Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

  Kam and I wave her off with good-luck kisses and fist bumps (not that she needs them), to go find two silver metallic markers—markers that others have used with their germ-ridden, grease-ball hands—at the dedication table so we can write something on our red balloons—the one request I made when JJ planned all of this—that we’re to release at the conclusion of the race. The whole town seems to be here, and some from others places, too, all to say goodbye to Dad, and anyone they’ve loved and lost.

  Kam scribbles on his balloon face, You are my hero, son, and grabs another for JJ. “Ready?”

  I tell myself the marker is only slippery because of my hand, not because of someone else’s sweat, and I write the only thing that feels right—breathe—and nod. Side by side, we take our red balloons to the finish line. Moments after the race is done, we’ll listen to a dedication and set our balloons off into the sky, where they’ll float past the clouds, out of the galaxy, and into Dad’s arms.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  JJ finishes the 5K in 23:01 in 98-degree weather, which gets her first place in her age group, and fourth overall. She’s winded, but navigates through the line to receive her bottle of water, where we give her all the sweaty hugs.

  “Not my best time, damn it,” she says, frustrated.

  She takes the balloon offering from Kam’s fingers.

  “You did awesome, like always,” I tell her.

  “Look at all those people struggling behind you.” Kam points.

  She takes a swig of water and we gather into the sea of balloons awaiting launch. JJ and Reverend Mills lead us in prayer, with an official blessing of the balloons. One by one, we let go of our strings. I watch mine fly high, bumping into others along the way. Over my shoulder, I see a familiar face—Dew—who has let go of two balloons. He’s surrounded by his family; I leave him be, because just as I’m saying goodbye, he is, too. I wait a few beats, after the balloons have vanished into the atmosphere, before pulling my phone out.

  Me: It’s hot AF

  DEW GD BRICKMAN: Where art thou?

  Me: To your right

  I pull my Ziploc out and chomp a few lucky marshmallows. He looks up from his screen and waves like I’m the first person he’s recognized in his whole life. His tears are still wet on his cheeks. His feet stop just short of running into me and I don’t know how to cut the sorrow out of our lives.

  “Do you work today?” I ask.

  “No, you?”

  “No. What about Violet? Is she coming?”

  He kicks his feet. “About that. I told her we’d probably work best as friends.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d rather have friends I can count on than a summer romance that’ll likely end. Besides, she’s going to college soon. I don’t want to hold her back.”

  “What’d she say about all this?”

  “Her horoscope warned her ‘something grim was on the horizon’ so she was prepared. Luckily, she agreed and felt the same. We both fell into something neither of us was looking for. This way is best. For now.”

  “Very mature of you both. I’m impressed-ish.”

  Across the crowd, I’m distracted by a balloon still in the grips of someone’s hands. My eyes squint and the face becomes clear. I redirect Dew’s attention.

  “Dodge,” he murmurs. He moves toward him.

  “What are you doing?” I try to hold him back, but there’s a laser-like stare in his eye.

  “I’m not quite sure. I just know I have to do this.”

  Confused, I follow, cracking my knuckles in case it’s about to go down.

  We approach. He’s alone, and he’s crying.

  “Are you okay?” Dew asks.

  Startled, Dodge jerks back. “Go away.”

  Dew is persistent. “I can’t. I want to know who you are, why you’re upset, but mostly, who this balloon is for.”

  When Dodge tries to walk away, I block him. “Fuck off,” he replies.

  Dew looks at him. “I let go of two balloons because my parents died. They’re gone. It changed me. I don’t even remember who I was before they left. So, please, kindly tell me who you’re holding on to because I’m not going anywhere until you do.”

  After a long silence where I’m sure this kid’s about to kill Dew, something else happens instead: Dodge looks away, eyes still wet, and lets us in. “My grandpa. He was … all I had. It’s stupid; nevermind.”

