Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

  “That was…,” I begin.

  “Awful,” she blurts. “Totally read you wrong.”

  The silence lasts forever. “We’ll politely agree to forget about it,” I say.

  “Yeah, that’d be … cool,” she says. “So, I’m gonna go.”

  I’m not way up in the clouds, not searching for wishes on planes. I’m the wish; the plane. My heart is absent of flutter when she steps away, taking me back to a birthday party I once attended. When Spin the Bottle began, someone rigged it so the most popular girl—Willow Jenkins—would have to kiss me. She declined with jovial, disgusted laughter. I spent the remainder of the party in the corner, watching everyone else move along without me.

  Naima’s almost to the door when she turns. “I decided I’m taking the job.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Never speak of this or I’ll cut you while you sleep.”

  * * *

  As I walk inside, I’m greeted by a smile plastered on Stella’s face as she puts clean dishes into the cupboard. Thomas dries first and hands them to her. They’re a well-oiled machine and clearly look as though they know something I don’t.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” Her smile grows.

  My shoulders hunch. “You saw?”

  She snickers. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Or see what I saw.”

  “Don’t worry, there won’t be any more of that. It wasn’t very good.”

  Thomas leans in. “Some of them aren’t. But one day, you’ll find the person that makes your heart explode. Fireworks.” He winks at Stella.

  “So I hear.” To disrupt the discomfort, I drop my fedora onto the center of the table. Pieces of the recorder clang together in a mountain of useless plastic and tape.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “There was an unfortunate incident.”

  They both stop what they’re doing, eyes expanding. “Did someone hurt you?” Thomas asks.

  “Nothing like that.”

  “So, what, then?”

  “I tripped while following someone. He could’ve hurt me if he’d wanted to, but Naima stepped in and put him in an armlock. Turns out, he didn’t hurt me, and my recorder was sacrificed in the process.”

  They look to one another, and to me. “Wow,” Thomas says. “That’s a lot to unpack. Good thing for her being in the right place at the right time.”

  “Wait,” Stella say, “why are you following people? We’ve discussed this.”

  I kick my feet around. “I sensed he needed a friend.”

  She throws her hands on her waist and tilts her head in frustration. “You have a big heart, and I know you mean well, but you can’t follow strangers around. And while we’re at it, remember, you can’t record people without their permission. It’s for your personal use only.”

  My fingers find the pieces. “No chance of that now anyway.”

  Faith barrels in, stopping to peer down at my recorder-filled fedora. “What happened?”

  “He broke his recorder,” Stella says.

  Faith’s mood shifts as she rushes off, returning seconds later draped in her feather boa, with star-shaped sunglasses and a wand of sorts. “Tell me who it is.” She punches one fist into an open palm. “I’ll handle it.”

  I lay my hand on her shoulder. “That’s very kind, but everything is fine.”

  “Random girl next door can protect you, but I can’t?” she cries.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I’m just as strong as she is. STRONGER.” She kicks a leg straight out.

  “You absolutely are, but my point is Naima shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. It wasn’t necessary because I wasn’t in danger.”

  “Whatever.” She throws her boa and sunglasses to the floor, waving her wand as if banishing us to a faraway land, and runs to her room, where the door slams behind her. Another picture frame falls to the floor, cracking the glass.

  “That didn’t go well,” I say.

  “Welcome to the phrase I mutter after most conversations,” Thomas jokes.

  They continue to buzz around me but I’m stuck to my recorder’s pieces.

  Stella shoves a flyer in front of me. “I found an amateur girls wrestling team. Tryouts are tomorrow.”

  “I’m scared for anyone in her path,” I say.

  “We all are,” Thomas says.

  I collapse into a chair and spread the pieces in front of me like a puzzle. One by one, I line them up as if putting together the broken bones of a friend. The recorder represents so much more than the duty it served. It’s me: shattered, but in this light, all smashed together, good enough.

