The Marrow of Life, Part II

Chapter 3

I didn’t let Douglas see, but I was nervous. What would my Dad look like? I knew he was thinner, and his face and neck had been all cut up in surgeries to remove the tumors. Should I just act normal? Should I cling to his side every second? Would Douglas understand his view into all these things I had loved in a former life?

We passed the beautiful city of Roanoke, then for hours in Virginia all we saw was picture-perfect farmland. We only stopped once for dinner at a rest stop, and threw around the frisbee Douglas bought me last summer. Of course, he got it free at Target, but I treat it sentimentally all the same. At about ten o clock that evening, we reached the rural farm town in New York, but there we got lost.

“He says something about a pot-bellied stove on the left,” I read off the directions for the 5th time. Douglas gave me an ironic look.

“It’s pitch black out here. How am I supposed to see it?”

After half an hour of driving up and down random driveways, we found the right one. We found an unfinished barn next to a small house, just as he said. '

“This must be it. I can see his car. The same one he used to drive when I was 4.” I tried to laugh off my uncertainty.

The house was dark and quiet in the chilly fall night. I hadn’t considered that he might be asleep when we came...Douglas and I stood next to the car and just looked at the door in the blackness. Finally, a light switched on, and i saw a large shadow peering at us through the window screen. We were all quiet for another moment.

“Miss Meggie?”

My heart flip-flopped. It was the voice I knew, but it sounded so frail and uncertain. He had no business sounding like that! It hit me how alone he must have been, sick and by himself so far away from family.
“Dad, it’s me!” I said, and ran to meet him coming through the porch door. I put my arms around his belly, grateful he was 6’4” so I didn’t have to look him in the face for another moment. After I introduced Douglas, we carried our bags inside.

“Sorry I fell alseep,” he said, kindly . “This medication makes me sleepy... Boy, you look so grown up. You must be starving. Sorry I probably don’t have much you’d like to eat. I can only have certain stuff now.”

He looked around at all the rice milk and healthy cereals and exotic vegetables. So different from the usual sausage-and-doughnut breakfasts we used to share in greasy diners on Sunday mornings, while Mom slept in.

“I can make you a salad,” he offered. “Anything you don’t like?”

I prepared to eat dirt if he put it in front of me. “No, that sounds great!” I said as I rose to help him.

“Oh no, no, no!” he said, gesturing for me to sit. “You’re my guest!”

I felt bad letting a sick man fix me food while I sat there, but it seemed to make him happy. Douglas sat quietly and tried not to intrude. While Dad putzed around, I checked out the front room.

The house was very rustic. Mom said it was nothing but a big tool shed and he was lucky he’d gotten power and water into it. I could see his old, dusty things spread around the room. I remembered them all, and smiled; he never was one for cleanliness. The rafters were hung with vegetables and herbs, and I could see two woodstoves, a walking stick, and pictures I’d drawn him as a child spread out over the front room. I realized how he’d always wanted this life, the whole time he was a successful businessman in New Jersey with me and my mother. I never knew it was so important, and I felt bad that he had denied it for himself for so long in order to take care of us.

Finally he set the salad and some water in front of us, apologizing all the while that it wasn’t more elaborate. I was so happy to be with him, and to be spoiled once again. How different from the Caf it was to be waited on by someone I loved! After we finished eating, he showed us the ‘house.’ I smiled at every detail, down to bare wires showing everywhere, a lack of technology, books stuffed in every corner, and the dubious distinction of a composting toilet.

“I’m not going in that,” Douglas whispered seriously to me.

“It’s OK, he has a regular one too,” I whispered back.

“I know it’s cold in here,” Dad apologized. “The woodstove has to be kept going every half hour.” I knew he was saying he was too drained to do it.

“It’s OK, I’ll do it,” I said.

“If you like,” Dad answered evasively.

It was late and we were tired. Douglas went to change into his pajamas in the bathroom, which was right next to our ‘room.’ We had twin beds to sleep on in a corner that was recessed from the room holding his books, tapes, desk and computer. Dad looked at me with tenderness in his drowsy eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here, Miss Meggie. I’m so glad-” he stopped and kissed the top of my head.

