"I just got off the phone with the doctor. Your father, he's...gone."
Those words sounded like a broken record in my mind for the next month as funeral arrangements were made, the will was read and followed, and all the stuff in his apartment was boxed up. In fact, that is exactly what I was doing when my mother first suggested a trip to the doctor.
"Honey," she explained, "You haven't eaten a solid meal in weeks! You shut yourself in here all day, and you only leave if it's absolutely necessary. I really think we should go see someone."
"You mean, like a shrink?" I asked quietly as I slid the packaging tape across the opening of the cardboard container holding the last of my dad's vast book collection.
"A grief counselor. Many people go to one when they lose someone close to them. It's totally normal!"
As always, my mother sounded like a peppy high school cheerleader. Had I been a stranger meeting her for the first time, I never would have believed that her ex-husband had died three weeks prior, let alone that she had once had a husband. Her bleached-blonde hair and salon tanned skin would be right at home with the popular girls at my high school. It had been 17 years since she had graduated from the same school, yet I could tell she would give her $40 fluorescent fake nails and all of the Botox injections she had ever received to be back walking the halls of Steelecreek High.
At 35, my mother was about as mature as Katy Perry, and probably a little more naive than Miley Cyrus. I suppose that was partially due to the fact that she hadn't had much time to learn about the real world after leaving the public school system. She had married her high school sweetheart (and the captain of the football team), Jordan McDaniels, about four months after graduation. Nine months later, they got me; and two years after that, my mother filed for divorce.
Whenever I asked her why she had ended her relationship with my father, she always told me it was because her expectations of marriage had been too high, and she found that she preferred the single life. Mom went on a lot of dates throughout my childhood and teenage years, and she always left me with my dad, who lived in the exact apartment where I had resided for my first two years of existence. Even though I resented my mother for ditching me to go out with her boyfriends, these times spent with my dad became times to look forward to. We played endless rounds of games like 'Sorry!' and 'UNO', went out for ice cream at the local Dairy Queen, tossed a football around at a nearby park, and watched practically any (and every) type of movie. These little 'dates' with my dad were the most special because I got to learn a lot about who Jordan McDaniels really was.
I learned that he loved to cook, and that he had always dreamed of going to culinary school and becoming a chef. He hadn't, however, because my grandparents didn't believe that cooking food was a respectable profession. Instead, he was stuck working at an insurance company and trying all his new food creations out on me. I also learned that he had loved my mother since they had started high school, and that even though she despised him and wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, he still loved and cared for her.
And when I was twelve, I learned that my dad had cancer.
"Well, what do you think, kiddo? I think that talking to someone like this will help you move on a lot easier."
My mother's words brought me back to reality, "I'm fine," I mumbled, frustrated at her persistence.
"No, sweetie, you are not," she whispered, reaching out to move a stray curl from where it had fallen over my eyes. I turned my head, willing her to get the message that I didn't need anything from her, and that I definitely didn't want anything. Her gaze was now pleading as she looked at me, "I made us an appointment with Dr. Baker tomorrow at three. I would really like you to come with me."
"Whatever," I replied, ending the conversation.
She turned and started to leave the room, "Okay Alex," she sighed, looking, for a moment, as if she were ten years older, "Call me when you're done here and I'll come pick you up."
Without waiting for a response from me, she swept from the room. I let out my breath that I had been subconsciously holding for who knows how long. I ran my hands through my dark brown locks as the first sob caught in my throat. Soon the tears came pouring down my cheeks, as they had on so many other afternoons such as this. I had given up trying to hold them back long ago, and now let them freely come. That is, until I spotted a tiny box in the corner of an otherwise empty shelf that I must have overlooked before.
I stood and wiped my eyes, now red and puffy from crying, on my shirtsleeve. Making my way through the stacks of boxes and other paraphernalia, I moved almost as if I was in a trance towards the bookshelf. I looked down at the small box and saw that my name was on it, written in my dad's messy scrawl. I had no clue how I could have possibly overlooked it before, but all that was forgotten as I lifted the lid. Inside the container was a chain holding on it a small key and a tag stating that the key belonged to a bank located just a few short blocks away. I put the key in my jacket pocket and quickly walked out of the apartment.
*****
The bank employee led me to a room filled with safety deposit boxes of all different sizes. He took the key from me and opened a medium-sized box, removing the contents. He handed to me two leather bound journals and a slip of paper which read:
These are for you should you want them.
I love you so much Alex!
Love,
Dad
Thanking the employee, I quickly exited the bank and made my way to a nearby deserted park, with its plastic playground faded and run-down. I sat down at the bottom of the large yellow twisty slide and opened the journal marked with a number one in black ink. The first page read:
July 12, 1992
Dear Alex,
I witnessed a miracle today. That miracle was you. I never thought I could love someone so much, yet when I first saw your beautiful face looking up at me I knew I was hooked. Your tiny fingers squeezed my pinky so tightly as I held you in my arms. You are already so strong, Alex! Soon I realized that I couldn't afford to forget this day-or any moment of your life. I walked down to the hospital gift shop and bought this journal in which I am now writing. Not only am I writing this for my own sake, but for you also, so that one day, somewhere down the road, you will read this and smile, knowing that I-your father-love you more than I have ever loved anyone. Never, ever forget that.
Love,
Dad
I shut the book and leaned back against the cool slide, closing my eyes. For the first time since my mom had shared with me the painful news of my father's death from cancer, I felt as if I could breathe again. A weight had been lifted from off my chest that I didn't even realize had been there. Even though it still hurt, and even though there was now a hole in my heart that I knew could never be filled again, I could sense that things would get better. My dad was not completely gone from me-I still had his memories.
I slid my cell phone from the front pocket of my whitewashed jeans, and pressed number three on speed dial. I could tell she had been waiting for my call because she picked up after only the first ring:
"Hello?"
"Hey, Mom, I'm ready now. Do you think you could come pick me up?"
Things wouldn't be perfect between us, not by a long shot. I realized then, though, that you never truly know what you've lost until it's gone, and that you should fix any mistakes you've made, and let those you care about know how you feel, because you never know how long you have left.
"Oh, and Mom? I love you."