  Dew rests a hand on his shoulder, guides his stare. “I hear you. You’re not alone.” I stand back to give them space. I’m about to interrupt with my own experiences when Dodge falls into Dew’s chest and sobs. What’s with this town and all the crying? Dew, unsure of what to do or how to react, gently pats the boy’s back. He shushes him and tells him it’s okay. That if he needs a friend, Dew will be that for him. I wait for Dodge to react, to spit in his face or worse. Instead, he composes himself, gratitude flashing across his features.

  “When you’re feeling blue,” Dew tells him, “listen to August Moon, most notably, the song ‘So Long.’ It may help with those wounds. I know it helped with mine.”

  Dodge’s frown lifts, gradually turning into a hint of a smile. “I will,” he says. After a few moments of me trying to figure this situation the fuck out, the two agree on a friendship; a truce. They trade anecdotes on grief, shake hands, and start anew. Finally, Dodge lets his balloon float into the sky. He doesn’t look up or wave goodbye or say a silent prayer, but his steps are a little lighter knowing he’s been seen.

  He is seen. He is seen. He is seen. He is seen. He is seen. He is seen.

  “Well that was some shit,” I say. “We live in eternal high school where there will always be the smart one, the pretty one, the outcast, the jock, and the bully. Sometimes we get lucky and they’re all the same person. I really thought I had that assbag pegged.”

  “You’re so cynical. And please don’t call my new friend an assbag.”

  “I figured he’d push you away. It’s easier.”

  “Easier, yes. Better? Not at all. I believe people evolve all the time. Maybe it’s my mother’s desire for everyone to be kind, or my dad’s bottomless optimism, or maybe it’s Stella and Thomas’s belief that they could love me and I could love them back. The only thing consistent is change. We have to accept it or become our own enemies. Dodge is trying to navigate who he is without his most influential person. I can appreciate that feeling.”

  My features soften. “You give people too much credit. They’re the worst.”

  “And you don’t give them enough.”

  Our eyes lock, a smile rising on my face. “What’s something that terrifies you?” I ask.

  “Pardon?”

  “Tell me one of your biggest fears. You’ve been helping me with things I’m afraid of. I want to help you with something other than the levee incident.”

  He looks up to the sky.

  “Dying.”

  My heart sinks because it tops my own list. “Where are your parents buried?”

  “Washington Park East in Indy.”

  He pauses to think on the words like it’s the first time he’s said them aloud.

  “Hold on a sec.” I scamper toward JJ and Kam, who are the center of the church group’s conversation. With one tap, and a few whispers, JJ looks to Dew, and nods.

  I grab his hand. “Do you have plans after this?”

  “I’d have to ask.”

  “I want to take you somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I need you to trust me.”

  I hate myself.

  Top story: Saying goodbye is the hardest thing to do, but local boy to try anyway.

  I sit quietly in the backseat of Joelle’s car and remove my fedora. The fabric feels different as my finger and thumb rub Dad’s worn space. Naima’s eyes float out of the window, chasing trees and yellow cornfields along the way. Her fingers delicately tap in rhythm against the ridge between the handle and the door as if counting spaces between objects or time, o
r possibly the thoughts in her head.

  The wheels roll along, my thoughts drifting to all the final words Mom and Dad ever said. How the difference between life and death is the fear in between, how life is unpredictable, and beautiful, and messy, and painful, but there’s no better plot twist than living it, through the fear. That the unknown is the thing we need to experience to feel alive, and if we aren’t chasing the fear, we’re not living.

  I don’t want to merely live—I want to feel alive.

  There’s a cemetery, Washington Park East, on the edge of Indianapolis, near the city limits. Not far from where I lived before, on an old street that contains the ghosts of memory in which I dwell. The streets along the way are part of me. The way they curve and bend. We pass the ice cream trailer that pops up every summer in the gas station parking lot three blocks from our apartment building. Even at this speed, an imprint of Dad counting change on the silver counter flashes through. He loved the frozen ice, raspberry, but I loved our time together—time that can never be again. There were the late night revelries between alleyways with August Moon blaring or the occasional drum circle with Dad on his old djembe while Mom crooned to the sway of hands in the damp summer air. I miss that; I miss them.