“You just let me know if you need anything,” he said in a sleepy rumble, and went upstairs.
“I’m glad to be here, too,” I whispered in the dim light of the desk lamp . “I’ve waited far too long. I hope you know I love you...”

It was too late to kick myself. I crawled into bed next to a window that only separated me from the cold with some sheets of dirty plastic. Worn out physically and emotionally, I fell asleep before Douglas came back in.

I woke up confused. After I figured out where I was, I realized I was warm. Rubbing my face, I glanced at Douglas’ bed. He was gone. I stumbled into the front room, and saw him conked out on the couch. He must have slept there all night, keeping the woodstove going. I had forgotten to do it. I tried to keep from laughing. Douglas snores like a chainsaw. So does my father. Listening closely, I heard the answering snore from upstairs. Covering my mouth so I wouldn’t wake them with my laughter, I went to take a shower.

As I dried off in the guest room, I heard the shower start up again in the next room, and figured it was my Dad. I set down the towel next to an unopened copy of Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul. I stared at it. It was about as out of place as fondue in a truck stop. I wondered who knew him so little that they would give him some sappy book that only confirmed the gravity of his illness.

Dad had a deeper sort of faith-a strong one, but one that I could never explain. He always said he found God out on his hikes in the wilderness more than in some church. As I stood there with my thoughts, I heard his voice over the running water:

"Tra la la BOOM de aye!..."

I smiled, and suddenly came memories of all the silly songs he taught us on our hikes ten years ago. I wondered why he hadn't kept singing?

"Tra la la BOOM de aye!..." he repeated.
Oh! I realized he wanted me to sing. What were the words again? I took a breath shouted:
"There is no school today!"

He took the next line. "My teacher passed away!"

"She died of ...tooth decay!"
"We threw her in the bay!"
"She scared the fish away..."
"She's never coming out!"
"She smells like SAAUU-EERR-KRAUUUUUTTT!!!"

At the rousing finish, he gave out a whoop. I threw the sappy little book in the trashcan as I left. The bookshelves rattled at the slamming of the door.

Later, we all had breakfast. It was weird having rice milk and Grape Nuts instead of my usual Pop Tarts and soda, but as before I pretended to adore it. "Have you done any more of your writing lately?" Dad asked.

"Well, I'm working on a poem now-but you know, slow going with school and all.."

"No kidding. You do writing?" Douglas sat up.

Dad broke in. "She used to do it all the time. Wrote in any little notebook she could find. Of course, I always wished she'd concentrate on her math lessons instead of scribbling on scrap sheets of paper. But her mother and I were always proud of her. She won a Young Author's competition in 4th grade. What was that poem called?"
"The Weeping Willows Wept For Sure," I supplied. "I was in a dramatic phase in fourth grade.
Douglas rolled his eyes at the title. "So why didn't you major in that?"

"Well," I said thoughtfully. "I honestly considered it in high school. But I knew that with music and writing, whichever one I made my career would become drudgery, and the other a habit I had to steal time for. I think I'd rather my writing be the unexploited one. It's too much a part of me to let others tear apart. With music I can detach myself if I need to. I don't have to care about playing the Pachabel Canon for the hundred and eighty-ninth time. But my writing is always personal..."

There was an awkward silence as if I'd said too much.

“So how’s the music school going? Your mom tells me your treadmill’s spinning pretty fast these days” he commented.
I shot Douglas a warning look. I had no intention of letting him know I was miserable, stressed out, and unfulfilled. “Emm, it’s OK,” I lied.
“Guess what? I brought my flute! I knew you’d like it,” I laughed and ran to get it.

Remembering his eager patronage of me, I figured it was the least I could do. I wanted to show him where his money had gone. Putting the flute together, I remembered those letters every summer in high school...

