Few Kinds of Wrong (24 page)

“Dad, are you here?” I shout. “I love you.” I take another drink. “But I don't understand. How could you stop me from talking to Mom, how could you lie to me about her not calling? How does a father do that to a little girl? I might not have cried myself to sleep every night, but I thought she didn't love me. And you could have made that easier on me.”

Thoughts I have been trying to push out of my head keep pushing back. I rub my forehead then hit it against the steering wheel.

“Goddamn it! It was a lie. And it's your fault. I've spent my life thinking she didn't care enough to call, and she has spent her life thinking I was too angry to speak to her, that if she didn't return to her miserable life with you, that she'd lose her kid. Well, we know now.” I scream every word until my voice drops to a whisper to say, “But is it too late?”

I look at the verse on his headstone.
Weeping may
endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
How much joy did she miss? How much weeping had she done? Because of him. Because of me. I gasp for a breath, suddenly feeling like I'm drowning.

I'd looked at that headstone hundreds of times and felt anger every time, at how she could have considered any kind of joy when our world had ended. Now it sears questions into my brain. When will I find joy? How can I help Mom find hers?

“Oh, Mom,” I say out loud.

And my eyes close slowly as I place the bottle firmly between my legs so it won't fall when I go to sleep.

It takes at least a minute for me to realize where I am when I wake. A cold has settled over me. I left the car running and the air conditioner has done its job too well. The cold only reminds me of the bottle between my legs and the warmth inside it. It's 7:20. I slept for almost three hours and yet I still feel as tired as I did at the funeral home.

The funeral home. I told Mom I'd come back in the evening. I consider calling a cab, but sitting here, I don't feel drunk. And it's been three hours. In the cold. I put the cap back on the bottle and lay it down in the passenger seat.

The parking lot at Carnell's
Funeral Home is full and I circle around a few minutes before a space comes open. After a couple more drinks, I search the glove compartment for gum I know I have there and find it. I put three sticks in my mouth and chew all the way to the funeral home; my feet falter from time to time. Shouldn't sleep in the car, I tell myself. Now my balance is off as I try to walk again after sleeping in one position too long.

A small group of people are outside the funeral home smoking, and as I approach them I realize I'm not walking straight at all. My best attempts to alter my course and keep steady fail. I overcompensate as I try to correct my path, and sway more the harder I try not to.

I slow down. One foot in front of the other. Take your time. Go slow and no one will notice, I tell myself. A man glances at me, nudges a woman next to him and nods. She turns and looks at me too.

“What?” I say louder than intended. They both look away and shake their heads in unison like some choreographed judgement of me.

I slow down even more inside the funeral home. Methodically, I take each step to ensure my feet go the way they're supposed to go. I don't recognize the people gathered in the doorway of Nan's room. I get inside and lean against a wall, knowing I'll be fine as long as I stay there. Mom isn't in the room, neither is Bryce or Jamie. Henrietta, Chuck and Sarah are encircled by people. A woman is crying over Nan's casket. I don't know her. How could someone care so much about Nan that she would weep over her and I wouldn't even know her?

A firm hand on my shoulder jolts me. I lose my balance for a second and place my hand on the wall for support.

“How are you?” BJ asks. “Sorry I wasn't here earlier but I got here as soon as the newscast was over.”

“I nod. “S'okay.”

“Where's your mom? Is she coming this evening?”

I answer with a shrug.

“I suppose you got Michelle's email?”

Shaking my head sets me off balance again as I have stepped away from the wall. I start to fall.

BJ grabs my arm to catch me. “Are you drunk?” she whispers, leaning into my ear.

“No,” I say loud enough to make several heads turn.

“Come on, let's get you home before your mom gets here.” She places her hand firmly on my arm, pulling me away.

“No, I'm fine. I told Mom I'd be here.” More people turn to look at me.

A man I don't recognize at first walks toward us. As he gets closer, I see that inside the navy-striped suit with the white shirt and navy tie is Carl.

