window, through the muted shade to the reds, blues, and greens that flickered onto the floor. The colors don’t sparkle now; the room is dark and empty.

  That day this happened, a strobe light ignited, spinning a rainbow of colors across the shiny wooden floor in starry-eyed fashion. The floor revealed tape, formed like arrows, stopping at an X in the center—the place where the tables were usually situated for paint class. I stood in that spot for a few minutes when a song burst through the speakers—“I Hope You Dance”—and out of the shadows, Dad appeared in his dress blues with his hand out, asking me for the dance he missed. It was the kind of thing you’d only see in movies.

  I, inevitably, accepted his offer because, let’s be real—he was always gone and I wanted to be near him—but then I complained about how sweaty touching hands was, and about moving in circles, and how pointless dancing was, and he asked how I could ever get close to anyone if I couldn’t even dance with him. My tongue twisted and spit the fire of “We’re not close. You’re never even here!” To which he responded, as he always, always, always, always, always, always responded, with, “I’m here now.” But now is gone, forever.

  For prom begins at half past eight,

  Just go inside; don’t hesitate,

  Will you give me one more chance,

  To offer you this one last dance?

  Now I only see the prom he’ll miss; the wedding I might have. Any children I may conceive. Every career ladder I’ll climb. I place my hand on the doorknob, part of me wanting to believe he’ll walk out of the shadows like before. I’ve not danced with anyone since (dance battles with JJ and Kam don’t count).

  I let go.

  Dad

  cell

  May 19 at 1:02 PM

  Transcription Beta

  “Couldn’t sleep last night. Can’t wait to spend time with you in Ivy Springs. It’s all I can think about. We’ll do all our usual things. It’ll be like old times, but better. As soon as I can—even if it’s through the school year. Promise. I miss you.”

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  I wish I could tell you

  How many times

  I’ve counted the days

  Until I see you

  But in my heart

  I don’t believe

  You’ll actually

  Show.

  Storm warning: Ivy Springs weather to take another unexpected turn, mechanical casualties expected.

  I remain ten steps back. A magnetic force drives me in his direction despite my stomach tangling into a million tiny knots. Perhaps I don’t believe Dodge’s hate has something to do with me. I sense a kindness—one he’s not ready to confront—and wonder if I should step into his shoes, peel back a layer. Or maybe ask how he’s feeling. I don’t mean ask in a way that prompts a generic “fine,” but to ask and really listen to the answers.

  Dodge walks with his head down, avoiding eye contact with those he passes. I do the same, to commiserate, empathize. We’re near the community garden when he stops abruptly.

  “Why are you following me?” he asks.

  I consider not moving or speaking, as if it might coat me in an invisibility cloak.

  He turns and clomps toward me.

  “Oh, hello,” I say. My body crumbles.

  “What do you want?”

  “I, uh, I just wondered, um…,” I step back, my shoes catching on a sidewalk crack. I tumble backward into the cinder-block wall of the garden. My recorder falls from my pocket, out of reach and into pieces, and the umbrella shoots open like a burst of lightning. The metal knob at the top of the folded canopy lashes Dodge in the cheek. He stumbles, holding the sting in his palm, with a brief glance of heated rage. The events unfurl in slow motion. Dodge wipes a bead of blood from his cheek and looks at his hand. I fold tighter, wait for him to hurtle toward me. The recorder is stuck on Play, sounding a loop of tape.

  “Your parents would be so proud proud proud proud…”

  My heart beats wildly as everything around us silences. Dodge flinches so I close my eyes and await his blow. It doesn’t come. There’s a light tap on my shoulder that pings one eyelid open. His hand lingers at my eye level to reveal my recorder’s pieces. The tape is jammed; the only way to force it to stop is by breaking the plastic surrounding it. As I strike the concrete with my mechanical friend, a guttural scream echoes somewhere inside. Tears slide down my face; there is no stopping them.

  “Are you okay?” Dodge watches intently, his eyes now commiserating, empathizing with mine. I feel him stepping into my shoes, peeling off my layer.

  I open my mouth to say something profound, something my parents would’ve said, instead only managing a nod. He turns to walk away. It’s not much, but somehow, it’s enough.

  NAIMA

  I round the corner to see a figure moving away from another bunched-up figure on the sidewalk. The one cowering is Dew, by the design of his ridiculous fedora.

