Six Goodbyes We Never Said

by Candace Ganger

  My shoeboxes of marshmallows in all their sugary glory are tightly packed in a way only I could. I guess I was wrong about Nell. Ugh.

  “Thanks,” I say casually. I let six seconds of this new nonchalant attitude pass before ripping the box away from her weak fingers. I don’t care how much yoga she does—those things can’t hold on to shit. I cram the box into my chest and silently thank the General Mills leprechaun forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever. It feels like a hug and I think I’m smiling but I’m not sure because it’s not the most familiar feeling. When I pry my eyes open, Dew’s thumb is lifted over the top of the fence as if to say, “Good for you, old chum,” so I turn away to love my marshmallows in peace, because I hate him but also not that much anymore, maybe, but this is my moment.

  “And this.” Nell pulls something from the second box I never thought I’d see again: PS—my flytrap. She’s weathered and sad-looking, but aren’t we all? The more I look, she’s actually kind of dead. I mean, again, aren’t we all?

  “One last thing.” She digs through the boxes, pulling free my memory box from Dover. Her hands spread open with the box in the center. It’s our steeple, our holy grail of loss. The very sight takes me back to the sound of those boots, marching Dad’s transfer case toward the van’s open doors.

  “You didn’t dig this up from the backyard.” It’s not a question.

  Reluctant, she nods.

  “That’s so morbid.” I decide I like this about her.

  “Cleaned it out for you. Couldn’t leave it buried.”

  Instead of letting her sulk, I decide to raise her an unexpected gesture—I hug her (WHO AM I?). Our bodies touch lightly, avoiding the snug comfort of what a hug should be, and not only is it supremely awkward, but it also triggers something I don’t expect: acceptance. Mom is gone. She’s never been part of my life, except in the ways I imagine her to be. But Nell is here. She’s been here for years, playing her own sacrificial role in Dad’s absence. And now that he’s really gone—our most important thread—she doesn’t have to be. Perhaps this is what love is. Or something. Why did it take me so long to feel this?

  “JJ said you got a package. From Ray.”

  I can’t tell if she’s happy or sad. “I did.”

  “It was the letters, wasn’t it—the ones you returned?”

  “How did you know?”

  “He mentioned holding on to them.” She squeezes harder, as if she’s only just realized these things about me, too. I open my eyes to see Kam’s arm around JJ. They look on, proud but clearly filled with sorrow. The four of us hold a new thread. One that is only ours.

  It all feels as normal as it possibly can. Except for Dew’s eye that has returned to the fence hole (I’m watching you, Dewd).

  But then again,

  This is my new normal now

  And it really isn’t so bad

  Except for the

  Missing my father part.

  That will never change.

  During the parade, Dew and I count the seconds together. He’s learning how to control his loss of time to be fully present in the moments. But he’s teaching me to let some of those seconds pass without fearing I’ve lost something bigger. We wave our small, patriotic flags in unison, grateful for the sacrifices made but reflective of what they mean. To me, to every other grieving family, and to the country. I’m allowed to be me (whatever that means) because of what Dad has given. It’s a hard truth but a very, very good truth.

  The parade is brief, led by the mayor, who attended Dad’s service a couple months back. By the time it’s over, we’ve found our places in the chairs that are lined in rows. The scene is eerily like Dad’s funeral procession.

  “Breathe,” Dew says, sensing my nerves.

  I’m called up to the podium to speak, something I decided to be necessary after all. The view is wide and open, with a lookout to the lush greenery at City Hall’s side. Dozens of mournful faces look up at me, phones are held high, tissues hang from pockets, and the instant my hands hit the podium’s cool metal ledge, it feels like I’ve been smashed by several two-ton walls. I want to tell everyone to look away, to put their phones down, to not be here at all. My breaths are shaky, and in this god-awful heat, I’m suddenly rethinking my silk camisole after sweating the shape of a lumpy potato through the front of it. I told you not to trust silk.