He smiles briefly. “Can I help?”

“No, we're good,” I say. “BJ this is Father Carl March and this is BJ Brown.” I'm thankful for the diversion.

“Yes, I recognize you,” Carl says to BJ. He extends his hand and BJ shakes it, “Jennifer is not feeling well and I'm going to take her home.”

“No. I'm fine and I'm staying. Carl, are you going to the funeral?” The words come out garbled and, realizing that, I repeat them again, more slowly now. “Are … you … going … to … the … funeral?”

“You asked that already,” BJ says.

“I know that. Excuse me, but we're having a conversation here.” I try to push BJ a little, but it's too hard and she moves a couple of feet.

“Jesus. I can't help you anymore. Go sleep it off,” she says and walks away.

“Would you like me to go the funeral?” Carl says. His hand finds its way to my arm, lifting me slightly, guiding me to the wall again.

“I wouldn't mind. Up to you, I guess.”

He nods and stares at me. His eyes withhold judgement. His half-smile seems reserved.

“Jennifer, you seem very tired. Would you like me to drive you home so you can rest?”

“I have my car. I can drive myself.”

“Perhaps you're too tired to drive. I'm afraid you'd fall asleep on the way home.”

My heavy eyelids, half-closed, make arguing with him seem stupid.

Yes, okay,” I say, changing my mind in the time it takes for his eyes to lock onto mine.

He again takes my arm. I can feel a muscle in his arm flexing as it keeps me on course, out the door, down the hallway, out the front door and toward the far right of the parking lot where he guides me to a black Toyota Corolla.

“This is such a minister's car,” I say. His hand is on my head, ensuring that I don't conk myself on the door jamb. He leans over to buckle my seatbelt. His hair smells of vanilla.

“Hmm, you smell good.”

“Thank you.” He closes my door and walks around to his side of the car. My eyes are closed before we leave the parking lot.

19

W
HEN I WAKE
up I'm on my sofa and Carl is across from me in a chair. I bolt upright.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“How much do you remember?”

“Not enough, I don't think.”

“You were at the funeral home and were a little, um, under the weather. I drove you home.”

“How long ago was that?”

Carl looks at his watch. “About two hours. I didn't think it would be right to put you to bed so I laid you down here. I was afraid to leave you alone, you know, like that.”

Once again I'm surprised how little judgement appears in his face.

I'm quiet for a couple of minutes and Carl lets the silence stay.

“Thank you though. For the ride. And the staying with me.”

“No problem.” He stands like he is about to leave.

“Would you like coffee or something? You really could stay. I don't mind.” I hear something in my voice and hope it doesn't sound desperate, although I fear it does.

“I really should be going.” He is looking down.

“Oh.” I look away and want to ask him again if he'd stay. Just for a bit.

“Well, okay, if you have decaf.” He sits back down. “Anything else will mean I'll be up for the night.”

“I only have instant decaf.” I wonder if it's still fit to drink. The bottle of instant must have been in my cupboard for a year or more. I don't usually do decaf but sometimes Jamie would.

“Instant would be fine.”

I feel like he's taking pity on me but that doesn't stop me from not wanting him to leave. The thought of being alone is worse than any pity he might feel.

I move into the kitchen and take down two mugs from the cupboard. In the open-concept house the kitchen adjoins the living room so we can continue to talk. But Carl sits in silence as I fill the kettle. I chip some coffee crystals out of the hardened mass in the jar and put them in the mugs.

I lean against the counter until the water boils and the electric kettle shuts off. I pour water into the two mugs and stir. Some of the coffee doesn't dissolve and I fish the floating crystals out with a spoon.

“Was my mom at the funeral home?” I ask, as I come out of the kitchen.

“No, she wasn't. But your friend BJ wasn't too happy with you when you left.”

“She rarely is lately.”

“Is she a good friend?”

