Days blur as we wait.
The chocolate drawer in the fridge empties, and so does the alcohol section. We exist in a warp where time drags and speeds at equal measure until I’m disorientated about whether it’s good that Steve has been in the hospital for so long, or bad.
Amber calls and speaks to her sons. They pass on the updates, but it’s never anything more than “He’s resting, and the doctors are monitoring.” I don’t know if that’s because Amber is deliberately keeping information away from us or if the boys are just awful at asking questions.
One morning, when I reach the kitchen for breakfast, I find an envelope addressed to me on the counter. I know it’s Steve’s writing because his scrawl is still on the message board in an old note to Amber to tell her to remember to pick up his razors at the store.
The envelope is sealed, and that seems to make opening it even harder. He wanted to make sure that this message is just for my eyes. Opening it feels as filled with trepidation as opening my college letters, but this time it’s not just my future at stake, but all of ours. I turn it around in my hands, wondering what he needs to tell me in a letter that he can’t tell me in person. Even more, I worry about why he’s writing it. Is his body failing, and Amber isn’t telling us? Should I be rushing down to the hospital to see him…to say goodbye?
I crumple onto a stool, the envelope falling to the counter. Resting my face in my hands, I take deep, steadying breaths until I’m almost light-headed, and all the while, I psych myself up to opening it.
It’s going to be okay, I tell myself. It’s probably something to say that he’s thinking about me and wishes he could be home to continue our visit without interruption. Something nice and not over-emotional. He’s a man, after all.
I tear it open and pull out a letter. The writing is shaky, and I can tell it must have been hard for him to find the strength to write to me.
Dear Sara,
I’ve imagined writing you this letter at many different times. As an old man who’s had years with you so that all my written thoughts just serve as a reminder of things I’ve imparted in person. Years ago, I imagined writing it to you as a way of telling you that I’m your dad so you could get to know a little of what I’m about.
Instead, I’m writing it to you from a hospital bed. We haven’t had nearly enough time for you to know me at all, and yet it’s what I want most in the world. You’re a great blessing to me, now and when all I knew was that you were somewhere out there in the world, a part of me with the same crazy dark curls and crystal blue eyes. Maybe my same spirit too? I hope so.
I just want to let you know that I’m planning on coming home. This isn’t a letter to say goodbye. Hell no. This is a letter to say some of the things that I might not be well enough to get across to you before vacation ends, and you have to go back to your life.
I’ve walked a long and winding path in my life. I’ve made mistakes, but I’ve always tried to right them. I’ve experienced hardships that I hope you never experience and learned lessons I hope you never have to learn. But all of that has given me a perspective on life that I’m hoping will help you live yours just a little bit better.
So here they are—my nuggets of wisdom. I hope you’ll take them on board, but I understand if you don’t. Parents always seem like people who don’t really understand. You think we’re too old to share your perspective, and yet we’ve lived through the years you’re living and shared many of the same experiences.
Always believe in yourself. You will meet a range of people in your life. Some will want to build you up before they bring you down. Some will use you as a platform for their own achievements. But as long as you remember that you were born for a purpose and that you were meant to be in this world, you will find peace. Don’t try too hard with people. Be selective about who you call a friend. Take time to work out who you can trust.
Love hard, with all your soul, but when you give your heart away, make sure it’s to someone who knows what a precious gift you are giving them.
Save a little something every month for a rainy day. Ideally, always save 10% of your income, even if it’s hard. The clouds come, and you need to have enough of an umbrella to keep you safe.
Don’t focus on things too much. People are what counts. Time spent with the people you love is what you will remember when you’re too frail to live life to the fullest. Make memories and treasure them.
Always find time for the things that make you smile. Nurture yourself, your mind, and your spirit. Find fulfillment in doing the things that fill your heart and inspire growth.
Honor old traditions and make new ones. Our traditions are what roots us in the world. Make them count.
Forgive. Even when it’s hard. Holding bitterness and regret in your heart damages you the most. It’s okay to want to protect yourself, but find a way to let go of hurt and pain so that it doesn’t eat you up inside. Forgiveness isn’t a gift to the wrong-doer; it’s a gift to yourself.
Have children. They are life’s greatest blessings. When we pass, we take nothing with us, but what we leave behind are the people we loved and who love us. That is the mark we make on the world.
I want you to know that you are wonderful to me. A treasure I’d journey across the world to find and appreciate. You’ll always be my baby girl, no matter how many years pass.
I love you,
Dad.
As I finish reading, my hands fall to the counter, the letter released as my fists form angry balls. Why did he have to write those things? Why did he have to be exactly the dad that I always hoped to have, but leave it too late to be a real part of my life? He’s written me the letter of a dying man trying desperately to make up lost years, and I’m so damned furious I can hardly breathe.
This isn’t fair. What have I done to deserve this life? A whole childhood was spent with a woman who didn’t care enough about me and a few weeks with a man who would have loved me exactly how a parent should love a child. A future dangled and then snatched away.