“Dear Miss Meggie,
I’m leading another Sierra Club trip this summer. Could you come? I’ll pay your way, plane ticket and all, so your mom doesn’t have to worry. It would be so good to see you. You could bring your flute and play around the campfire at night. I know they’d all love it. Just let me know,
Love, Dad”

Painfully I recalled my annual replies:
“Dear Dad,
Sorry, can’t go this year. Band Camp and all. Just too busy. You know how it is. Have fun anyway. Maybe next year.
Love, Megan”

Putting the guilt out of my mind, I ran to the front room and played for him. He patiently held up the music, and looked dotingly at my flashing fingers. When I finished, he praised me as if I'd serenaded Carnegir Hall.

“I play the horn, too. In the lowest Band. See, here’s a program from our fall concert.”

He looked at my name in print and said “Can I keep this?”

I had no idea why he’d want to. My name was only on it once, along with 100 others, and it wasn’t even my primary instrument. I smiled and said, “Of course.”

“So what do you want to do today?” he asked. “This day is yours. I’m going back for another round of chemo soon, and I won’t be able to stand up or even eat anything except Ensure. So let’s live it up today!”

“All right!” I ran to get ready. When I came back to the front room, Douglas was just finishing talking to Dad.

“You ready?” I asked him. “No...I’m going to stay here and fix that window, and some other things. It's the least I can do. Besides, this is like a father-daughter-sappy thing.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to stay," I said.

“Yeah,” he said dismissively. “You’ve been waiting a long time for this. I’ll enjoy a little peace and quiet, without you chattering all the time!” he smiled. I went to smack him, but ended up giving him a hug instead.

As my father and I headed for the door, I briefly wondered what had caused this thoughtfulness, but I soon forgot the whole thing.


Chapter 4
Dad showed me his small farm. His community was set in several hundred acres of beautiful NY hills. We walked through the woods, and he told me about the deer he'd seen in the snowy creek last winter. He laughed about the funny "new age types" that would come camp out there and build pagan shrines in the pristine woods, but always left after eating poisonous mushrooms or experiencing snow in a tent. Dad could be really cynical about people sometimes, and I wasn't sure what to say. He was always so certain about any belief he had, that there was no arguing. Like the time we got into a fight over genetically modified foods and didn't speak for two weeks. I decided to keep to neutral subjects today. It was just like one of our old time hikes, goofy singing included.

I remember when I was little, he used to suddenly stop our singing sometimes and ask me, "Miss Meggie, do you know how to sing 'Far Away'?" I never got the joke, but he kept asking it, so finally I made up a little song entitled 'Far Away' just so he'd stop guffawing about it.

On our way out of the driveway, he stopped at the mailbox and showed me the biggest orange reflector I had ever seen. “Did you see it last night?” he asked hopefully. I came out here and put it up just so you would see it and know I had to live here.” His smile faded.
“You got lost anyway, right?”
I smiled and shrugged.

Our first stop was the zoo. I thought it kind of an odd place to go, but he explained to me that he often came there alone. The picture of this big, grown man wandering alone around a zoo full of balloon-waving toddlers was both pathetic and quixotic. “Sure am glad to have someone with me today,” he smiled as he bought our tickets.

“Two adults, please,” he asked the ticket lady. “Well, an adult and a half,” he amended conversationally.
The ticket lady was not amused.

“Daaaad, “ I rolled my eyes.
His smile faded briefly. “Megan, I wasn’t talking about you!”

I rolled my eyes again. “You’re such a goof-”
“No, you’re such a goof-”
“Eighteen fifty,” said the bored ticket lady.
“Hey, how do you stop an elephant from charging?”
“Daaaaaad!!”
“You take away its cred-”
“Eighteen fifty,” insisted the unamused ticket lady.
“OK, what’s black and white and red all over?”
“I think you better pay her.”
“Eighteen-!”
“The newspaper!” he grinned triumphantly, and plunked down a twenty.

After our walk, he gave me a tour of the small town, complete with the biggest chocolate chip cookies he could find at the local diner. Then we headed to the local library. Many times Dad had taken me to the library in NJ, introducing me to playgrounds for the imagination. Libraries soon became as comfortable to me as old jeans, as satisfying as a big Italian meal, and as fun as an amusement park.

As we swished through the doors and were blasted by air conditioning, Dad explained that he had some friends that worked there. On his ‘chemo days,’ they would pick him up from the hospital and take him to the library’s attic, so he could sleep it off while waiting for them to take him home. The attic was used for storing old, bedraggled books, but they converted it into a semi-apartment for Dad. The attic was where we were headed now.