  I think back to Dad’s letter on public speaking (he knew me too well) and how to overcome the anxiety. Dr. Tao told me to visualize the beach, but that only worked until I imagined a shark biting my face off. When she gave me the worry stone to rub, I laughed (really hard) because, just, no. Nice try. There’s also a technique called “grounding,” where I’m supposed to close my eyes and state facts (“the air is warm, the cement is rough, my stomach is on the verge of puking breakfast”), but this turned into a game of “What offensive thing can I say next?” like “Your bangs are way harsh,” and she didn’t get that I was serious (because I was). These things work for some; I have never been “some.”

  The faces stare hard at the potato stain on my cami. To comfort myself, I do this thing with my lips where I blow the air out and make my lips roll and it looks stupid but I really can’t bring myself to care because it makes me feel better. After a few passing grunts and stray coughs, I pull up my phone, and instead of speaking, I do the very thing Dad hinted at (the very thing Dew would do) (ha—dew do). FOCUS, IMA!

  JJ and Kam hold resistance signs in the crowd. I made them to commemorate this event (CHOOSE LIFE, DAD!). I press Play from a memo I’d pre-recorded, thanks to Dew, so I wouldn’t flub my one chance to say goodbye properly.

  “Rise for something you believe in or fade with those in fear … those are the words my father instilled in me from an early age.…”

  You can hear the click from where I’d paused after the initial recording. I’m an amateur. Seconds later, when I try to resume, the song “Naima” plays instead. Apparently I never actually got the rest of my thoughtful speech on the damn memo. I could argue the logical: that I did this on purpose to divert my emotions again. And the illogical: Dad did it. You decide. The burden of proof lies with the guilty party and I object—this thesis is inadmissible because my medication has me obsessed with old episodes of Law & Order (it reruns on TNT). Basically, the verdict is, my damn speech got erased, or something, and in its place is music, but this is such a Naima thing to happen and Dad would understand.

  I go with it, watching the eyes in the crowd embark on a journey of emotions. From confusion to laughter, to the tears I hoped were from the music and not how I screwed this up. I try not to make direct eye contact with anyone.

  They are alive.

  They are alive.

  They are alive.

  They are alive.

  They are alive.

  I am not.

  When Nell’s eyes catch mine, I shift my attention quickly. Count the worn parts of the podium, and divots in the grass beyond. I count the clouds burning into the wind, and the number of times Nell pulls another wad of tissues from her suitcase purse. When I attempt to turn the song off, I accidentally change it to another, high-octane dance song instead. Some kind of electronic dance music (EDM) and I have no idea how it got there, I swear. Then, and it would only happen to me, the GD screen freezes. So now, we’re all in this pool of grief, saying goodbye to a man who sacrificed his life for our country while the mood tells us we’re to dance out our emotions with glow sticks. I swear Kam’s toes are tapping. I’m not mad about it. Dad wouldn’t be either.

  When Mayor Klein manages to move things forward, he officially dedicates this day—the Fourth of July—to Dad, and all others who’ve sacrificed their lives for our freedom and to those still fighting. We bow in silence to honor him, and them, and I feel the pang of missing him. So hard.

  I hasten to make my exit, but Dad’s old friend, Captain Lewis from the police department, refuses to let me leave without folding me tight into him first. I don’t want him
to, but kinda-sorta do, so I let him. He smells like memories. As soon as he lets go, I feel an ache and crave for more hugs than I’ve had in years. It’s as if I’ve lived in an alternate universe void of feeling and suddenly been shoved into one saturated with it. I never knew how much I needed it, until this moment. With a gruff whisper, he tells me he’s proud, and that Dad would be, too. Maybe it shouldn’t mean so much to me but it cements what Dad’s sacrifice means for me, for everyone.

  At some point, the service concludes. Ironically, I’ve lost track of time. JJ and Kam fumble as they carry Dad’s urn. JJ carefully slides open the top. Nell pours a sprinkle of ashes in one seamless trip around the cherry tree seedling. JJ and Kam do the same. Together, they cover the area with more loose dirt, lingering over the finality. We’ll be separating the remains between two other, smaller urns: one for Nell, and one for me.

  “I was going to keep the ashes,” Nell said, “but I realized how selfish that would be. Against his wishes. He’d have wanted me to make sure you got a piece of him. Maybe you can sit your urn next to the new flytrap seedling I ordered. So PS has company.”