It’s too cruel. Too fucking unfair. I stand quickly, and the stool spins out behind me, teetering on its thin metal legs and crashing onto the tiled floor. I swipe the letter and envelope from the counter needing to get it as far away from me as I possibly can. There’s a plastic bottle of water, and I throw that too, so mad that I can hardly breathe.
My head spins as all of the emotions I’ve stuffed down inside release like a tsunami of hurt, frustration, and rage. I can feel the hateful things I could say festering in my mouth if only there was a person here to take this out on.
‘What’s going on?’ Anderson says, coming into the room.
My chest is rising and falling fast, and my face feels pinched and flushed. He looks at the stool on the floor and then back at me. ‘Are you okay?’
‘No, I’m not fucking okay,’ I shout. ‘I’m not okay with any of this. We’re all sitting around, pretending that everything is going to be alright. Watching movies and laughing. Eating and drinking and deluding ourselves that Steve is going to come home when he’s not. He’s in that hospital fighting for his life, and he’s going to lose. Money can’t buy life. It can’t buy health. Nothing can.’
‘Sara,’ Anderson says softly, taking a step forward, but I back away, not wanting him to touch me. At that moment, I feel as though Jefferson’s emotions wash over me, the pain and the desperation, and the fight against what feels inevitable, yet you can’t accept.
My knees feel weak and I grab onto the counter before I start to crumple to the floor. I’m not in control of anything now. Not my body or my soul. I can hear wracking sobs and fractured breathing, but it doesn’t register that it’s me crying. I’m disassociated from myself and everything the physical me is going through. I’m on another plane, a separate place where nothing can touch me.
Except Anderson does. He drops to the floor in front of me, hauling me into his arms and pressing my face into his chest. He rocks me like I’m a distressed child, stroking my hair and ssshing my tears, telling me that it’s going to be okay. But it’s not. It’s not.
More footsteps sound on the tiled floor, and I feel other hands on my back. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ Carson says. ‘Pick her up off the floor,’ Brayson tells his brothers.
Suddenly I’m being lifted and carried, pressed against Carson’s chest. We ascend the stairs, and I sob and sob, all the pent-up sadness overflowing the boundaries I’ve held in place for so long. I don’t want them to see me like this, but they’re all here, surrounding me as I’m gently laid onto my bed. I open my swollen eyes just long enough to find Anderson, Carson, and Brayson close. Jefferson is standing by the bed, his hand behind his neck and face a mask of concern.
‘I…I just…just leave me, okay.’ I burrow my face into the pillows and hold my hands over my ears. I just need a cocoon to tighten around me so that I can pull myself back together. And it happens, but it’s my stepbrothers who take me into their arms, who brush my hair from my face, and stroke my back. It’s my stepbrothers who hold me close and reassure me in a way that no one ever has before. They become my barrier to all the hurt and pain that the outside world is throwing at me, the crutch for me to lean on, and I don’t have the strength to resist. Their patience and care touch my heart so deeply that for a while, I cry just from that feeling alone.
Love is like soft pink cotton candy and warm melted chocolate. It’s like the fluffiest downy duck feather and the biggest squishiest cushion. It’s hope and trust and care and adoration all wrapped in a tidy pink bow, and I need it. I need it so badly, and when Jefferson finally takes the step to sit on the bed with us all and rest his hand on my calf, I know I have it from them all.
Fuck buddies? Who was I kidding? From the first day in this house, I knew they could be so much more to me. I lied to myself, and I lied to them. I got us all into this situation where the physical passion came before the feelings that should proceed. I wanted their arms around me, and their hearts connected with mine as much as I wished for all the passion and lust, but I couldn’t admit it to myself, let alone admit it to them.
I don’t know how long we stay this way, but the boys eventually lie next to me and start telling stories from the past. They take turns to share things about my dad that can’t help but make me smile. How he took them aside to tell them about the birds and bees, and what he did when he found out that they were already fooling around with girls. They share how he took each of them to buy condoms so that they wouldn’t get anyone in trouble. Jefferson recounts a story where he was in a fight at school, and Steve went to explain to the teachers that he knew Jefferson would never start trouble and that there must be a really good reason for what happened, even before he even had a chance to find out the truth. I can tell that the trust he showed has remained with Jefferson ever since. Carson talks about how the patience and perseverance that Steve encouraged helped get him through his injury. Anderson remembers how Steve nurtured him to take up a coaching role, and Brayson tells how it was Steve who pushed him to follow his creative dreams. They tell me what a good man my father is, and I lap it all up, so proud of him and happy that each memory fits into the next, creating a fuller picture of the man I haven’t had a chance to know myself.
And when I’m calm and relaxed, they make me blueberry pancakes and Oreo milkshake and keep me company until it’s time to sleep.
For the first time in my life, I drift off, feeling totally safe. It’s a dangerous feeling because I’ve promised that this will be over as soon as Steve is better, and I don’t break my promises.
