You've Got A Friend-Personal Essay

So, as I let everyone know a couple days ago, I'm looking into competitions to enter in. Here's the first piece I plan to send out. There's 2 different competitions I'm going to send it to. I wrote it in my creative writing class, and my teacher was the first to suggest I submit it, but I never really looked into pursuing it. Let me know what you think, and if you see typos or if something doesn't make sense. And yes, its factual. Thank you!

It was a scorching day in June when my mom decided to let go of this world, and heat radiated off the parking lot asphalt surrounding the nursing home. It was Saturday, and I was thinking about the dirty dishes that seemed to persistently reside in the kitchen sink. My mom had been in the nursing home for almost two months. Prior to her moving to the nursing home, she had lived with my fiancé, my three-year-old son, and myself. Health issues were always prevalent in my mom’s life, but everything accelerated in those last years until she was suffering from kidney failure, cirrhosis of the liver, and out of control diabetes.

“What’s Gabriel and David up to today?” my mom tried to shift herself in bed to a more comfortable position, edging her body to the side while grimacing, and then turning to her back, inch by inch. Her pillow fell to the laminate floor.

“Oh, they’re just hanging out at home.” Leaning over from the hard metal folding chair, I grabbed her pillow from the floor and, very cautiously, started to ease it behind her back. Her bed sores were unbearably painful.

She moaned, and began crying when the pain refused to subside. I took her hand and stroked it. The bones in her hand still had the same density as when I was younger and grasping her hand while we rocked back and forth along the light rail tracks. But it wasn’t the same hand. This hand I now held was pitted and scratched, from the constant skin irritations the medicine caused. Her blue veins snaked under the surface, rubber tubes that became almost impenetrable from the scarring of the ever-present I.V.’s.  The deterioration of this hand showed how much it had aged in these last years. Barely fifty-one, my mom had traveled roads not even many ninety-year-olds could boast of.

Memories are sometimes slanted, written down in the archives of our minds as we want to remember them. After my mom and dad divorced, my five-year-old brain would reinvent what took place. Instead of my mother driving off down the street in her dented, rusty car, having said a quick, tearful good-bye, she would instead get in her car, but be unable to bring herself to drive away without me in the seat next to her. I cannot picture any particular moment in my younger years where it was obvious that my mom suffered mentally, or physically, from the alcohol or drug use. She was careful to hide the darker side of her existence from me.

No, my memories of my mom were rosy, tinted with sunny days spent in the park, bowls of bubble gum ice cream, repeated viewings of The Sound of Music, and trips to that magical, awe-inspiring building, the downtown library. Our periods together were cemented in schedules written by court mediators, but these short moments were saturated in fun and acceptance. After my dad remarried when I was eight, my home became an uncertain place, one where up was down, and down was up. My step-mother suffered from schizophrenia, undiagnosed at the time. The weeks began to stretch out forever, bleak and painful, and the bi-weekly visits with my mom were beacons of light in a tumultuous sea. Knowing I was unhappy tortured my mom, and she’d go to great lengths to make my visits with her comforting and safe. Eventually, when I was thirteen, she won custody of me. But even now, I can still remember the yearning I felt waiting for those weekend visits.

Around lunch time, the doctor came by for his daily visit. He asked the usual questions, but when he began to go over her medication, my mom’s crying commenced again, growing into a torrent.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed. She turned her face to me, and the utter dejection exposed there tore at my heart.

She turned to the doctor and stated clearly, “I don’t want to take my meds anymore. And I don’t want to do dialysis anymore.”

“But mom!” I ripped my gaze away from her now stubborn face to look at the doctor in appeal, expecting his adamant refusal. But he just studied her for a long moment without speaking.

“Do you know what that means?” He finally asked, quietly setting his clipboard down and examined her eyes, pushing her eyelids up to inspect the whites, then pulling her lower lids down to expose the crimson tinted rims.

“Yes,” she still sniffled, but her voice came out more steadily.

“Why don’t you talk with your daughter for a while? I can let you miss one dialysis treatment, but that’s all. I’ll come by a little later.” He turned and walked to the next bed.

“Mom, if you stop taking your meds, you’ll lose it again, just like the last time. And if you stop going to dialysis, a whole lot more is going to happen.”

Tears leaking unnoticed from the corners of her eyes, my mom seized my hand with a strength fired by desperation. “I know honey. But you don’t understand how much pain I’m in. The meds make my stomach hurt all the time, I can’t walk anymore so the bed sores are only getting worse, and the pain of getting out of bed and into a wheelchair to go to dialysis is too much. I can’t take it anymore.”

I didn’t understand until later what her decision truly meant. I thought of the immediate repercussions, but also the undeniable relief for my mom. The medication she took helped eliminate the poisons in her body that her liver would normally take care of, but it would slough everything that her body had out, giving her constantly stabbing stomach cramps. When the toxins took over her body from the lack of the medication, her mind was always the first to go. I didn’t want to have her mind go hazy again, knowing that when I visited her next, I might only appear as a shadow on the wall of her psyche, no more familiar to her than the fly buzzing by the window. But I also knew the stomach pain was driving her crazy. I had seen with my own eyes what the bed sores looked like, oozing and pernicious. That would drive anyone to make unbearable decisions.