  I feel my face brighten. “Perfect.”

  “I’ll have it all set up in your bedroom at the new place I found in Albany. For when you come home. How does that sound?”

  Home.

  Home.

  Home.

  Home.

  Home.

  Home.

  “I hoped you might change your mind and come live with me in August. I know it’s weird without your dad, but will you think about it, Naima? We can go to the grief support group. Find a way to move on, together.” Her think about and together feel like a plea of desperation. Maybe to hold on to the last piece of Dad she has. But with Dad gone, is that still my home? I’m legally obliged to Nell, I think, but if I have the choice, would I choose her?

  I look to Kam with his pleated pants, JJ with her crystal earrings, and Dew with his plaid suspenders he’s not wearing ironically. Is this home? It’s old and new and confusing, but also makes me feel alive in ways I didn’t think possible. But also, not. Neither place feels right but what will?

  Would I rather live with Nell through graduation, where we’ll wait for a man who won’t return, or stay with JJ and Kam where it’s the exact same feeling?

  Out of the clear blue sky, my phone plays “Naima” again.

  Or maybe it’s in my head. *

  Regardless, I think I know what I have to do.

  *it’s definitely in my head

  BREAKING NEWS: Word just in that Marshmallow the Second has died. The circumstances are still unknown at this time.

  The time is noon EST.

  The church bells ring like usual, even during the daunting task of school registration. I’m learning that time doesn’t have to be my enemy; it can be my ally, a beacon. There are few things you can count on in life (“death and taxes” is the joke, but I’d like to state that I can also count on Big Foot saying “sweet sauce” or “Ridic City”). The bells are a permanent reminder of what we can sink our feet into. For instance, today I’m officially seventeen. I suppose I can sink my feet into the very real fact that not only am I alive, I’m finally learning to live in some form. “Hands in the air at the top of a roller coaster and throttling down in a moment of glory” kind of living. I’m learning that, when it comes to grief, healing doesn’t come with one singular breakthrough, but a series of them. I have to practice feeling okay, but if it means sewing up just one wound, I will do so.

  Stella and Thomas are on each side of me as we tour the K–12 school I’ll become a part of my junior year. Faith, an emerging fifth grader, navigates the halls in front of us, having found her people in her wrestling teammates. However, because it’s a county-wide team, only two attend this school, but two friends is far better than none. As the unspoken leader of her pack, she now radiates a confidence the three of us had struggled to help her find.

  “Do you need help finding your teachers?” Stella asks.

  Faith doesn’t answer, scooting off with only a wave of her hand. Her feather-embroidered denim jacket that brags THE CONNIPTION is all we see as she rounds the corner to make her mark, on her terms, with the three of us quietly supporting from behind. I smile. Right now, I’m okay; we’re okay. I wouldn’t have said as much a couple years back, but now, it’s a wonderful place to be.

  Violet: Today’s horoscope says Jupiter is pushing forward so anything is possible. Happy wanderings and happiest of birthdays to one of the coolest friends a girl can have

  Me: But I can’t be, if you are, in fact, the coolest (and thanks)

  When I slip my phone away, I reflect on how much has happened. What started as a confusing, desolate headspace soon became inflated with the fire of being alive; a feeling I hadn’t had since before my parents passed. Dr. Peterson is pleased with the way I’ve learned to finally deal with my grief, hoping whatever sparked the changes has become part of my regular life, indefinitely. I don’t tell her it was, in part, meeting Naima. She’d just try to convince me that no person is responsible for our own healing. I’d be remiss in saying Naima didn’t give me a blueprint, not unlike my own. She saw the wounded places in herself, and connected with the ones in me, and together, we’re finding our way.

  “Did you go?” I ask from the hole in the fence when Naima shouts my name a bit later.

  “Decided to drop out, change my name to Marshmallow, and run marathons with JJ.”

  “Naima.”

  “Some of us have to work, you know. Violet—my new frenemy for no good reason, who I have nothing in common with—says hi. We’re headed to the open house in a few. She said she had nothing better to do, which I’ll take as a compliment?”