  NAIMA

  I brush my teeth six times, gargle mouthwash, and say a little prayer for kissing Dew GD Brickman. I plead temporary insanity. Must’ve been some weird virus in the air that turns brains into zombie mush. Once I’m content with the slaughter of the germs, I find myself flipping open every letter, laying them into view. One is a collection of musings I’d written during a dinner out with Dad. I didn’t know he’d noticed, or that he kept any of them.

  The dinner was his way of making sure I felt included. Suddenly there was this whole new family I didn’t feel a part of. One Dad would leave me to figure out, without him. Chill bumps coat my skin as I scour over my deepest, darkest thoughts he’d been privy to. Things about Nell. About him leaving.

  Who I am.

  My hair’s never straight enough or curly enough. Mom was too light, Dad too dark. I’m never who people think I should be. In school, I’m asked the same GD question—“What are you?”—by some new group of mean girls every year, as if “what I am” defines my existence. People think the question doesn’t burn, but it does, it has, it will. I like my curly hair. I like my body. I like my broken skin with freckles and markings. I like me—I’m the perfect blend of Mom and Dad, JJ and Kam, and everyone who came before, from all sides. So what does it matter to you, dear asker, what I am? The question undercuts my every attempt to find my place. Leave me be. What I am is not your concern.

  Would you rather be the subject of regular microaggressions for looking different, even if you’re happy with yourself, or be miserable, never having someone criticize your appearance?

  Dad would say, “Ima, not everyone will accept you right away. As long as you accept yourself, the world will eventually follow.” I knew he was right.

  What are you?

  I suddenly, overwhelmingly, have an answer and know the exact way to execute it. I’ll conquer everything I’ve ever feared in the name of taking back my identity—of being made from Mom and Dad.

  Also, I’m in the mood for cake.

  Strawberry with rainbow sprinkles.

  (And still, probably, anthrax.)

  Boy, 16, realizes he’s missing something, finds memory.

  I sit along the edge of my bed, missing the feel of the recorder in my hand, when my phone buzzes.

  Violet: My acupuncturist sensed a new source of tension and I wondered if it’s you.

  Me: Me? How?

  Violet: In your heart. I’m an empath so if you’re hurting, I am, too.

  Me: Then yes, your acupuncturist is correct.

  Violet: Want a silver lining?

  Me: Always.

  Violet: You’re crackling fire dark can’t break.

  My hands squeeze the phone tight, tighter, tightest. I drop it to the bed. I glance at the August Moon poster, my thoughts spiraling down a long, winding path. I don’t text her back, because maybe I’m not capable of being “normal” enough. Maybe the recorder is as close as I’ll ever get and that’s a stretch. Awaiting a new one feels like the string of days before my parents’ funeral. Consumed with trepidation, I can’t anticipate what’s to come and even after, it’ll never feel the same again. Maybe Violet shouldn’t waste her silver linings on me.

  The pieces of my recorder stare up at me. I’ve let them down, they tell me. It was my job to protect them, they say.

&n
bsp; Like everything else, it all comes back to time.

  Had I not attended the carry-in when I did, I wouldn’t have run into Dodge, I couldn’t have followed him, and this wouldn’t have happened. With the caricature wolf staring at me from the August Moon poster frame, I stand to look in the full-length mirror. My posture slinks, my eyes have visible bags, and my hatless head reveals my curls have been smashed flat.

  Mom’s voice drifts through my ears, her hum of song streaming through. We’re in the car on the way to school the morning of. Windows down, sun peering over the horizon to mark the start of the day.

  “Goodbye, my darling,” Mom said.

  “Have a great day, son,” Dad said.

  If I’d known those were the last words I’d ever hear them say, I’d have remained in that car with them forever. There’s a picture on my nightstand of the three of us. One of the few things I have left of before. It remains untouched, covered in dust, with August Moon’s howling anthem behind the glass. With my recorder lying helplessly behind, and memories faded in front, and my hat out of reach, I see myself—like really see this boy they call Dew. And how infinitely empty he is.