Both of us curled up on our own soft but tattered couch, wrapped our jackets around us and talked for a while. Like most attics, this one smelled of ancient newspaper and mothballs. The light was fading outside, and the orange streetlight switched on and highlighted the dust motes circulating by the window. Dad and I read newspapers in peaceful silence, and then I listened to his voice lull me to sleep, as in the old days.

He talked of his memories of this place, of lying on those couches feeling ice cold and scared and tired. I couldn’t believe all the things he had gone through that I never knew about. I couldn’t fathom that I had gone about my everyday life, consumed with my own problems, while so many afternoons he had lain in misery on that couch. Just before I faded off to sleep, I heard him say, “Like I said, I start chemo again Monday. I won’t be able to drink anything but Ensure for weeks. We’re having steak tonight. Maybe two steaks.”

When I woke the evening had advanced. My eyes flew to his couch. My father was lounging there, watching me softly. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, and cleared his throat. “This is probably not what you wanted to do in New York. I’m pitiful, I can’t even entertain you,” he said ironically.

I smiled easily. “Dad, you forget, I am a college student, I live for naps. I sure needed it,” I added to make him feel more comfortable.

“Yeah, well,” he said briskly. “That’s over now, let’s hit the town before it gets too late, shall we?” We hopped in the car and took off for Syracuse. On the way into town, we passed by a very long graveyard. I watched the gray headstones pass for what seemed like miles.

Words echoed hollowly in my head. My mother: “He’s not going to live much longer...” The online articles: “Patients with stage 4 melanoma have a 3 percent chance of living five years...” And the little voice in my head that agreed with them, that I tried to push away.

Furtively, I glanced at the driver to my left. He appeared perfectly healthy, except for a big scar on his neck. But as I watched he struggled to change gears. He was so frustrated. All those surgeries reduced his use of his right arm. I watched the graves go by again, and tried to picture this warm, strong, familiar person underneath cold, unchanging dirt. I shuddered. I could never see him that way.

We arrived in Syracuse and he led me to a fancy restaurant. “You know, I got kicked out of here,” he remarked casually.

“You? Why was that?”
“I was wearing jeans and a tee shirt.”
“And you weren’t afraid to return?”
“Naw. I figure if it’s that snooty of a place, it’s good enough to take you there.” I smiled as he opened the door for me and added, “Besides, they serve really good steak here.”

It was also the type of place where they have to go kill the cow while you wait. So I asked Dad about when I was little. He laughed immediately, pushing around his dinner while he chose a memory. “One time you were about 3 or 4. Your mom was out grocery shopping or something. I was on the roof brushing up on the paint job. I look down and I see you marching around the sidewalk and singing, with a bunch of neighborhood kids trailing behind you. You were singing “You’re in the Army now...” I saw that there was a prudish old lady on the front porch next door and I thought, ‘she couldn’t possible know the bad words to that song, could she?’

I started scrambling down the roof to stop you, but it was too late. You sang, “You’re gonna get rich, you son of a bitch,” just as you passed the old lady. You shoulda seen her mouth hang open, it was like this-” he demonstrated. “Yeah, you were so cute. You used to be so much fun to hang around with. Um, not that you’re not fun now...”
“Sure, Dad.”

Later we walked to the theatre in the freezing wind. I don’t remember what we were talking about, but suddenly he shoved against me and I fell off the curb. I righted myself quickly without comment, thinking it was a quirk of infirmity, or middle age. He did it again. Suddenly I remembered, as if through a fog. One of our tacit childhood games, simple but a cherished tradition. I grinned and shoved him back, looking straight ahead. He responded by shoving me into the line of traffic. I didn’t think we should play that game anymore.

We had a great time at the show, and rushed back to the car to escape the cold. I reclined the passenger seat and nestled down while the heater fired up. Dad put on a classical tape and soon I was in that oh-so-comfy, drowsy state. I felt so comforted and protected, so well taken care of. I knew I could close my eyes and go to sleep, and Dad would take care of everything, make sure all my needs were met. For the first time in a long time, I felt like somebody’s baby. That is, I did until....