We decided I would come by Sunday morning with the pastor, so we could have a prayer. We didn’t really go to church, but my mom had always been a spiritual person. That spirituality is what aided her in her fight against her dependencies. A prayer was just what she needed.

When the pastor and I came the next morning, the effect of not taking her meds was already becoming apparent. I could sense she knew who we were, but she wasn’t very coherent in her words, mumbling more than actually forming full sentences.  The pastor and I took her hands and we prayed. I kissed her forehead and said good-bye, feeling selfish because I wanted her to reply with her usual, “When are you gonna bring my grandbaby?”

Even though the illness overtook her soon after Gabriel was born, my mom was still able to form a special bond with my son. She called herself Nana, saying no one under the age of sixty should be called Grandma, that the title Grandma would multiply her gray hairs tenfold. She took great pleasure in reading Goodnight Moon to him, never tiring if he asked her to repeat the story, patiently turning the cardboard pages back to the beginning, as if she had all the time in the world. Blurry, indistinct moments with her grandchild were not an option. After she entered the nursing home, her sadness at no longer seeing Gabriel everyday would imprint itself on my heart for a long time.

Monday night, when I got home from work, I was bone weary, spent from a long day of trying to answer calls from customers annoyed with the responsibilities of paying utility bills, and fielding calls from nurses at the nursing home. Feeling saintly, I kissed my family good-bye and drove the ten minutes to the nursing home to have a short visit with my mom.

When I arrived, the room my mom shared with two other residents was quiet. One was reading the newspaper while the other slept. There in the middle bed lay my mom. I knew something was different the moment I saw her. She lay propped up so that she could rest on her side, with pillows supporting her back so that the bed sores would not get irritated by the friction of the sheet. This was normal. But the moment I looked in her eyes, I knew my mom was no longer there. She looked at me, then through me, like I was just another blurry object she couldn’t wrap her mind around any longer.

I grabbed a stool, then changed my mind and sat very carefully on the bed. Taking her hand, I whispered, “Mom?”

She turned her head slightly at the sound of my voice, but she couldn’t acknowledge me. Her mind was almost gone, wandering the hazy landscape of dementia. The change in her in the last two days was heart-wrenching. I can’t believe it happened so fast. Saturday, we were talking about what classes I would sign up for in the fall semester at the local community college. Then yesterday, when the pastor came to visit, we could barely get any coherent words out of her. And today, this vacant gaze, her blue eyes barely blinking, her face void of emotion.

The driving need to reassure her broke upon me, a crashing wave of fear and desperation. Even if she couldn’t grasp that I was in the same room with her, I had to try. I laid my hand on her head, stroking her forehead and brushing her hair back like she used to do for me during the many nights when, as a child, I burned up with fever from yet another childhood illness.

The song came to me, in a bubble of inspiration that popped in my mind.

“When you’re down and troubled, and you need some loving care,” I sang softly, urging her crumbling mind to hear my love, even if understanding my words was beyond her grasp. “And nothing, nothing is going right.”

Gripping her hand more firmly, I continued, “Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there…to brighten up, even your darkest nights.”

It didn’t matter that my voice hitched and caught as I sang. It didn’t matter that there were two other people in the room, with nurses coming in and out like worker bees. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t carry a note to save my life. All that mattered at this moment was that my mom understood, truly understood on the deepest, most basic, and most intimate level that I was here with her, that I would traverse this foggy plain with her, to the best of my ability.

“You just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running…to see you again.” Tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked furiously to keep them at bay. This was not the time to lose it.

“Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you have to do is call, and I’ll be there…You’ve got a friend.”

I wish I could say that, miraculously, like something out of a Hollywood movie, my mom finally blinked her eyes, looked at me, and spoke, and everything would turn out fine. But even though I was singing to my mother like we were in some badly written musical, this wasn’t a movie; this was as real as it could get. The disease that ravaged her body would not release her so easily.

But even something as minute and fleeting as a smile can be called a miracle.

When my mom finally took control of her life and checked herself in to a six-month chemical dependency program, I was sixteen, and naïve. The facility required that we stay there for the duration of the program, so I was a first hand witness to what drugs and alcohol could do to the lives of the addicts, and those who were closest to them. Instead of shadowing my image of my mom, these new insights allowed me to have a better understanding of the sacrifices she made for our small family. Even seeing her like this, seeing what her life choices did years later to her physical body, I could still appreciate her strength and courage. While some set themselves on pedestals for never making a single mistake in life, my mom traveled to that dark side, and then she clawed her way out, no matter how difficult it proved to be.

As I sat on her bed and sang to her, the tears started rolling, unhindered. I thought I had come to terms with the fact that I was losing her. I thought I had asked my questions and accepted the answers, and had made the decision with her to let nature take its course. But all of a sudden, I was more scared than I had been during the three long years I had been taking care of her when her illness took over her life.

