A Father-Daughter Moment

The creak of the trunk's lid was louder than it’d been years ago. The gentle smell of peppermint was the same. It brought memories of pillow fights, paint wars, and karaoke. I could almost see the crinkle in the corners of her eyes and hear her laugh as it wafted through the air. Almost. With a sigh, I reached into the trunk and pulled out a black journal with two lockets wrapped around it. The leather was soft, warm, as if the lockets were alive and giving it heat. As quietly as possible, I unwrapped the cords of the lockets. Once free, I held them tightly in my hand before setting the journal aside.

“What’s that?” Quentin asked softly, his hands falling to my shoulders. Apparently, I wasn’t quiet enough.

“Nothing exciting.” The words were rough as they left my lips so I turned and offered a smile to soften them. “It’s from a long time ago.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

I wanted to say no, but as I looked up and saw an emotion I’d only seen in the lockets clasped in my hands I realized I did.

“When I was 8 months old, my mother walked into the garage and found my father. He had paint across his jeans and a paint brush laid beneath his outstretched hand. It was the first time she’d seen him paint in months, and Quentin, he was a wonderful painter. He painted the one upstairs of the baby beneath the window in a pastel room. The one that gives the same feeling of a baby laughing. He had dozens of paintings like that according to my aunt, but he also had ones where sadness emanated from the colors like a scent. There is one somewhere, where his face is a myriad of emotions. You can see the happiness in his smile but the strain in his cheeks, the anger in his eyes, and the melancholy slope of his shoulders almost seem to override it.

He was going through a tough time while my mother was pregnant with me and honestly probably even before then. He was getting over it though and things were getting better. And then he stopped painting, and he stopped taking his meds. And then at 8 months my mom walked into the garage and saw him dead in front of a painting of us. My mother was beautiful, the epitome of laughter and joy and I stood beside her, a more mature version of the 8 month old child he’d been watching grow. He got it spot on, how I’d look. Almost a complete copy of my mother except you could see in the curve of my eyebrows, the slope of my collar bone, and the position of my shoulders that I hold myself just like him, the happy him – at least in the painting.

My dad wasn’t anywhere in the painting though, not a trace of him could be found except for the bits in his daughter.”

I paused and opened the first locket. “He left us that day. And A year later my mom left me with my aunt and never looked back.”

“My mom gave Aunt Winnie this locket for me.” The picture on the left held a young man whose brown skin glowed and a honey colored woman who shimmered. They stared into each other’s eyes, smiles stretching their faces wide. You could feel the happiness between them, it rolled off in waves.

On the right the two held the same look in their eyes but it wasn’t towards each other. Cuddled in a hospital bed the two were staring at the infant tucked safely between them. Their hands cradled her body from above as they stared. The love in that photo was stronger than anything I’d ever felt from them – as if their love transcended the boundary of time, life and death. As if the prayer of love for their daughter was stronger than the chains of reality.

I set the first back in the box and opened the second. Immediately the space behind my eyes tightened and my chest felt pinched.

“He loved me,” the words spilled out in a whisper. “He loved her, and she loved him, and he loved me. But he didn’t know what he wanted, or how anything good could ever happen to either of them, or me with him there.” My words got louder as I stared at the locket I’d worn for years. “That’s what the journal says anyway. That he loved me, and would miss me. But I don’t know if I believe him.”

I could hear my voice crack and the sound of the leaves dancing in the wind outside. Quentin shuffled towards me and then stilled for a moment before he broke the quiet. “Why would he lie to you?” When I didn’t say anything Quentin placed his hand against my shoulder, a silent reminder that he was there. That even then he was trying to pick up enough pieces to put me back together when I was done falling apart. “Did he kill himself?”

“No,” I pull away and spin towards him. “Yes. No. He’d been sick. For a while, and he’d been fighting, for a while. Not just the demons in his head, or the ones of his past, but the illness that’d been creeping through his body while I grew in my mothers.” The words left slowly. As if speaking them was changing the path of my reality irreversibly. “He. . .breathed and lived more than anyone Winnie said. Then the medication started and he slept a lot. Then he got worse and he stopped doing things because the things he wanted to do were less enjoyable and . . . harder.”

