Dusk

Is it always this hot in September? I feel like I can hardly breathe. It’s that dry, choking heat that makes a person wonder if this is one of God’s survival of the fittest tests. If so, I’d like my tombstone to read – She tried. I am trying to survive in this desert my family now calls home. I am trying to be a better person by shoving down the repulsion I have for this stunning adobe mansion with it’s gorgeous deep blue kidney-shaped pool, the fancy fans that are blowing mist over my face as I lounge on the patio, and the laughing children that are chasing each other carelessly between said pool and my feet. I am trying to care about the pointless stories my brother keeps going on about while he grills hamburgers on his lavish new grill. I am trying to put a smile on my face even though it feels like I have no right. I am trying. I take a sip of my watered-down diet coke and stare at the moon. I’ve always loved when I can see the moon at dusk.

“One or two?” I hear out of the corner of my ear. Dad loved this time of day. “Mandy, one or two?” I hate it when he calls me that and he knows it. “Mandy, hello?”

“Can you please not, Josh?” I respond. He is so infuriating. He suffers from a complete lack of tact and grace. During Dad’s wake he laughed with family and friends like it was a birthday party.

“Do you want a burger or not?” he asks.

I can feel my head starting to throb. “I don’t eat meat. I haven’t for 15 years, so no. No, thank you.”

Our mother decides to chime in and I know the words she is going to say before they even come out of her mouth. “Please don’t fight,” she says. Which is then followed by “It’s such a lovely evening.” I wonder if she is remembering Dad’s fondness for dusk.

Am I the only one who finds this forced backyard barbecue to be an anxiety-filled, pressure cooker of a familial interaction? We are all on edge. We’re all gasping for air and it’s not because of the heat, either. We didn’t talk about our feelings or our deepest thoughts before Dad’s death; why would it be any different now? In my heart, though, I wish it were different because they knew him. We all knew him in our own unique, messed-up ways. I think it’s the messed-up part that keeps us silent. If we talk about him then we have to talk about it all and that includes things we are all still working through.

Well, I am at least. I think my brother just assumes the relationship he had with his dad was totally normal. I’m not entirely sure he thinks he has anything to process. And my mom, she made her bed with him. So she laid in it, and still hasn’t gotten up. She is hurting, though. I know this because she has had me do everything regarding his death. I had to make the phone calls to family, plan the funeral, and figure out if he had a will… the list goes on. She didn’t ask me to but she didn’t do anything to help, either. We all grieve differently so I don’t hold it against her, or maybe I do. I’m not sure yet. It’s not fair to put a child in the position she put me in but that’s how it’s always been between us. When life becomes impossible for her I fix the situation, pick up the pieces, clean up the mess. I do what needs to be done and I’ve done it since I was a kid.

I have to get out of here. “It is a lovely night, mom.” I get off of the plush couch I’ve found myself completely folded into. “I’m really not feeling well,” I say as I lean down to give her a kiss on the cheek.

Lori, my brother’s wife, is sitting at the dining table situated to the right of the pool with her laptop. She is wildly successful, completely in tune with everything and everyone and always looks pristine. I don’t know how she does it. I hear her chastise my brother, “Joshua, you didn’t tell me she was vegetarian!” I’m not. I’m vegan but it doesn’t really matter. Lori stands abruptly and rushes over to me. “I’m so sorry Amanda. We will have a whole spread for you the next time you come to visit. The last thing you need to be worrying about right now is when you’ll get your next meal,” she cries. She has a flair for the dramatic but I like it.

I hug my nieces and nephew and give an awkward, elbow bent wave to Josh and my mom and I make a beeline for my car. My head is raging with the kind of headache where I can’t quite tell whether it’s from dehydration or stress. Either way, by the time I get back to the motel I know it’s time for a date night with the pillbox and bed. I pick out a couple of aspirin, take a Xanax and drink a tall glass of water that I refill and leave on my nightstand. Once my head hits the pillow, I let my mind drift off to sleep.

My eyelids are already open again. It’s still dark. I extend my arm out to reach my phone and successfully knock over the glass of water I strategically placed. I can already tell it’s going to be a great day. Normally I would lie in bed a bit longer than I should and scroll through the latest stories on Instagram but I can’t today. Today, I have an early morning meeting with a potential donor for Hunger No More, the nonprofit that I work at. We are aiming to open five new sites to feed children in the greater Pittsburgh region.