  “What did you do?” I shout at the boy leaving.

  He stops, turns around.

  I run, not caring if I’m hitting cracks or divots, and I don’t count how many steps. I slide between the two, and as the boy’s empty hand raises again, something happens that never has before. I don’t flinch. Eyes open, chest straight and proud, I stand here, prepared to take a hit meant for a boy I don’t even like. It’s for all the me’s and him’s of the world. For those who’ve been picked on for being ourselves.

  “Naima, wait,” Dew says.

  I react swiftly, grabbing the boy’s wrist, and with a rapid twist, all my weight is on top of him, with his arm and wrist bent behind him.

  “Mercy!” he shouts. “MERCY!”

  The Krav Maga moves Dad taught me, but was sure I didn’t pay attention to, must’ve stuck. “Apologize,” I order, tugging tighter.

  “Naima, stop,” Dew says, pulling himself upright.

  “APOLOGIZE TO HIM.”

  The boy fights to be free. “Fine—let go! Let go! I’m sorry!”

  I hold on, enjoying the rush of power streaming through me. This is for all the girls that called me a whale. For all the whispers about my hair. For all the damning stares they thought would break me. For all the people who’ve called me “crazy” instead of knowing me at all. I hold, then, as the adrenaline drops, let go.

  He rubs his wrist as Dew rushes between us. “He didn’t do anything to me. I tripped.”

  My laugh bellows. “Yeah, okay.”

  “He did,” the boy says. “I didn’t touch him.”

  “Hi, yeah, so you can go, thanks,” I tell him, redirecting to Dew. The boy goes, hesitant in his steps. He rubs his red wrist, rounding the corner out of sight.

  “Why did you do that?” Dew asks.

  “I’ve had enough of this shit. Some people never change. At some point, I have to do something or it’ll go on forever.”

  “This wasn’t about you.”

  I frown. “Excuse me for helping.”

  “No, I mean, thank you for stepping in. You’re a true ally and I appreciate that. But he honestly didn’t cause me any harm. It was an accident.”

  I step back, shoving my hands in my pockets to pinch the fabric. My feet remain on either side of the sidewalk crack now. “Maybe he’ll take it as a preemptive threat so he doesn’t mess with anyone in the future. He’ll fear I’m always waiting in the wings ready to strike if he steps out of line.”

  Dew takes off his fedora and holds it to his chest as he glances to the broken bits of recorder. “No,” he suddenly cries, stuffing the bits into his fedora and pockets. “It’s okay, Dew. It’s okay. It’s okay,” he tells himself. “You’re okay.”

  I lean down. “Maybe we can fix it.”

&nb
sp; He’s inconsolable, sobbing into the pieces.

  “I hate this thing, but it’s only a recorder. You can get a new one.”

  He’s shaking his head. “You don’t understand.”

  I grab ahold of his hand to settle it. “I counted thirteen seconds since you took off your hat. My dad just died. I cried when my stepmom forgot my marshmallows. I so get it. More than anyone else. You knew that before we met. Give me some fuckin’ credit.”

  He calms, finds my eyes. Realization flashes across his face. He stands and brushes off the dirt from his clothes. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “You’re embarrassed? I just wrestled some asshat—for no reason, apparently. Like a common day vigilante, an Avenger. Damn. I should be the new Dr. Strange to fix this time issue.”

  There’s a lingering silence where our breaths connect—multiplying germs and all—and in an odd way, it brings a wash of calm over me. Dad used to tell me, on the days I’d come home and lock myself away after someone stole bits of my confidence, to look at people as mirrors. He said we could see the good and bad parts of ourselves in others. In Dew, I’m starting to see both.

  Would you rather befriend an enemy or become one?

  “So what were you doing anyway?” I ask, annoyed. “Stalking is a whole other conversation we need to have.”

  He gathers his thoughts. “No, nothing like that. I left the church and was on a stroll to the levee.”

  “Someone—JJ or Kam—probably told you to make sure I’m okay.”

  “No, I assure you. It’s a matter of being in the same place at the same time, purely by coincidence.” He hesitates. “But I did hear something happened. I suppose there’s a grain of truth.”

  His thick curls flop over his forehead. His head is smaller than I remember and I wonder if that’s why he covers it with a hat. I assume he’s wondering why my head is so big and why I don’t cover it with a hat. In my imaginary conversation, we come to an impasse.