  NAIMA

  Before Dad began a tradition of giving me challenges to gain “prizes” and conquer my fears or whatever, I was terrified of balloons. The way they bobbed and weaved, mocking my panic, felt ominous enough that I hid when he began bringing them home on my birthday. He would blow them up himself so they’d scoot across the floors, chasing me.

  This was before his second tour. My memories of it are only bits and pieces, the rest diluted with things far more important (literally everything else). Dad accidentally popped one beneath his giant boot, and I ran screaming to my bedroom, where I buried myself beneath the hexagon quilt and counted. Moments later, I felt a tap. My eyes peering out, I saw Dad had dragged up his feet from the floor, as if scared, too. He told me there was hot lava we had to skip over if we wanted to survive, pointing to the red sea of balloons dragging along the edge of the bed. He’d asked, Would you rather die from hot lava invading your space or get injured from trying to escape it?

  I was skeptical but it was the perfect metaphor for living with mental illness and how complex it can be to manage. I hated balloons and didn’t think I could ever believe otherwise. But Dad hopped off the bed, over each balloon, into the hallway. He laughed and held his hand out into the air for me to join him.

  “You have to jump through the lava if you want to be free,” he said. “Even if it hurts. Especially if it does.”

  I was so scared of what might happen if a balloon grazed my toes. But there was this look on his face, asking me to trust him, so I did. I pushed my body out of the comfort of my bed, letting my toes drop between the bare spaces, until I reached him. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into him.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he said, hugging me tight. “You are the bravest girl I know.”

  Brave. Brave. Brave. Brave. Brave. Brave.

  Eventually, that shaking, terrified feeling went away. Or, maybe it morphed into other fears. But after that day, I knew the balloons wouldn’t hurt me—even when they popped. If this story says anything about my father, it’s that he always knew I was capable of things before I ever did.

  At the beginning of last summer, though, something shifted. I don’t know if it was the air, the earth, or me. Dad promised not to leave and he went anyway. I only wanted him to tell me he’d stay, and mean it. But he always left. Always.

  I think we all know I won’t ever be a combat medic. My heart wants to, to erase dad’s death. Maybe to understand why he always left. My mind tells me to follow a different path. If I can’t conquer my fear of life, how can I surround myself with death?

  I scour the letters spread out in front of me. Dad challenged me so I could persevere with, or without, him. So that someday, I could be courageous (like with Dew). By encouraging prayer and meditation to reflect on all I had, not what I lacked. By learning forgiveness, no matter how I struggled. By passing down family stories so I could understand who I am. But I’ve never fully learned how to live. Maybe I’ll dig up my memories of those things he challenged me with, where I tried and failed, or didn’t try at all, and do those moments over, better, as a means of rewriting who I am.

  Oh, God.

  Oh … God …

  I get it now.

  While I wrapped myself in my hexagon cocoon,

  He was showing me

  How to be the Butterfly.

  Today’s top stories: Go Magic! Craze taking over the town, most still don’t get it.

  “Go Magic!” Violet says. We’re playing a card game during the last ten minutes of work. It’s been a virtual ghost town all evening thanks to a Summer Nights Festival just outside of Ivy Springs.

  I look at my cards, baffled. “I don’t understand the rules.”

  “It’s like Go Fish, but instead of fish, you have magical powers, locations, and people. If I ask you for the Isolated Desert or the Demented Skull and you don’t have it, you say, ‘Go Magic!’ See?”

  Big Foot interrupts, turning the OPEN sign off. “Go home already.”

  “You sure?” Violet asks. “I can stay until ten.”

  “Nah. Go do rebellious-youth stuff. That’s way more fun than playing,” he stops to look at our cards, “whatever the fuck this is.”