I started running through all the things in my head that I should have thanked her for. For never letting her addictions and struggles stop her from trying to be my mom. For standing up for my right to live in a home without fear, anger or violence. For finally attacking her demons head-on so that she could build a better life for us. For being my best friend.

How could I let her go, when I never told her the most important truths of all? That she taught me to be a strong, independent woman, who would walk through the bowels of hell before she let anyone harm her family. That the journeys I’d travelled with her during her long struggle with her addiction would always be life lessons, ones that taught me to value and respect myself. That I wouldn’t be the mother I am today, if I hadn’t had the kind of relationship with my mom that I did, where unconditional love and acceptance was given freely, along with hugs and laughter and hope.

As I sang the final verse of “You’ve Got A Friend,” I had my head bowed, unable to halt the tears from streaming down my cheeks, then wetly splashing on my arm. So I jumped when I heard a gasp next to my ear. My mom’s nurse stood peering over my shoulder, staring wide-eyed at my mom. Afraid to look and see she was truly gone, I turned my head slowly, taking great care to swivel my head a millimeter at a time. To my amazement, she lay there, still breathing, in no way changed from the previous minute, except for one minor, yet monumental detail. Her eyes had shifted just a fraction in my direction, and a soft smile played across her lips. Quickly swiping the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand, I held my breath, wondering if anything else had changed that I had yet to comprehend. But she stayed just as she was, with her eyes slightly turned in my direction, and a smile so serene, so peaceful, curving on her lips, that I couldn’t help but smile back.

I stayed until midnight. Driving home through the deserted streets, the image of my mom laying there with her peaceful expression was emblazoned in the back of my gritty eyes. Laying my head on my pillow, sleep found me at once, not as elusive as I imagined it would be. I missed the phone call that said my mom passed in the early morning.

When I woke up to the voice message from the nurse telling me the news, the grief was there in full force. No matter how much time you have to prepare, the loss can still paralyze you. I imagined trying to tell my three-year-old that Nana was gone. I dreaded making all those phone calls to family members and friends, of being the deliverer of the worst news possible. I sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the cell phone cradled in my lap, feeling the grief envelope me, a damp cloak of mourning. But along with the mourning, there was also the small relief of gratitude. I was grateful that I had the chance to see my mom the night before she passed. I was grateful that I had not wasted that final visit with trivial tasks like balancing my checkbook, or reading my mail. I will always be grateful for those last hours spent with the woman who gave me everything.

And I was grateful that, in the space of a few minutes, I had sung a simple song by Carole King, a singer my mom and I shared a penchant for. While I had internally ravaged myself with regrets, the song had pierced the mist she was lost in. In one brief moment, I had unconsciously given my mom the gift that I thought I had uncaringly withheld from her. My thanks. 

Just when I thought I was comfortable...

So, now that I'm establishing a routine with my writing and getting used to having a blog, of course I have to immediately shake things up again. I wouldn't be me if I didn't!

There are hundreds of writing competitions out there that accept short stories and poetry. Prizes range from cash prizes to bragging rights. I'm mostly interested in the ability to put the competition on any resume I may have to create in the future. So on Tuesday I may be posting more than once, with stories I want to submit.

Everyone has given me such great feedback. I hope you'll stick with me if I give you more to read this week. Pay extra close attention to typos, spelling, and if something really doesn't make sense. Thank you, thank you, thank you!!

Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, #5

Continued from the May 5th, 9th, 10th and 31st Blog Posts "Cinco De Mayo, or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun #1, #2, #3 and #4"

As the patrol car swiftly pulled onto the road, Vivian turned to Lulu and whispered as quietly as she could, “Um, hello Officer Hottie!”

Lulu half snorted, half giggled, straightening her face quickly when she spotted Officer Hottie’s eyes glancing at them in the rearview mirror.

Vivian was not one to let an opportunity pass. Quickly combing her fingers through her reddish brown hair, she scooted forward on the hard plastic seat and leaned against the metal cage separating the front seat from the back. Anna nudged Cristina, pointing out the horrendously obvious ploy.

“So Officer Bryant, how long have you been with PD?”

“About five years now.” He flicked his eyes back to see who was speaking, then suggested, “Uh, that cage hasn’t been cleaned yet tonight…”

“EW!” Vivian bounced back, wiping her arm and cheek on the bottom of her shirt. “Don’t tell me why I should be worried that it hasn’t been cleaned! I don’t want to know!”

Anna and Cristina burst out laughing, collapsing against each other as Viv narrowed her eyes at her two friends. Apparently, the challenge had been set.

“So are you married, Officer Bryant?” Viv turned back to the front, ignoring the snickering beside her.

“Nope, never been.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not right now.”

Wincing at the jab to the side Lulu had just dished out, Vivian continued to try to coax more than a three-word answer out of the man.

“Why not?”

He glanced at her in the mirror, then shrugged. “Well, last girlfriend I had didn’t like it when I wouldn’t write off her outstanding parking tickets…”

He started to say more, but just then the radio blared loudly, a disembodied voice demanding the location of all units. After listening intently, Officer Bryant reported his location into the receiver, then looked at the foursome in the mirror.

