“There’s nothing to help. I’m fine,” I said, tossing out my arms. “I’ve had a charmed life. I’ve got nothing to complain about.”
“That’s bullshit. You can’t even look at me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. As far as I’m concerned, I’m glad my father is dead!”
Her face went blank. As soon as I said the words, a crushing wave of guilt crashed over me. I had felt that way for so long but to say it out loud made me feel like the lowest level of scum. I shook my head, furious at her. At myself. She pushed me too far. She couldn’t relent.
“Fuck!” I yelled. “Why couldn’t you just listen to me when I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
The pain in my chest was so acute I had to stop talking and focus on my breathing. I stopped and bent forward and dropped my hands to my knees, half bent over.
She stepped closer until I could see her shoes in front of me. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I know how you meant it.”
It was too late though. I’d said it. I put it out there like an absolute piece of shit.
* * *
Roxy
Sanders was half crumpledin front of me. I had pushed him too far and I regretted hurting him.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
When I put my hand on his shoulder, he turned his head and shrugged me off. I withdrew my arm and balled my fist. I stepped back.
He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. I dropped to my knees to see his face. “What?” I asked.
His eyes were shining and red-rimmed. “I’m fucking awful,” he said.
“No. You are not,” I said emphatically.
“I am.” He dropped to his knees too and we faced each other, kneeling on the squishy plastic flooring of the playground. “I just said I was glad my father is dead.”
“Explain what you mean,” I said.
He bit his lip and looked up at the heavy clouds. “It was awful at the end. He was gone. All that was left was just this sad shape of a man that used to be my father.” He glared at his clenched fists. “There were many years where he was still mostly lucid. There’d only be flashes where he’d get confused and angry. Paranoid. He’d go missing and a neighbor would find him wandering down the street.”
He took a break to swallow. My own throat tightened in sadness.
“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you,” I said softly but his gaze was distant in memory.
“But at least there were times when he was still there. But at the end. That wasn’t him at all. I just wanted him to be at peace. I wanted him to go be with Mom and stop suffering.” His lip trembled and he took another breath. “He’s gone. The man who raised me will never … and I hate that I feel relieved.”
I held his hands in mine and he let me. “You’re not awful. I think most people would feel that way.”
He stood up and paced. “I don’t want to. Shouldn’t I be grateful for the time that we had? Even at the end. Even when it was hard. I should have been there every moment holding his hand.”
“You can love your father and be angry. You can feel sad and be thankful. You’re a living, breathing person. Nobody expects you to be happy all the time.”
“They don’t?” he snapped. “Because isn’t that who I’m supposed to be? Isn’t that what people want from me? The ‘good time’ guy. The guy that makes choices and moves forward.”
“I hardly think if you asked Skip what he liked most about you, it would have anything to do with you being happy all the time. People love you for you, not what you do for them. Isn’t that what you told me?”
That stilled him.
“I’m just tired of feeling like this.” He rubbed his chest one time with a fist. “This constant pain. I don’t fucking want this. He would have been okay. He would’ve taken it in stride and handled it like a man.”
“Your dad?” I asked.