“Making a difference doesn’t make money.” I can hear my dad’s booming voice. “Want to do something important with your life? Get married and make your husband happy,” I remember him saying as he laughed to himself. One thing my dad helped me realize in life – I may not know who I am but I know who I’m not.

I welcome the alarm that announces itself as my final chance to get out of bed or I’ll be late. My boss wants me to be a part of this video conference because I have “good energy”. I think it was a not-so-subtle suggestion as much as it was a compliment. So in an effort to awaken my inner “good energy,” I brew a full pot of coffee and hop in an ice cold shower. I make myself presentable and do a great job of smiling and engaging throughout the call. By the end of the meeting I’m worn out and contemplate how to fall back asleep with three cups of coffee buzzing in my veins, which I already know is not going to happen. As I grab my phone, it starts to ring out “The Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding, my mom’s favorite song. Why is she calling so early in the morning? It’s barely seven o’clock.

She starts talking before I even have the chance to say hello. “Good morning, love. I am making coffee now. It’ll be ready by the time you get here.” The realization hits fast. Damnit. Today is the day I promised I would finally help her go through Dad’s things. I am calculating as quickly as I can how many times I have already put this off. I think she asked me the day after the funeral which puts me at one, two… I think I’m up to eight times now of successful avoidance. I really do feel bad but that’s exactly the problem. She knows I’ll do anything to help her because I’ll feel guilty about not helping. So here I am, the words leaving my mouth before I can contemplate escape again, “Right. I’m on my way.”

As I walk down the stairs and into the basement I can feel every muscle in my body tense up. It’s a visceral fear. I was trained since I can remember not to bother Dad in the basement. It’s his sacred space. Well it was, at least. I’ve been screamed at, thrown things at, and punished enough to know that I shouldn’t come down here. Why would any father yell at his little girl for wanting to spend time with her dad? I find that I’m shaking my head and walking slowly down each stair, careful not to step on the spots of the boards that I know will creak. At the bottom, I flip on the light switch and take in my surroundings. It’s different than what I remember. In front of me is a wall covered in memorabilia and knick-knacks, with a table that he built the length of the room. The table is strewn with papers, small boxes, and I spot his laptop in the middle with his chair swiveled in front. I turn and walk over to the couch, which is worn on the far-left cushion, his chosen spot to watch TV probably because the mini fridge is within reach. There are windows spanning floor to ceiling for most of the wall with a sliding glass door leading to the backyard but the blackout curtains are drawn tight.

Without thinking I open the mini fridge, grab a Yuengling and sit on the couch. I sink into his seat, the springs malleable from overuse. I forgot how much I hate this beer. I hate that malty flavor and I hate everything it represents. I keep drinking it, though, because more than my animosity towards this beverage is my survival instincts to bury deep everything that I feel rising up in me. I don’t feel like crying today. I have a job to do.

I know he would roll over in his grave if he saw me right now. I take my shoes off and go to rest them on the coffee table when I actually look at the coffee table. There are empty beer bottles scattered around a package in the center of the table but the package remains unopened. I shift my weight over to the middle of the couch and lean in to read the writing scribbled on what looks like a box or maybe a book wrapped in brown paper. It’s from someone named Laura Cleary in Shenandoah, Pennsylvania. I am almost positive that is where Dad grew up. Who is Laura? Why is she mailing my dad something? It’s not like I knew much about Dad’s childhood so I don’t know why I am so taken aback. I guess I assume nothing was said because there wasn’t anything to talk about.

My mind starts to race and I realize I don’t belong here. Who am I to be going through his personal things? I wasn’t even allowed down here and now I’m drinking his beer and sitting on his couch. The package stares at me and I’m wondering why he sat here drinking and staring at it without the courage to open it.

I can’t do this. I stand quickly, so quickly my eyes get black fuzzy dots and I am swinging through the front door faster than my mind can keep up. “Amanda!” I hear my mom yell behind me, “I need your help!” I get into my car, crank up the air conditioning and turn on Coldplay. She chose this life, so she can go through his. The mysteries in that basement aren’t mine to know nor do I want to know them.