“Looks like this ride is going to be shorter than expected, ladies. I’m going to have to drop you off at this Chevron station up at the corner. You’re about five blocks away from Logan’s Restaurant. You’ll have to walk or call for your ride again.”

Groans greeted him from the backseat, and he couldn’t help a small half smile. He pulled into the gas station parking lot, got out and released the women from their temporary confinement.

“Just five blocks that way,” he said to Vivian, who had walked up to him as soon as she emerged from the car. He gave her a perfunctory nod, then turned away.

“Wait! How will we repay you for your gas…or time…or whatever?” Vivian grasped at the only thing she could think of. “We don’t expect the taxpayers to pay for our ride!”

“Consider it my civic duty, miss.” Officer Bryant sat down quickly and shut the door. He gave a two finger wave, then drove off, turning on his sirens before he pulled onto the road again.

Vivian sighed. “Man! I haven’t been shot down like that in awhile. I now remember why I don’t like the feeling!”

Cristina came up beside her, throwing her arm around Viv’s neck. “Aw, Viv. I’m not sure you can compete with murder and mayhem. Don’t take it too harshly. I think he was digging you before duty called.”

“Doesn’t make a difference since I won’t see him again, now will it?” Vivian grumped. “And now we’re stuck walking the rest of the way!”

They all turned as one, and started making their way up the street, with the one collective thought to just get their butts to the restaurant before anything else could happen.

Finding Home, or What a Day For a Daydream

I'm going to be honest and tell the truth. This is a story I started in my creative writing class that I never finished. For some reason, I felt I could finish it now. So only the second half is new, although its all new to all of you! And good news, its a complete story! ;-)

"Hailey,

How R U? I hope U have the best summer of UR life and I hope U stay the perfect person that U R. Hope 2 see U around! Heather Robins"

Ha! Apparently she was in such a hurry to get away, she had to abbreviate simple words like “you” and “are”…

"Hey Hayly-

I hope I spelled your name correctly! I really enjoyed being in class with you this year. Good luck at whatever college you choose. I know you will do well. Shoot-4-the-stars! Love, Courtney"

Hmm, she’s seen my name in print for the last two years, since she’s been in my writing group for that long, but she can’t spell my name…

"Hailey,

Well, sweetheart it’s been a long time and now it’s over (sob, sob!) You are the sweetest person. I only wish I could have got to know you better. I’ll miss you a lot! Take care of you. Luv, luck and lollipops. Laura Velona

P.S. Drama-4-ever!"

How would she know if I was sweet, or salty, or anything else, when she’s never spoken more than two words to me? Man, drama sucked!

"Hailey-

Well I think I’ve signed your yearbook every year for the last four years. I still remember having you in my freshman English class. Well, the last 4 years have been great. Have an awesome summer. Good luck in the future and see you later! Love, Molly"

Wow. Last time I checked, I was only at this school for two years…

"Hailey-

The last few years have been great. My handwriting looks like shit because I’m doing this standing up. I don’t remember how we met and I can’t think of any inside jokes so this sucks. Hope you have a great life. Keep in touch! Ryan Gunther"

I couldn’t have put it better, Ryan…

The rough concrete of the bench dug into my butt as I sat, heavier than gravity, reading the messages scribbled into the inside covers of my yearbook. I could feel myself growing dimmer, transparent. Anyone might look in my direction, and they’d see the knobby roots of the old magnolia tree through my stomach, the carved “J.L. loves S.P.” behind the vague lines of my face, and the smears of dried gum and bits of candy wrappers through the blurriness that should have been my feet.

I’d always been invisible in this school; it hurt like hell to have people see you, and then pointedly look through you. I have been the shade of the building corner, the shimmering heat on the air, the empty seat at the back of the room. Watching everyone’s eyes slide over me, widening to take in everything but me, made me want to crawl back into my hole and shrivel up, a withered sack of bones with no more feelings.

Not one message referred to a moment of shared adventure, a funny story, or even a bad teacher bashing. Every time I handed my yearbook to someone, they’d quickly sign it, eyes already shifting around me, looking for a friend, a classmate whose book they really did want to sign, or looking surprised to find I actually spoke English instead of Hungarian. I had surprised myself, wondering when I had hit my head, when I had turned to the person next to me with the age-old question, “Will you sign my yearbook?”

I hadn’t always been a human stained glass window, see-through, with hints of color. It seemed I’d lost some of my substance with each of the moves. My mom had to go where her boss went; being a paralegal for a lawyer with a proclivity for moving his practice around meant we’d lived in many cities. I’ve been in three elementary schools, two middle schools, and three high schools, some of which were glimmering strands of happiness in the tapestry of my school career. Others, like this one, were singed, scorched twine, tough and reeking of failed attempts at making, and keeping friends, and the ever present feeling of being “the new kid.”