“ARE YOU AWAKE??” he suddenly bellowed. I jumped a mile. He always did that sort of thing when I was a kid. And I hated it then too.

That night I talked to Douglas about all that I had seen and heard and felt that day. Whenever tears started to well up, he’d reach out and tousle my hair to crack me up. So of course I had to whack him with my pillow and it would be a while until we got serious again. “I feel like I’m losing everything,” I said. “I just want one thing to always be the same, one person who will always be there for me, be stable.”

He said "Wouldn't we all?"

That wasn't what I wanted him to say.

"Lucky you even have a father," he continued. "My dad just up and left us when I was 12, the day of my big tap dancing recital. I always figured it was because he didn't want a tap dancing son. No matter what Mom tells me. That's why I don't talk about it much. That's why I tried to give this weekend to you." He hesitated, then added, "Besides, you know I'll always be there for you."

It was what he was supposed to say, but I saw in his eyes that he knew what I knew. People vow to stay together, and then drift apart. I wanted to blame him for leaving me before he even did, but in my heart I knew that it would be nobody's fault. The hard thing about life is eventually you have to build it for yourself. Nobody can be your crutch. Not even family.

------------------------------
It was hard to drive away the next morning. I looked at my father in the rear view mirror waving slowly like a plastic Santa Claus and I couldn't help but wonder if that was the last time I'd ever see him. Then I cursed myself for being dramatic. I also cried a little.

Doug and I got back to school and back into the rhythm of things. I tried to focus on school, but Dad got sicker and sicker. Finally he had no place to go but Mom's. I guess it's hard for most people to understand, but my parents parted pretty amiably, and this wasn't an odd step. Besides, I think Mom knew he didn't have much choice-or much time.

Spring break came, and I couldn't wait to go see Dad. Mom phoned to say I would tired him out and would I please try to get a little homework and rest in before I came home. I agreed to wait until tuesday.

On Tuesday, I woke up and stumbled out of my bed to check my email. Another morning started by habit, without thinking. I rubbed my eyes, glorying in the fact that I had actually slept till 11, after staying up till 3 working on my Music History Paper.

A knock on my door disturbed the peaceful Saturday morning. My mood immediately soured though I knew it must be Douglas “You better be glad I’m already up,” I growled as I opened the door. I stopped suddenly at his look.
"You turned your damn ringer off again," he said in an odd voice. "Your mom called me to come find you. Your dad died this morning."

It was another one of those sentences.

He hugged me, which was good because I didn’t want him to see my face. My first reaction wasn’t grief. I stared blankly at the wall.

No. Just-No. See, that’s obviously impossible. I just talked to him last night, he was fine. We talked about the Antiques Roadshow. I was going to see him today. He hasn’t even had time to go downhill. I didn’t get to say goodbye. He’ll never know-he’ll never know anything I wanted to tell him. No!!


Douglas drove me home so I could think. We reached the house only 5 hours after he died. Life had no order-all the things I knew and counted on were gone.

We read his will-typically vague and filled with radical, brash comments-it made us smile for a moment. We went to the funeral home. I’d never been to a funeral home. Never even been to a funeral. Too bad I had to start big. The workers arranged fake flowers and offered fake smiles-but they never knew him.

We didn’t eat that day. It was like nobody even noticed we should be doing normal things. I needed my mother right then, but she had to spend the whole day calling family. I heard her laughing upstairs on the phone. It seemed so out of place.

Briefly, I was angry that she recovered so soon-but I knew she was doing what she had to do. I spent the next two days downstairs, in his room, rocking back and forth in his huge comfy armchair. Looking at his things. Thinking.

The first night, Doug and I slept on the floor. It was so weird to be home. Like it should be a normal family gathering.

Time was suspended.



I must have fallen asleep, because I remember the first nightmare.

****************************************
Me and my father were walking along the boardwalk, just we used to. I was a small child, riding on his shoulders. Such a familiar, comfortable memory.