My eyes closed and suddenly I could see my father standing above a crib. My crib. See him looking down but not really seeing me. See him dropping a bottle of pills to the ground. See him watch it roll under the crib. Him seeing me and gripping the crib for dear life before fading away.

“Kayla?”

Tears left frozen trails down my cheeks as they fell from my eyes. I opened my eyes and pulled the locket closer, leaving the trails. On the left was a picture of my mother and father with my aunt and her husband – my real parents. And on the left, a short quote.

‘I loved. Judge if this destroyed more than it birthed.’

“Kayla?”

I pushed myself up from the ground as I stared at the locket. I could feel Quentin standing with me, but my mind was suddenly racing through the house. I paused and read it again.

Suddenly I was moving. Feet pounding on the stairs as I raced towards Aunt Winnie’s room. My legs propelled me up the last few steps and my hands pushed me away from walls as I turned corners. I slammed through the door of her room and jumped onto her bed. I threw books to the ground until I find a brown journal, with the quote written in his handwriting on it. A frayed page fell from the journal as I opened it. My hands shook as I lifted it and read.

To my strongest Hayleigh,

It has probably been years since you saw me, or heard my voice. For that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to stay, or smart enough to choose you sooner.

This won’t make up for the lost moments; the late night phone calls or shared banana splits ( I eat mine with jello powder, do you?) or anything else fathers and daughters do. But, I’m leaving you the journals from my life. I started writing in high school when I met the first girl I ever dated and haven’t stopped since. I don’t have the chance to learn about you, but I’m hoping to give you the chance to learn about me. And I’m hoping to give you some make-shift father-daughter moments.

In this journal, you’ll find my bucket list – rather a copy of my bucket list. I’ve done everything on it and if you’re interested, I’d like to do them with you. Some of them are expensive, but trust me all of them are worth it. To help you, I’ve left what’s left of my trust, and all the interest it’s accumulated. You can access it when you turn 21, and use it however you want. I’m hoping you choose to use part of it on us.

If you don’t want it, you can leave it. When you turn 26, at 1:43pm on your birthday to be exact, it will be donated to the organization that is working with me to make me better. One day they’ll be able to help people like me, and if you don’t want the money, I’d like to do this one last thing in our names.

I am sorry Hayleigh. Sorry for leaving you, but I want you to know that I love you. I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to let sadness and fear and struggle destroy your life like I let it destroy mine. Don’t make my mistakes. Be happy; live, love, cry, laugh, grow. You are my daughter, Hayleigh, and I pray the passion to live is stronger in you than it was in me. I love you, Hayleigh Kayla Jean Kihner.

Your Father,

Elijah Kihner

Silence had never been louder than those initial moments after I finished the letter. The trees and grass seemed to have gone still as the world held its breath.

Be happy; live, love, cry, laugh, grow. That’s the exact opposite of how I’d been living my life these last few years since Aunt Winnie got sick. And since she died I’ve just been existing; an unfeeling remnant of an echo in everyone’s life. Just like him.

In a burst of energy, with the journal and letter clasped tightly between my hands, I flew down the stairs and out the door. The grass was spongy beneath my feet as I sprinted between the lavender and launched myself into my car.

I don’t remember how I got to the bank, dad. I know I got there safely (bless). I don’t remember if I had shoes on when I ran into the bank, or my conversation with the girl at the desk. I don’t remember anything but bliss.

It was similar to the bliss I felt floating in the ocean after cliff diving in Italy. The air was slightly warmer in the bank when I finally got your trust in my name four days before my 26th birthday than it was around my wet shoulders tonight. But the feeling of being lifted above the darkness was the same.

I understand why you did it. It wasn’t your fault anymore than it was my fault for almost losing this opportunity. I understand, and I love you too dad. I’m excited to share the other 23 items on your list, and Quentin found a way to do it with less than the 20,000 dollars we had left after donating some to the organization you worked with. Speaking of, he’ll be out of the shower soon and we have to plan a trip to walk the ruins of Pompeii and sail to Greece to hike the Samarian Gorge. See you there!

You’re Daughter,

Kayla Hayleigh Jean Kihner