  Naima doesn’t tell me where we’re headed until it’s too late. Until the backseat has become familiar with the shape of me. Part of me knew. The part that’s desperate to reconcile the greatest loss of my existence. I clench my body, my fedora crushed between my thighs, until finally, she grabs ahold of my hand and says, “I hate germs so GD much,” and I instantly unknot. I spend the rest of the drive wondering what I’ll say, while she’s likely wondering when she can release my germs from her grip.

  Forty-eight long, uncomfortable minutes later, we arrive. Naima lets my hand drop. She rubs the sweat dry against her leggings with a look of disgust.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Don’t mention it,” she says. “Seriously—don’t ever mention it.”

  Joelle leans over her seat and hands me a small piece of scratch paper. There’s a rough sketch of blocks lined in rows, with number/letter combinations. She points to the second block in the third row, 37B. I’d know that drawn block anywhere, no matter how much time has, or hasn’t, passed.

  “I got the information from your parents,” Joelle says. “And I called for instructions on how to find the plots. Should be right over…,” she cranes her neck, checking the paper, “there.” She points to a long row of graying headstones, interwoven with the occasional metal marker for those not afforded the luxury of a granite headstone. My abuela has a marker, one that had been mowed over nearly every visit. Mom would complain, they would fix it, and it would happen again. My parents decided then, no matter how difficult it might be to save the money, they wanted to be worth more than a mowed-down metal marker. They wanted to be seen, remembered; and yet, their only son hasn’t yet been able to visit long enough to say goodbye.

  My finger rests on the door handle. I have everything I need—what’s stopping me? I’ve painted a line from me to them. My living body to their shared stone block. Naima huffs, exiting abruptly. She appears on the outside of my window and swings the door open. I hesitate still.

  She offers her hand. “Don’t get used to this or anything.”

  I look up, as much fear in my eyes as ever, and instead of adding to the snark, she rips the paper from my hand and gently pulls me from my spot. “Come on,” she whispers. “You can do this.”

  I let her guide me across the rows of the dead. Names covered in lawn clippings and dead flower petals. Respects lost in crumbled dirt that’s blown from the storms. Everyone here was someone else’s something. My parents have left me for this new family of the fallen.

  Naima’s pace slows. My steps trickle to a stop, slightly behind her.

  “Here,” she says, letting go.

  But I’m afraid. To step out from her shadow and see their names is to remember losing them. Though if Dad were to ever chime in on my thoughts he’d likely say, “Isn’t that what you’ve done anyway?”

  I edge past her and kneel at the base of the stone’s ledge where DIAZ is highlighted beneath the cloud-eclipsed sun. Naima kneels, too.

  “Take your time,” she says.

  There are no trinkets, because our family has gone and spread into different parts of the world or passed on to greet them in the sky. I can’t say how long it’s been since anyone’s knelt in front of them, or spoken to them, or even thought of them. Except me. I wonder if they’ve been waiting, and if so, if I’m forgiven for letting fear prevail.

  “Hi,” I tell them.

  Naima bows her head.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t visited. The truth is, I’m still not ready. But I’m learning there’s never a good time to say goodbye. And that I can’t let the past dictate the future, or I’ll only ever be alive, not living.”

  I lay my dented fedora on the grass. An offering.

  Naima picks it up and rests it on top of my head. “He’d want you to have it,” she says with wet eyes.

  I nod, and adjust the rim so my fingers touch the places Dad’s did, just as an old August Moon melody rings between my ears—“Let You Go.” One last wisp of memory appears before me, just beyond the small headstone where the grass meets concrete. Mom and Dad’s hands tie together as they tower over me. Just as their colors sharpen into near-complete versions of their living selves, they break into particles that scatter with the wind. Maybe it’s my imagination conjuring the ghostly image to make this visit easier than it is. Or maybe it really is them letting me know it’s time to move on, without them. The song says to let someone go, you have to find a way to say the thing that hurts the most. I feel it now; it’s time.