Suddenly he stumbled, and I realized he was weaker than he should have been. I was afraid , I was falling off. His strength had finally failed me. All at once we were standing in front of a tall mirror in our house, by a couch. Through the light of the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, I look into the mirror at his reflection. He is standing tall behind me, but his face is pale and gray. I know he is going to die, and terror seizes my heart.

He falls to the couch. I’m screaming wildly. Though I have the body of a little girl, I have my present mind, and I know this is my chance to say goodbye. The chance I never had. I have exactly one minute to say every important thing I ever wanted to say to him.

I put his head in my lap. There is no sound as family floods through the door. We all know this is the last minute. They sit in a circle and one by one say their last goodbyes, until it comes to me.

But when it’s my turn, my tongue is frozen. I stare into his face as he leaves me. How could I ever say it? How could I ever make it all it needs to be?
*************************************

I woke up screaming, but stopped immediately. I listened for a moment to the even breathing of Mom and Doug. It took a minute to hit me. I knew there was something vaguely wrong concerning my dad, but I didn’t know what. It was the first of many times I felt the letdown all over again.


When I got back to my dorm room, I had no will to do anything. Still in my coat and holding my suitcase, I lay on my bed and stared out the window.

I held my bedraggled teddy bear and mechanically ran my fingers up and down its smooth arm over and over again. In high school someone told me that sleeping with a stuffed animal brings you good luck, and though I held little real stock in the notion, I still ended up being the world’s most embarrassed 15 year old in the Toys ‘R’ Us line. Luck, just like hope, had been my lifetime’s pursuit during events I could not explain.

Night fell. I didn’t notice. At some point I fell asleep. I woke up screaming again. To clear my head, I switched on the light and looked around, blinking. All those cheerful balloons and bright coloring book pictures...They got to me! All of a sudden they made me so angry. They seemed so dumb. They were supposed to make me feel better and they didn’t! They failed me! Everything failed me. There was nothing I could count on anymore.

I stood up on my bed, grabbed the nearest sharp thing and savagely popped those balloons one by one. BANG! BANG! BANG! To hell with my suitemates trying to sleep! Next I attacked those gaudy pictures, ripping them into pieces as they came off my wall. If I could have, I would have wallpapered my room in black at that very moment. But since it was the middle of the night, I lay back down and forced myself to go to sleep.
-------------------------------------------


A few weeks passed, and the normal routines of life reappeared one by one. Valentine’s Day dawned crisp but auspiciously clear. I smiled, thinking of the day ahead. Douglas and some other music friends and I had a lot to do, delivering 36 ‘Singing Valentines’ for the School of Music. Those cheesy songs had been stuck in my head ever since we started rehearsals.

Humming loudly, I stepped into the shower. I don’t know what thought triggered it. It could be any of a million thoughts during my day that led to any one of a million memories about Dad. It felt like a powerful fist in the stomach. For the millionth time, I doubled over with pain I couldn't hold in.

Half conscious, I came to myself several minutes later and realized I had been repeating the same phrase over and over and over again.
“Please don’t be gone, please don’t be gone, please don’t be gone, please...”

It only took a minute for my life to be changed, but dealing with the change was such a slow and frustrating process. So many times I wished I could just wake up and realize it was a very long bad dream.

And sometime during all this wishing, the world started turning again when I didn’t even notice.

Spring came, obstinately merry in spite of my muted spirits. After a rainy week, the sky was washed clean, the breeze freshened, and the campus decorated itself with wildflowers. That Saturday morning as I waded through the mud to the SOM, I saw a sight that made me run back for my camera: a sapling showered with dark pink buds, reaching up to a brilliant royal-blue sky.

As I snapped away, squashing through the mud to find the perfect angle, Douglas came by, picking his steps carefully.

“Simple things amuse simple minds, Forrest Gump,” he said airily.
“Good morning to you to, Cupcake,” I scowled. But the season got the better of me, and I ran over and tripped him in the mud. Then I took a picture of that, too.

“Well, I didn’t do anything to you for April Fool’s Day!” I explained as I laughed and tried to formulate a serious apology at the same time. I followed his offended back over the bridge and up the washed-out gravel path.