            “Hailey?” My mom’s voice emerged from the car window, rising above the din of excited student voices and idling vehicle engines echoing off the walls of the admin building. I snapped the yearbook shut, hoping the empty words would squeeze themselves out of the pages and plop on the ground as I turned and walked to the car. Sliding into the front seat, I flashed my mom a tight smile, and pulled my sunglasses down over my eyes, breathing a sigh of relief as she pulled away from the curb of the school for almost the final time.

“I have to work until seven, so we’ll have to move fast when I get home, if we’re going to make it to the ceremony on time.” Mom steered the car through the after school traffic.

“That’s ok, I’m not going anyways.”

“Don’t even think about it Hailey. We’ve had this discussion already. I am not letting you miss out on your high school graduation ceremony. We’ll go, you’ll walk, I’ll clap and cry, you’ll flip your tassel, we’ll take pictures, and then we can go. It won’t be as bad as you think.” Mom fiddled with the radio, turning it to my favorite station, trying to tenderize me before she planned stick me in the oven to roast.

Recognizing an already dead argument, I concentrated on the thought that I was finally done.  No more new schools, no more awkward introductions at the front of the class, no more trying to find a place to sit at lunch time and ending up sitting outside the library on the ground with my cold pizza and Ms. Jane Austen to keep me company. College would be different. I could choose where I would go and what classes to take. I had been saving my money for a long time, having managed to get afterschool jobs in every city we’d lived in. I was also lucky enough to have a trust fund set up by my grandfather on my Dad’s side that would become available to me once I graduated high school. Not enough to pay for college outright, but with it, I had enough to buy a car now, and eventually find a roommate and move out once I decided what college I’d attend. I was torn between just starting at the community college, or throwing caution to the wind and applying for art school. Looking for a car was the first order of business on my list, since attending a college outside of this town, preferably in the city, was absolutely essential in my mind. As long as I survived the upcoming torturous ceremony, that is.

That evening, I sat with my fellow graduates and listened to Mr. Phillips’ speech about venturing out into the real world, and the class valedictorian’s speech about seizing the moment and making the most of our lives. Amazingly, I felt more connected to my fellow classmates than I ever had before. I glanced at the students sitting around me, and I recognized that same light and sense of accomplishment, that same look of excitement to finally grow up, that I had seen in my own reflection that morning. I knew in a few minutes I would become the Invisible Girl again, so I allowed myself just a moment to relish the feeling of kinship with the people I had cohabited this coliseum of learning with.

I accepted my diploma, and retreated like a Meer cat who had just been spotted by the looming hawk. The air wavered in front of me as I skipped down the steps, freedom thrumming in my veins. At the bottom of the steps, the air crystallized as my eyes fell upon the one face I did not expect to see.

“Dad! What are you doing here?” The question came out sharp; I could never trust my father’s intentions or my own weak knees whenever he popped into my life. Leaving us when I was seven, my father would appear at random moments, as if he had been dwelling in another dimension and slipped through the fabric borders of our world accidentally. His visits always had an air of “bad planning.” He’d forget his wallet and have to borrow twenty dollars from Mom to get gas. He sent a Happy Easter card one Christmas. And when my mom invited him to celebrate my sixteenth birthday with us, he brought me a My Little Pony, complete with a pink plastic hairbrush and two ribbons to tie in the pony’s hair.

“Hey Hailey. What? I wanted to come see you graduate. Its not every day your little girl graduates from high school!” He pulled me into a hug, which became a discomfiting jumble of arms and bumped noses and pulled hair. I stepped away as quick as I could without being obvious. Even though Dad has gray hair feathering the sides of his head, I’ve felt years older than him since I was nine.

“You didn’t have to come. I wouldn’t have come myself if Mom hadn’t made me.” Turning, my legs carried me in the direction of where Mom was sitting, that zone of safety that would balance the tipsy ground I found myself walking on. No matter how many times she dragged me around the state, Mom had always been my safe haven to escape to from the trying hours spent in an unwelcoming school.

“No, no, I wanted to come. I took pictures and brought you a rose and everything!” Dad pulled out a disposable camera from his jacket, and a crumpled rose that had seen better days in the liquor store vase it came from, with the flourish of a five-year-old presenting his freshly caught frog and expecting heaps of praise. He handed the rose to me, and then snapped a picture of me holding the rose and staring at him incredulously. He bought a rose? He remembered to bring a camera? I was a little flustered at the extremely parental feel to the gestures.

We stood to the side until the ceremony was over, then found Mom amongst the happy, chattering crowds, and decided to go eat a celebratory dinner at Mom’s and my favorite diner. Once seated in the cozy booth, the black and white checkered floor, red leather seats, and chrome tabletop jukeboxes welcomed us back as cherished friends. We ordered mountains of fries, thick, frosty chocolate shakes, and burgers big enough to feed the entire team of hungry, adolescent football players at Starmont High.