  I pinch my eyes tight. I don’t need six wishes, six chances to say goodbye, like Naima. I only need one, and it can never come true.

  “Goodbye,” I whisper, hoping it’s enough.

  “Goodbye,” Naima echoes.

  NAIMA

  Days have passed since the balloon release. I’m sitting on the back porch stoop, making a new list of fears to conquer while simultaneously wondering where the deflated balloon bodies landed. Nell’s SUV crawls into the drive. The tires screech, lulling to a stop, and of course she parks at a cockeyed angle. Immediately I want to run to her, shove her from the driver’s seat into the rocks, and straighten the hell out of that chop job, but as I watch her outline through the window, a cloud of blue (Violet would call it an aura or some kind of neuro-electromagnetic healing energy bullshit) hangs heavy. She doesn’t need to be in full view for me to feel the lingering pain of Dad’s absence. It’s all she reminds me of now.

  Now. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now.

  I inhale deeply, as Dad suggested in one of his letters. These days, Dew and I practice the exercises from opposite sides of the fence to make it less weird. We tried face-to-face but all I could focus on was what his face looked like when his eyes closed. It reminded me of taking his kissing virginity and the spit germs and what his lips felt like (ew), and I couldn’t stop myself from saying “virginity” aloud six sharp times. He laughed at first, but his discomfort was obvious because—hello—I was uncomfortable saying it. From then on, we decided the fence holes would be our special friend-zone space but not for deep breathing. There’s no pressure and it lets me decide how much space I need between us. I should tell you this whole scenario is helping with my anxiety, or whatever, but I don’t want to admit that just yet. Maybe I’m afraid to let go because there’s comfort in the panic.

  Would you rather let a black hole swallow you up or find a way to deal with your shit?

  The twelve o’clock church bells ring as Nell (finally) emerges from the car. Her steps are slow but more confident than last time. Her hair has clumped into matted strands, and her face has hollowed a bit, but her posture is as ballerina tall as ever, square with the invisible wall still painted between us.

  Would you rather hold hands with someone you don’t lik
e for an hour or maintain uncomfortable eye contact for a day? Because this feels a little like both, and neither is great.

  “Naima,” she says, clutching her giant suitcase purse, “how are you?”

  “Fine,” I say. She examines me harder, forcing a confession. “I mean, you know. Not fine, but whatever.”

  “Same,” she says. “It’s good to see you. You look great.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  We hold the thread connecting us, right here in the open sky. It’s loosened up a bit, but the weak spots are more evident now that we’ve had some distance. I’m just glad boring-ass Christian decided to fly in for the service with his dad but not to stay here with us or I’d be majorly less patient.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

  The time lags, stops completely, until JJ and Kam break our thread into segments before I can say something inappropriate about the way her ankles cave in those shoes. There’s obviously not enough to support her gait (something I learned watching a documentary on running form), so her legs collapse from the weight of her. Even with her slender frame (and all those juice fasts), she can’t hide those hips. I know because I’ve got them, too (and flaunt them, BTW).

  “Welcome,” JJ says through her hug. Nell’s arms squeeze tight.

  “Can you help me carry a few things?” she asks Kam.

  “Already on it.” He sprints to the car like we’re timing him. Dew watches through the hole—his one big eye taking us all in—and I jerk my head to signal that he should mind his own damn business, but the eye stays. I guess I don’t mind as much anymore. It’s become our thing; being our full-on weirdo selves without apology (as if I’d ever). He’s not some nuisance, but a compassionate, kind being who cares whether or not my stars die off and plummet into the stratosphere. Don’t you dare tell him I said that, or I’ll deny. Kam jogs back, breathless, holding two large boxes. Nell stops him, taking one for me to see.

  “Found these at the base of your bed—after I scraped off all that gum.”