“Look,” he said suddenly. “What’s that?” In the large grassy yard next to the garden and glass back wall, dozens of kids in bright spring outfits were milling around with parents. “An Easter Egg hunt!” he shouted, and forgetting to be mad at me, grabbed my camera.

We ran into the melee, feeling like kids on Christmas morning. Both of us called out to each other with new eggs to find, new things to see. I watched one girl, about 3 years old, toddling in circles around her basket. She held a brightly colored balloon in either hand. The white of her dress against the fresh green grass and deep blue sky, along with the balloons and basket, looked just like a painting to me. What a perfectly beautiful moment! I could feel something in my heart, wiggling into dark corners and taking the place of the emptiness and pain it found there.

“So this is how it happens,” I said softly. “Bit by bit until it’s gone.”



A few weeks later, I climbed the last flight of stairs to the top floor of the parking deck, and walked to the edge facing the SOM. There I was, surrounded by brilliant orange safety lights under the clear night sky, in the very same spot I had watched so many times from the third floor window.

Finally I knew what it felt like to be on the other side. I remembered all the experiences I had sorted out, season after season, while sitting in that same large window, witnessing people living a night of their separate lives. Once again, I was floored by how much had changed in those years in the journey from expectation to fulfillment.

I smiled, oddly satisfied that I had chosen an outcome that surprised everyone, including myself. But I was satisfied that I was choosing what would later become a happy ending for me.

My thoughts turned to Douglas just as I heard his step on the hard concrete behind me. “Saw you from the fifth floor window,“ he said. “What are you doing up here? If you're going to jump, make sure you don't hit anyone down there.“

I shot him a let's-be-serious look. “Hey, we need to talk... I'm not coming back here in the fall, Doug. I’m going to my father’s house in New York. It’s for sale and I don’t want a stranger to have it. Besides, I’ve realized that life is too short to be stressed out and unhappy all the time. I’ve got to find beauty in whatever I can. I’m going to a place where I can find peace, where I can be me. I can live off the inheritance he left me until I make some money of my own. I’ve decided to pursue my writing and see if I can make a career of it. Of course, I’ll always have music to fall back on...”

I was afraid to see the look on his face, but I turned around.

“He would be proud of you,” was all Doug said.
I felt bad that I was another person he cared about who was leaving him, but I figured he would understand that we each have our own lives to live.

“Say something,” I said.

"So, I get one last chance to beat you in racquetball?"
"Only if I let you win!"
"Oh what's that, in your other life as a pro racquetball player?"
I took his arm as we argued our way down the stairs. To shut me up he began to sing "Tra la la boom de aye," whiel accompanying himself with interpretive dance.

I laughed and then realized that if there was anyone watching from my old perch, they were witnessing a slice of my life, too.

May came, and with it exams. One Saturday I was lying on my bed watching Golden Girls reruns, surrounded by dozens of hopeful but firmly closed textbooks, when the phone rang. It was Mom. We hadn’t talked in a while, but it was really good to hear from her.

“So how are you getting on with all this?” she asked.

“Better each day,” I answered, then thought about it a little bit more. “Kinda like you I guess. It’s weird giving up Dad and now Douglas, moving away from all that I know. It’s funny how people come and go in your life. They are your whole world one minute, and then they are gone. And people just expect you to keep moving on, regenerating those parts of your heart that are missing...”

“Do you remember when you were in first grade?” she asked with a note of humor in her voice. “You brought home the class hamster for the weekend, and it just up and died. It was such a shock to you, and we talked a lot about it. Do you remember what I said? I told you that everything has a time to die, and there’s just no telling where or when that would be, but it happens to every living thing and it’s natural.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I said. “I dug up your marigolds and buried it in your favorite antique jewelry box, but you took it very well!” We laughed over that, and hung up a few minutes later.

I know it is natural for people to come in and out of your life, whether through death and birth or graduating and moving away, or other reasons. But nothing anyone says makes it any easier for me. They all say the same things to me, like a Hallmark card, like it's rehearsed. Meanwhile, I just want to know that the people I wake up to today will be the same people I wake up to every day for the rest of my life.