We chatted about what kind of car I’d look for, what major I’d pursue in the spring after I’d made my necessary arrangements, and Dad’s new scheme to make money, selling fruit nectars that supposedly have major health benefits for a whopping forty dollars a bottle. He said he was also working for a construction company for the last few months, the first real job he’s had in a while. When I said so, he flinched. Keeping the conversation light and fluffy is always necessary when Dad’s around. Once anyone steps over the boundary of fun into the frightening realm of responsibility, Dad turns myopic and disappears for months at a time. I admit, I have deliberately steered the conversations on occasion just to force Dad to man up, or leave. I keep waiting for the day when he won’t run. I’ll probably continue waiting until I’m old and my teeth become removable.

Mom excused herself from the table, needing to make a call to Lord Lawyer. As soon as she left, Dad grabbed my hand, a sheepish smile on his face.

“Hailey, I need to talk to you about something.” Not quite making eye contact, only flicking his eyes up to mine for a second before plunging them back down to the remnants of his burger, had alarm bells ringing in my head. I pulled my hand, and my heart, out of his grasp, before he had a chance to squeeze either too hard.

“What’s up, Dad?”

“Well…” He began to sweat a little, the beads of perspiration on his forehead shining in the bright cone lamps hanging above the restaurant booths. “You know the money Grandpa George left you a few years back?”

My burger turned to stone in my stomach. I should have known.

“You spent it.”

“Now, now, don’t look at me like that. I had to move in a hurry, and I didn’t have money for first and last month’s rent in the new apartment and the deposit. I had to do something. But don’t you worry. I’ll replace it, I promise. And in the meantime, I’ve got a surprise for you.” He tried on a winning smile, flashing it at me to go along with the sad pathetic eyes he always pulled out whenever he’d done something foolish or hurtful.

I sat there, dumbstruck. He had to move? A move that cost thirty grand? It was so ludicrous I just shook my head in amazement. Did he think I was stupid? Naïve? Did he think I couldn’t see straight through the muddled tale he was spinning me? All the years of forgetfulness, of missed visitations, of mess-ups that only he could orchestrate, crashed into my head, and at the top of the avalanche of bad memories was this moment, where he had managed to ruin my fragile dream of freedom and independence.

I didn’t cry. Tears didn’t well up in my eyes, I didn’t throw a tantrum in the true teenage fashion, and I didn’t go screaming to my mom about the unfairness of it all. Visions of all these circled hazily in my head, but in reality, I wasn’t surprised. When I had found out Grandpa George had put my dad in charge of the trust fund account, I immediately knew it was a mistake. But Grandpa always wanted to live on the sunny side of the street, where his son wasn’t a wash-out who couldn’t hold a job or keep promises to his daughter, where seventeen-year-olds were responsible enough to get thirty thousand dollars as long as they graduated high school, and where bunnies did the Lindy-hop and flowers sang “Don’t worry, be happy” to anyone who would listen.

I could see the look start to creep into Dad’s eyes, the worry that I would demand more, an explanation, a responsible one instead of the cracked story he just tried to sell. Be nice and fluffy to keep him here, or be honest and see him flee faster than Wily Coyote after the Roadrunner set a fire under his tail? I chose to watch the coward run.

“You amaze me Dad.”

“Uh, why is that?” Dad plastered that smile back on his face, renewed by the positivity he heard in my voice.

“I am seventeen years old. I won’t even be eighteen until the end of the summer. I’m not even a legal adult yet, and somehow I’m the only one currently at this table who acts like one.” Grabbing Mom’s purse, I pulled out money to pay for dinner. I’d wait in the car rather than stay here for another minute.

“Hailey, don’t be like that. I’m going to put the money back. Don’t you want to know what the surprise is?” Dad tried to grab my hand again, but I snatched it out of his reach.

“No, Dad, I don’t want to know what the surprise is. You probably got me a set of Lego’s or something. No, I’m done. I’m done being the adult in this relationship. I’m done making excuses for you all the time. If I can’t depend on you to be my Dad, what’s the point? So from now on, don’t bother coming to see me. Don’t call, don’t write, don’t even send me a telegram. I don’t want to hear the stories anymore.”

I’d never spoken to my Dad like this, ever. Mom always demanded respect for adults, even imposters like him. But I couldn’t help it. He’d broken one too many promises.

I left him sitting in the booth as I headed towards the exit. I ran into Mom by the hallway to the restrooms, and handing over her purse, I told her I’d paid the bill and was ready to leave. In the car, I gave Mom a quick rundown of what had happened.

“I told him I’m done. I don’t want to see him anymore.” Now I could feel the tears prickling the backs of my eyes, making my nose itch.

“Oh Hailey. You don’t mean that. I know your dad makes numerous mistakes, but he’s your dad, nonetheless. In his own simple, harebrained way, he loves you.”

“That’s the problem! His love hurts! I don’t want it anymore!”

“Sweetling, you’ll feel differently in the morning. I know going to the ceremony was tough, and you’re exhausted. Let’s go home and fall asleep watching My Fair Lady in my room. I bet things will look rosier when you wake up.”

Falling asleep in my mom’s big four-poster bed, listening to Audrey Hepburn sing “The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plain,” I tried not to think about how far back my plans had been set with my dad’s actions. I’d have to get two jobs over the summer to get the money I’d need for a car, and I would most likely have to go to the local community college and live at home with Mom, for however long she was allowed to stay in this town. The wide road to my bright future of freedom had narrowed to a claustrophobic tunnel with no exits or skylights.