  “Leave Go Magic! alone.” Violet tosses her cards onto the stack and gathers her backpack, which doubles as a purse. “It’s revolutionary as far as card games go. We’re starting the next trend. You’re a part of history, man.”

  “I didn’t realize,” he says sarcastically.

  “You want me to leave as well?” I ask for clarity. “Or only her?”

  He stops to stare, blank-faced. “Yeah, man. Go.”

  “See ya,” she tells Big Foot.

  “Good night,” I say.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says with a sly smile. I follow Violet into the night as he locks the door behind us. He cups his hands over his face to get a clear view of us beneath the light before waving one last time. We wave in return.

  “He’s so funny,” she says.

  The air is stagnant. Warm and unkind. My fingers pinch the inseams of my pockets, where my recorder should be. I unknowingly walk her to her car, mindlessly going wherever she goes. The scent of sugar and espresso lingers behind her.

  “Are you parked here, too?” she asks, spinning around to face me.

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “Oh, right. Forgot. Need a ride?”

  “No, thanks.” I fight the arguing voices in my head and take a deep breath, running the line: Will you go out with me?

  Before I spit it out, she says, “I’ve been meaning to ask, do you wanna hang out sometime?”

  “I, uh…,” My heart races, pulsing through my pressure points. I’m sure she can tell.

  “If you don’t want to, it’s cool.”

  “No—I do. I was going to ask you.”

  She laughs. “I knew it. My horoscope told me to expect the unexpected.”

  “Wouldn’t that mean you didn’t know I was going to ask you out?”

  “The opposite—because you’re the unexpected, see?”

  I don’t. “I do.”

  “Glad we’re on the same cosmic page.”

  “Okay, well, if you’re interested in attending a youth amateur wrestling tryout tomorrow, I’d love to have a plus one.”

  “Ooh, that is unexpected. Did not see that wild option coming.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “I’d love to. I’ll text you?”

  “Okay.” I back away, letting her slip into her car.

  Her voice rings through the open window, “Wait. I forgot to give you something.”

  My footsteps ingrain themselves into the river of white rocks, crunching with such grit I almost feel powerful. “Give me something?”

  The slight wave of her finger draws me near, and just like that, the moment I l
ean in, she grabs me by the collar, then pulls back ever so slightly.

  “Is this okay?”

  I nod haphazardly, and she kisses me. This time, it is as soft and warm as I imagined it to be. A perfect piano note that sings. I am not grounded, but floating into the stratosphere, becoming a plane for others to wish upon. Fireworks.

  NAIMA

  Shortly before the second to final time Dad left, my room became a haven for flies. We were months from leaving Ft. Hood for Albany when a swarm sought me out and bounced against the windowpane. We don’t know how they got inside, or how they knew that beyond the window was home, but I think they found me for a reason. In the beginning, I’d crack open the window, wave them out, but they’d just come back. It was as if they were running from something on the outside or maybe they knew I was. I’d wash my hands and scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub and scrub but I never felt, feel, clean enough. At some point, they’d fall into a dead heap near the window. I couldn’t move the bodies. I felt such guilt, I just couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  “It’s disgusting!” Christian screeched.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Nell would ask on repeat, the word “wrong” echoing. I never saw it as wrong. Especially not in the way she said it (such disgust).

  It was hard being the judge, the god of the room, to make the decision for them to go or to stay. I wrestled with being left alone versus setting them free and I know how it all sounds but I’m not a sociopath or anything—I’m just no good with decisions (add it to your mental list).

  The next day, four days before Dad left, was a Monday, and I remember because we had gym that day at school and when I undressed in the locker room, a Skittle fell out of my bra and I thought, When did I have Skittles? because the answer was literally NEVER so this whole scenario threw my entire day off. Anyway, that Monday, I came home from school to find a gift on a small stand near the window—a Venus flytrap. As I examined the bug-eating plant, Dad appeared in the doorway. “Now you don’t have to choose whether they live or die,” he said. “Mother Nature will.”