"Perfect," Dad says. "You’ll be hearing from me bright and early in the morning, then."
I take a step back as Mom gathers the guests to let them know it’s time to call it a night. Everyone takes their moment to wish Dad well, telling him to get better, which makes little sense, but I suppose there isn’t much else to say. Some hugs last longer than others, and some guests leave with a tissue in their hand, hiding the tears they held in all night.
Brett places his hand on my shoulder. "As usual, if you need anything—"
I nod and press my trembling lips together. "I know.” He squeezes my shoulder and follows his parents out the door.
It’s just the four of us now. Each night this week, we’ve said goodbye as if it’s the last goodbye. We say I love you as if it’s the last time he’ll hear it from us; as if it’s the last time we’ll say it to the head of our family.
"Let’s not do goodbyes tonight," Dad says. "It feels too final."
Journey is biting her lip; her cheeks are red and look raw. Mom appears to be staring through Dad.
"I love you, Dad," I say, kissing him on the cheek. "I’ll see you later."
"Yes, you will, my sweetheart. I love you too," he says, kissing my forehead. "You are stronger than you will ever think." His eyes narrow in on me, clarifying that I hear his words. "I am proud of you."
He told us not to say goodbye, but—those words sound like a goodbye to me.
I leave first because I can’t bear to watch Mom and Journey find other words to replace a goodbye.
It only took a few minutes until the three of us ended up in the hallway. There are no words to exchange, no tears left to cry, no advice to offer as help. It’s like we’re soulless bodies walking in a trance through the halls responsible for comforting death.
"He said he’ll see us tomorrow after I told him I would stay. He wants us to go home and sleep," Mom says.
Neither Journey nor I respond. We gather into one car, sitting with only the light hum of the engine and the tiny pops of rocks crunching beneath the tires.
I expected Journey to get into her car when we got home, but instead, she came inside.
The three of us climbed into one bed, willing ourselves to sleep with the fear of a phone’s ringtone delivering the news without the need of a spoken word.
I tell myself everything will be all right. He can have good days without it leading to what we all fear. Maybe tomorrow will be another good day. Maybe he’ll have thirty more or even ninety.
Maybe life will spare him of an early expiration date.
Maybe this is all a nightmare.
Maybe the phone is ringing on the quiet TV show rather than the nightstand we’re all staring at with wide eyes.
We all have a time, some before others, some long after everyone else is gone. Is it better to be the first and lead the way, or the last after watching the world fade? It’s a question without a known answer.
But, there is a life to celebrate, a man worth remembering, and a legacy to carry on.
He asked us not to say goodbye.
We didn’t.
Therefore, until it’s our time, he will be the wind in the sky, the sun peeking over the clouds, the rain after a dry spell, and the bourbon in our glasses. Dad will be our happiness and our reason to enjoy the simple things—most importantly, the reason we continue to smile.
I clutchmy written note to my chest and steady myself before walking down the few steps to the rows of chairs, filled with people cloaked in black dress-attire, all staring at me with tear-stained faces.
17
It has beenthree weeks and one day since Dad left this world in his ideal fashion. A peaceful night after celebrating his life with the people he cares about the most.
The heaviness in my chest feels a little lighter each day while carrying around the memories we are left with. Though the pain will become a part of me, we are learning to adjust.
For the three of us, moments of tears come at different times and sometimes all at once, but Mom, Journey, and me, we have stuck by each other’s side these last three weeks, picking up the broken pieces as we learn to live this new life. There is a seat for Dad at the dinner table, welcoming his presence as we share our memories. The one hour at dinner each night has been the most therapeutic time for us all.