I nod. “Better than me, that's for sure.” I return to the kitchen for milk and sugar. Thank God, Jamie has stocked the kitchen.

“Why'd you say that?”

“Let's just say I've been a bit of a burden lately. And I was never a very good friend to begin with. Always wondered why she was my friend, to be honest with you.”

“People usually keep friends because they enjoy their company. Obviously BJ is not as hard on you as you are on yourself.”

I shrug. “Mom says I got that from her.”

“You seem close to your mother.” He sips his black coffee. I can see him hide a cringe at the taste.

I don't answer, not knowing what to say.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Dad was always the one I was close to. We spent a lot of time together.”

Carl nods. “It just seemed that when your mother came to the hospital, you relaxed and let her be there for you.”

Again, I don't know what to say. “I've been kind of mad at Mom.”

He nods. “Yes, the best friend.” He straightens up. He stares at me and starts to pick at his upper lip, like he's thinking hard about something.

“Pretty bad, hey?” I almost smile, feeling finally vindicated that someone understands how bad that would be.

“And it makes you mad? Not happy that two people you care for—”

“Of course it makes me mad. You don't do that. There's appropriate times of mourning and even then …”

He picks up the mug, brings it partway to his lips then sets it down on the cocktail table again. “What's an appropriate time for mourning, do you think?”

I shrug. “A couple of years.”

“Most experts say that things should at least start to get a little better after about six months. And it's been?”

“A little over a year.”

We sit in silence.

“So you think something is wrong with me.” I almost make it a question.

“From what you say, things have not started to get better for you. And I wonder why.”

“Because I loved my dad a lot, I guess.”

He nods but I don't see affirmation in his face.

“I worked with him. At his garage. Our garage. Well, my garage now. Spent most of my time with him. He was a great guy. We …” I shake my head.

“What?”

“I always thought he was a great guy. But lately I've found out things. That he did things. I don't know.”

“And? Where does that put you?”

“I don't know. I feel like I've thought things about my mom for years that were wrong. And that's because of my dad. All the things I thought were wrong.”

“All of them? Every single thing?”

“Well, no. But some of the important things.” I stare at the ceiling, thinking, looking for what I'm trying to say. “My mom always said she loved me and I never believed she did, not really. And Dad never said it, but I always thought he did. Now I'm not sure what's true.”

“Did you tell them you loved them?”

I shake my head. “Not since I was a little girl. I guess I always thought I'd have the time to tell them. That sometime in the future, when Dad was one hundred and ten, there'd be some deathbed scene where I'd say it. But, well, you know.”

“Did that matter to you? When you lost your dad? That you hadn't said it?”

From somewhere tears rise up inside me, up into my throat. I swallow them but they continue to come and the more I fight, the more they flow.

“I wish I'd said it. Out loud. To him.” I whisper the words, knowing that the louder I speak, the thicker my voice will sound. “And I'm afraid if I don't say it to her, she'll never know it.”

“So, what's stopping you?”

My tears don't deter him and I relax with them, feeling them washing something away. He doesn't look away or seem uncomfortable with my feelings.

“I'm mad at her.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He shrugs. “Well, I could say that you can love her and be mad at her the same time. I could say that your father is gone and your mother is the one left here, in your life. I could say that the way you reacted when she came to the hospital after your grandmother died showed me that you love her and that you depend on her in some way.” He smiles. “But you probably don't want to hear that.”

I stare at him. It feels like hours before I shake my head. I look away and find myself somewhere between wanting to cry and wanting to scream.

“I'm tired,” I say. “It's going to be a hard day tomorrow and I'm already so tired.

“I've upset you.”

“No. I'm just tired.”

“Okay.” He stands up, runs his hands down his pant legs to straighten out the wrinkles. “You still want me there tomorrow?”

“Up to you, I guess. I'm not going to stop you.” His hurt look makes me flinch. “But it would be nice to have you there.”