  “Together? Wow. You’re making great progress with this friend thing.”

  “Ugh. Don’t make it sound so nice. Gross.”

  “What do I owe this pleasure?”

  She pushes a long tube through the hole that nearly pokes me in the eye.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  I flip the cap from the cardboard end and pull out a rolled-up laminated poster. My fingers quickly smooth the length of it out, to see coordinates and a title—a name.

  RA 21h 30m 6s Dec "-5° 21' 33.3"

  Constellation DIAZ

  “I named a star after you, so stop wishing on the damn planes,” she says.

  I drop the tube, and the poster, and pieces of my heart. Through the hole, I may not see her face in its entirety, but I feel the warmth she tries so hard to conceal.

  “Is it … okay?” she asks.

  I hold back tears. “It’s my … identity.”

  “Is that good or?”

  I shove my eye into the hole, blinking tears. “It’s everything.”

  Her eyes soften. I’ve made her smile. “I get it now. You’re the plot twist, Dewd. I guess this friend thing is off the trial basis. We’re permanent.”

  “I would love nothing more.”

  “Why can’t all guys be this cool, seriously?”

  “All guys aren’t cool. But all my parents raised me to be.”

  “I’m starting to understand. Plus, I technically took your kissing virginity, so there’s that.”

  “Technically.” I smile, too.

  “Ready?” JJ shouts from the car.

  “One sec,” she shouts in return.

  “Is that Dew?” JJ asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Happy birthday, honey. I hope it’s a great day.”

  “Thank you, Joelle,” I yell.

  “Welp,” Naima interjects. “Later, chump.”

  I remain until their doors close, and their car vanishes from view. Like holding this place somehow magically cements my place in the world. Stella and Thomas have seen me. Faith has seen me. Joelle and Kam have seen me. Violet has seen me. And now, the most complex soul I’ve ever crossed paths with sees me, too. It’s a pretty good day to be Dew GD Brickman, no matter what lies in my p
ast or what’s to come in the future.

  Inside, Stella hovers over the countertop, icing a cake. She pauses to snap photos for her blog, scribbling a few notes in the small notebook nestled beside it. Thomas counts a package of candles, and Faith leads me to the table, where there’s a gift waiting.

  “Open it,” she says with a grin. “I helped pick it out. You better love it.”

  “Is it wrestling related?”

  Her lips purse. “That’s my thing.”

  “Just checking.” My fingers can’t unwrap fast enough, eyes peering into the small box to find a new friend, for a new beginning: an MP3 recorder, extra sturdy. As Stella and Thomas gather around with my most favorite cake, minus the main ingredient—for good fortune—I decide it’s best to find new ways to fill in my empty spaces, in this new chapter I’ve been given, where I’m surrounded by others who very much care to step into my shoes, to peel back my layers.

  My eyes are alight, but there’s more. An envelope with four tickets to an August Moon show. Time stops, all of us in our respective positions until I find a full breath; until my hearts picks up its tempo again. I look to Thomas, whose arm is wrapped snug around Stella. They’re surrounded by a cloud of hope.

  “Is this okay?” Stella asks. Her voice is soft, almost afraid to disappoint me.

  I shove my chair from the table and leap into their arms. There aren’t words suitable enough to thank them for what they’ve given me. Not only today, but all the days. Instead, I sing the very song Joelle streamed through their house one fateful day, the song Stella’s hummed through the kitchen many times over—the song my mother would sing to me on this day to celebrate me—and within a few lines, the three of them join in to the words of “So Long.” I have come full circle.

  I have been reborn.

  We soak in the closeness until we’ve finished the song. Then, we eat cake. We trade stories. We remember where we came from and give thanks for where we’ve landed. As the day settles, I find myself in the quiet of my room, reflecting on all that’s happened, the good and the bad. With my fedora snug against my head, and Dad always with me, I pick up my new MP3 recorder. The only thing left to do is give my new mechanical friend a name in remembrance of how my mother lovingly referred to me. Something only she would say. I gaze at the August Moon tickets and the name comes in a flash.