The air was misty and cold the next morning when I scampered outside in my “Betty Boop” slippers to get the paper. Spying the cute neighbor a few houses down, jogging my way, made me yelp quietly and run back in the house. There’s just no need for him to see my plush red slippers and wild fork-stuck-in-an-outlet hair.

Clicking on the pre-readied coffee pot and dumping the newspaper on the kitchen table, I grabbed the ingredients for breakfast out of the fridge. Chopping and slicing, envisioning Rachel Ray and saying a commentary reminiscent of 30-Minute Meals, I prepared a couple of omelets for Mom and myself. I was just pouring two mugs of coffee when Mom staggered into the kitchen. Without a word, I handed one mug to her. Mom wouldn’t be able to string two words together before her first cup of coffee. I put the two plates filled with the omelets and fruit on the table.

We split up the newspaper as was our ritual, the front page and business section in a pile next to Mom, the Life section and comics in front of me. Skimming over a recipe for grilled artichokes, I caught myself wondering how Grad Night went, and I immediately squelched the thought. The theme, “Monte Carlo Night” never appealed to me, even if I had been brave enough to go. Promising myself I would make more of an effort to not be such an introvert when I started college, I was turning to the next page of the food section when I heard Mom gasp.

“Oh my god!” The paper began to shake in her hands and she stared in horror at the inside of the front page.

“Mom, what is it? What’s wrong?” The inexplicable sadness and shock rolling off her chilled me.

Turning her head slowly to me, her hands still clutching the paper, she pressed her lips together, like the words wouldn’t break out of her if she could just keep her lips sealed tight.

“It’s your dad.”

“What about Dad?” Even then, the anger from the previous night flared up, setting my teeth on edge. But Mom’s eyes were welling up, and she was shaking her head.

“Oh baby, someone hit his car last night on the highway…his car…it flipped over the median…into oncoming traffic. He…he’s dead Sweetling. He was killed on impact.”

Her words rolled around in my head, over and over, but wouldn’t sink in. I wished they would stay put, so I could examine them closely, searching for hints of a joke, or for a mistake. Dad was being his usual irresponsible, maddening self only ten hours before. There was no way the world could turn upside down, inside out, in the space of ten hours. It wasn’t possible.

Was it my fault?

The horrible thought stopped all others. I stared at the half-eaten omelet in front of me, but in my mind’s eye, I replayed the scene from the diner. Dad had tried to admit his mistake to me. I didn’t want to hear the excuses. I’d said such terrible things to him; I’d yelled at him. He was like a little kid sometimes; you don’t just yell at little kids. What did I do?

The next few hours were spent calling family members, making arrangements, and then the house fell quiet. I spent the majority of the time in my room, sitting on the window seat looking out over the front porch and the flower bed in the front lawn. I kept my knees tucked up, arms encircling them, making my body small and compact, expending as little energy as possible. Thinking as little as possible.

Sunday, I was up before dawn, having a showdown with the coffee pot. I’d filled the water reservoir, the new filter and coffee grounds were in, the orange light was on, all indications that coffee should have been dripping into the pot. I flipped the switch off, then on, took out the pot and tried to peer up into the part where the coffee should have been dripping from, shoved the pot back onto the hot plate, and just stood there, with my hand still clenching the coffee pot handle. It wasn’t until my mom’s hand appeared in my view, gently unhooking my fingers from around the handle that I realized tears were rolling down my cheeks, to splash onto the tiled counter.

“Shh, baby. Come here.” Mom pulled me into her arms, pushing my face to her shoulder, and stroked my back like she used to do when I had a hard time sleeping in whatever new place we were living.

The sobs surprised me in their violent fight to rip themselves from my chest. I didn’t want this sorrow, this feeling of loss. I didn’t want to care. I had spent more time mad at my dad than I had being happy with him, and it didn’t seem fair that I was here, feeling this pain, for a man that had taken me on that emotional rollercoaster. But it was there, in full force now that I had allowed myself to become aware of it, and I wanted the numbness back more than anything else.

“Go take a shower, Hailey. We’ll grab some Starbuck’s on our way out of town. We have to go to your dad’s place, get his affairs in order. His brother won’t be able to fly in for about a week.” She turned me around and gently pushed me in the direction of the bathroom.

Dad’s place was an hour away, in the city. We’d gotten his new apartment address from his brother, and the keys were with Dad’s remains. Mom wanted to check his bills, notify his landlord that his lease would be ending, and get Bilbo, Dad’s wrinkled, knobby shelled turtle he’d had since he was a teenager.

Pulling up in front of the building, I couldn’t help being in awe of the upscale feeling of the place. The entrance was complete with a rich green canopy, and a doorman in uniform. The marble floors of the foyer sparkled, as did the chandeliers and copper doors of the elevators. Dad had never lived in a place like this as long as I could remember. Guess this is where part of the thirty grand went after all. His apartment was halfway up, on the fifth floor. As Mom unlocked his front door, I glanced up and down the hallway, wondering if any of the tenants knew one of the people they’d shared a building with had died, if any of them cared.

Entering the apartment behind Mom, I stopped in my tracks, unsure of the sight before me. Never had Dad lived in such a place! The furnishings were sturdy, well made, and stylish. The living room to the left sat in a sunken area, and two steps led into the room. I slowly walked to the mantle over the fireplace, and gazed at each picture placed there. There was Dad holding me when I was born. I was bundled in a hospital blanket, and he was grinning into the camera and holding me up like a prize-winning watermelon. There was a picture of Mom and Dad hugging me as I blew out the candles of a birthday cake; I had just turned four. There were pictures of Dad and me fishing on the pier when I was seven, right before he’d taken off. Then a school picture from junior high, my braces making my smile big and metallic. He’d put a picture of us at Christmas in a garishly decorated red and green photo frame, with bells hanging off the top corners. And at the end of the mantle was the picture of me holding the My Little Pony, a sarcastic look on my face, in a photo frame with the words, “My Girl,” etched into the wood all around the frame.

My life was displayed on Dad’s mantle for all to see. I walked out of the living room, and there were more pictures in the hallway. Framed art projects from my elementary school days, and various Honors Student awards broke up the many school pictures and random snapshots displayed there, all of me, about me, for me. At the end of the hall were two bedrooms. The master bedroom was once again furnished with a modern, stylish flair, unlike anything I’d seen in previous apartments Dad had inhabited. Dad’s acoustic guitar sat on a stand in the corner, next to a stool and music stand. I didn’t want to cry again, so I backed out quickly and went to the second door.

At first glance, I thought the second bedroom was a guest bedroom, except a pair of black button eyes in a woven brown face caught my attention. I walked towards the bed, and my eyes were glued to a brown crocheted bear, with a red bow tie and black button eyes, lounging on the crisp white pillows. The bear was worn, well loved. My bear. I’d bravely handed him to Mom when I was six, stating a girl who was about to enter first grade should not be carrying around a bear, that I was grown up now and didn’t need him any longer. I’d cried myself to sleep for a week without him, but had gradually forgotten about my stuffed friend.

Dad must have taken him with him when he’d left. That was the only explanation I could think of as I picked up my old bear and stroked with the lightest of touches the velvet bow tie. Glancing around, I froze when I found a picture of Mom, Dad and me in a gorgeous crystal frame on the bedside table next to a short stack of books. Pride and Prejudice, Emma, and Little Women were all time favorites of mine, and to find them here, in this room I’d never set eyes on before, was unreal. Clutching Bear to my chest, I walked around the room. There was a desk with a laptop resting there, and a stack of college brochures neatly placed beside it, along with all the supplies a college student would need secreted away in the desk drawers. I found a bookcase with more of my favorite books living there, along with travel books and a digital camera still in its packaging. An antique looking full-length mirror on a stand stood in the corner, and walking towards it, I saw my reflection, with Bear tucked into my arms.

I, Hailey, his little girl, was all Dad ever wanted. He was far from perfect, but in the end, he’d tried his best to be involved in my life, taking note of my likes and dislikes, watching from afar when his own life was too messed up to allow him to join in. I’d never really given him credit for that. I just dwelled on the inconsistency of his visits, the lack of responsibility he showed.

“Hailey, come here please.” Mom was in the kitchen, sitting at the dining table and Dad’s file box with the lid open sat next to her.

I sat down, and she handed me a lease form.

“Look, there. The lease is paid in full for two years. He has both his and your names on it. All the bills are paid up for that time as well.” Her eyebrows scrunched together, and she looked like she did when she was reading her legal books, trying to figure out a particularly difficult document.

“I don’t get it. I thought he’d spent the money. I figured he’d paid off some failed business venture, or bought a guitar played by a Lynard Skynard band member or something.” I wasn’t registering what the paper in my hand meant.

“Well, looks like your dad can surprise you after all. You know what this means, right? This place is yours. At least for the next two years, it is. You said your first choice for college would be here in the city. Your dad must’ve paid attention.” Mom reached over to squeeze my hand, then plucked the paper out of my grasp and filed it away.

I got up and walked to the window. Five stories down, I stared at the park across the street. There was an ice cream vendor on the sidewalk, and a man with a little girl, about five, walked up, each getting a cone. Turning with cones in hand, the man reached out and took the little girl’s hand and they walked slowly along the path into the park. They were too far away for me to see clearly, but when the little girl’s ice cream fell off her cone, I imagined her lip had begun to tremble. The man kneeled down in front of her and wiped the salty tears from her cheeks, and handed her his cone. The girl’s smile lit up her face, and she threw her arms around his neck and squeezed with all her might. The man stood up with the little girl in his arms, and they continued their leisurely amble up the path, into the trees.

Just before the shade of the trees hid them from my sight, the little girl turned in her father’s arms, and there, dangling from her tiny hand, was a brown bear with a red bow tie. Her dad caught the bear before she could drop him, and both giggling, they disappeared into the trees, out of sight.