One year ago
In the next few months after Rutgers, Dad and I visited Villanova, Saint Joe’s, and Drexel. I had to drive us home from all three.
Whatever. Dad drank martinis. At least he was interested in my future.
After meeting the four teams, talking to the coaches, and touring the campuses, I made Drexel my first choice. I could really picture myself there. It felt right. I could tell Dad was so proud when he’d tell people it was my top choice. That school had its shit together. The tour they ran was unbelievable, and they even gave us these cards with enough money loaded on them for Dad and me to get lunch at one of the restaurants around campus.
My guidance counselor and lacrosse coach were convinced I’d be getting a lacrosse scholarship of some kind, which was good, because including room and board, Drexel was over sixty grand a year. I didn’t want Dad to worry about money. I mean, I knew Oscar and I had college funds, but still. Money was money, and the loss of Mom’s salary took a chunk out of our lifestyle. Obviously though, the loss of Mom took a chunk out of our lives.
When I was home alone, I’d do something I was ashamed of, something I’d probably go to my grave with. I would stand in her closet, pull clothes out piece by piece, bring them to my face, and inhale. I just wanted to smell her.
She never wore perfume, and she wasn’t into fancy beauty products. She used the same soap and shampoo that we did. But Mom smelled like Mom. It wasn’t flowery or powdery or spicy. It was just her. It was home.
In the weeks after she died, the closet burst with her scent. It was overwhelming and comforting. It had been three years since then, and the last time I went in there, it took me twenty or so pulls of clothing to even catch a slight whiff.
No one knew that I’d taken one of her work blouses and put it in a plastic ziplock bag. I’d shoved it in the back of my jeans drawer and haven’t touched it since. I didn’t know if I’d ever open it. Her smell would be released. Gone. I couldn’t handle that.
I had to be strong for Dad. I had to make him believe I was okay so he wouldn’t worry about me. He had his own stuff to work through. