October-January

Point of Sail: In Irons (into the wind)

10/19/2014

You wouldn't have wanted me at your wake. You once told Mom that no matter what my age, twenty minutes at a wake was more than sufficient. I didn't need to see loved ones in that state. Didn't need to pace the room, stuck in sadness. You would never have wanted me at yours.

It shouldn't have happened like this. It was unrealistic to believe you'd live until I was elderly, but the way this transpired was strange. Mom believes that if she could just get you to eat, to walk, to not be in that damn chair, she could turn things around. We weren't even aware of how sick you were. You didn't seem to be either, until the end. You told me in the hospital that you had a feeling you and I were getting gypped. I stood in that funeral parlor for six hours and avoided looking at the casket. The white shirt and dark suit were too damn stark for a man who favored warmly colored shirts and ties. At least one thousand people stopped by, and for that, you'd be happy. But not happy I was there. I couldn't leave Mom alone. Her eyes were unfocused, and her face molded into a mask of vague panic, and I just remained frozen in shock and anger that the person who made me feel most safe, who I had the most inside jokes with, who saved me from my worst times, that after all you had done for me, I couldn't save you. After all that time we spent together, it couldn't end like this. You were my constant.

The furthest part of the room was overflowing with flower arrangements. You always remarked what a waste of money funereal flowers were. Each organization tries to outdo the next, and the arrangements end up bigger, brighter, and so expensive. You believed they should be donated to a church or hospital instead of being taken home to die. It all felt like a terrible joke to confuse or make me despair. I read a book once that portrayed the devil's main goal as to create despair within us so that we weaken into an easy target. Mom had already been asked to move to a non-family section and I eventually made my way forward. I wasn't waiting in any line. I stood staring that damn box down to prove you weren't really inside, that the real you was standing behind me, stating my twenty minutes were up and it was time to go.

Being without you was never a valid concept. The only time we discussed it was at Dairy Queen. I told you that at my wedding, we should dance to "Heart and Soul" because Big was the first movie we ever watched together and the last scene of the two kids reminded me of you and I. You told me that even if you weren't at my wedding, you'd still be there with me somehow and would set aside money so Mom wouldn't have to worry. Even then, I was in denial that you might not walk me down a beach aisle in Florida or dance with me to that specific song. I scooped out the last of my ice cream and said, "Well, I wouldn't want a wedding you couldn't be at."

The last night you were alive, I whispered how much I wished I could save your life because you'd once saved mine. Your eyelid flickered a little, and your finger slipped onto my palm. I choose to believe you heard me. I need you to understand how I feel about all you've done for me. Especially when I was a kid. I never like thinking about those days. Meeting you was like a kid's version of a fairy tale. I had little in terms of good male role models. My father wasn't a consistent presence in my life. For all the creepy plastic snakes in his house, he also had a fun pinball machine. For all the times he'd sing with me in his truck, he'd also bring me to a bar and give me tokens for the video games of the time so that I'd entertain myself: Pac-Man, Centipede. We had no idea what to say to each other. Once when I was at his house, I colored four eggs and wrote I love you, Dad on them. Those words don't even make sense to say when you don't really know a person. His version of love was analogous to the attention you'd show a new dog, checking to ensure it didn't go to the bathroom in your house/car. I just wanted so much to believe that all I needed was a magic button and we would be like the dads and daughters I saw at my elementary school. So I was excited to give him the eggs. He was on the phone, so I placed the carton on the kitchen table. He looked at them and waved and said to the voice on the other end of the phone, "My kid made me something, she's having a great time. Yeah, she's off playing pinball now." But I wasn't, I was standing right next to him. He walked into the other room with the phone. I crept around the house for a while. There wasn't really TV, a backyard, or much of a front yard at the house on Lexington. I was unsure of what to say when I next saw him but needn't have worried. After emerging from his tiny office, he said not a word about the eggs then or at any other time. He did keep them in the refrigerator. I realized then that you can't elicit love in some people. Some people just don't feel those feelings. It's a shame. My mother would have had more opportunities and experiences had she not married him and had me. I was always made to feel special and loved but did realize how my very existence complicated matters. I felt I needed to do something big with my life, to really make something happen, because if I didn't, everything they went through would be for nothing. My father wasn't around, the next boyfriend exposed me to things I can't unsee or unhear or forget, but those bad times made me appreciate you more (remember when I finally told you all about this in the parking lot of Protocol and you said, "I'm truly sorry that happened. It shouldn't have, but all that is over"?). It was during those years that I prayed for someone who would understand. I couldn't imagine someone wanting to deal with a middle-schooler, and I was terrified of another shitty person coming into my life. I've always had this fear of the other shoe dropping. A panic comes over my body. One day Mom told me her new friend wanted the three of us to have dinner. I wasn't expecting anything much. You picked us up, and I froze because you took my hand and said you'd heard a lot about me and hoped I was hungry for dinner. I was entranced by your white hair and nice suits and how you held open doors and helped me put my coat on. You were older than I expected, and this put me at ease. I told you about my favorite books and movies, and I actually breathed. For the first time in a long time, I breathed and felt everything was OK. The panic went away. I didn't call you Joe, then. I called you 'Buddy,' because you were my friend. It didn't occur to me until years later that I'd gotten what I asked for. The word stepfather implies "second." But you weren't second — you were the only one. You and Mom hadn't gotten married in the thirty years you were together, so I encourage people to make up another word in the dictionary. I certainly am not going to say "my mother's boyfriend" over and over. You raised me. Therefore, you're my parent. God heard me when I thought he was least paying attention. Snot is running down my face as I write this, but I know you're here, and thank you so much for being my friend.

10/26/2014

Sympathy cards. Fruit baskets. Flowers. Even a grocery store gift card from Chrissy. You always felt an event like this separates friends from pretenders. Most people have been wonderful, but you were right — some people did show their true colors. Some who Mom even cooked and bought gifts for,...