When I was in elementary school, we used to play a game on the playground. Two people would hold each other’s hands criss-crossed, stand at arm’s length, and twirl around as fast as they could. Eventually the dizziness and centrivocal force would make you lose your grip and fall hard (but giggling) to the ground. It was a rough landing, but we always played the game again just to feel that intoxication.

In my mind, relationships are like that. You know most of the people you adore will one day not be part of your life, and you will have to let go, but you hang on and soak up the moments anyway because that’s the only way to live. You live in that beautiful moment, and hold it to you when you’ve fallen to the ground. You wouldn’t trade that moment for anything.

At least, that’s the way I explain it to myself.

Chapter 5

I drove to New York alone this time. The first thing I unpacked was a picture of Douglas and I, taken last Halloween when we dressed as Yoda and R2-D2. When I lifted the last thing out of the box, I plugged it in next to the Halloween picture. It was the little stained-glass lighthouse, which I never turned off again.

When I was little, someone told me that if I was full of worries, I should write them all down, and put the paper in a balloon. When I set the balloon free, my worries would in turn set me free. Since my ever-present biggest worry was that I never got to conclude things with Dad, I decided to write him such a letter.

One evening, during the hour when twilight and insects simultaneously set in, I sat on the back porch and began to write all that I so desperately wanted him to hear.

“Dear Dad,
The hardest thing is not that I can’t see you anymore. These last few years we didn’t see each other much anyway. The hardest thing is that I can’t talk to you anymore. Because there is so much I have to say.

I feel deeply guilty for all the time I could have spent with you and didn’t. I could have added a few more happy memories to the huge pile I already have. And for all the letters I didn’t send you, and all the phone calls I didn’t make to you. I feel like a terrible person. You loved me so much, added so much to my life, and even after you got sick I gave you a handful of letters and one lousy visit.

I was waiting “until it got bad” to tell you everything I wanted to. I waited so long to simply say “thank you,” and “I love you,” because I couldn’t find a way to express these words as strongly as I felt them. I mean them a thousand times over.

I keep remembering that trip last fall. Every minute of it haunts me. I never knew it would be the last time I saw you alive. Somehow it still managed to be a special time that I think I’ll remember forever. At least we had that.

I’ve given up trying to “get over” you. I know that I need to grieve in my own way, even though I know you wouldn’t want me to grieve at all. And I am already starting to heal, because I realized that just because you’re gone doesn’t mean your love for me is less real. No matter what I’m going through or where I am, through it all you’re still loving me just like before. And that’s a comforting thought.

I will celebrate your life to anyone who will listen, and I will move on with mine while finding peace and comfort in the places you haunted. So once again, all I wanted to say was THANK YOU. and I LOVE YOU!!!! It seems so little, but that is everything right there.”

I couldn’t think of a proper way to end it, so I simply stopped and placed the folded note in my cheerful red balloon. I blew it up as full as I could, tied a knot, and let it go. I watched it soar into the darkening sky, and my spirits soared with it.

I knew he understood, and therefore I gained some measure of peace. I sighed. It felt good. I returned to the house, letting the screen door slam behind me. There was one more thing I wanted to do before nightfall.


**************************************
I pulled up the truck and turned off the engine as the sun sank below the horizen. Kicking off my shoes, I galloped across the sand, not stopping until the sea splashed around the cuffs of my jeans.

I stood still, just gulping the fresh salty air as the colors in the sky deepened. My feet felt so good in the frigid water as it swirled around my sinking ankles. For the first time since Dad died, my head wasn’t buzzing with thoughts. Just peace, in tune with the timeless heartbeat of the deep sea.

I know that in nature there is always pain, but now I see that it is eventually followed by peace you never thought you could have again. It’s just one of those cycles that has been around for longer than any of us. In the scheme of things, the pain that is followed by peace isn’t so pointless, because it means that you are alive!

I gathered up my memories to me, dozens of snapshots each bearing little pieces of what is most essentially Megan. And I resolved to not be afraid to live for all I was worth, comforted with the surety of a greater peace in the hereafter, where we shall all fall into the arms of the people we love and know that this time, there will never be pain again.

THE END.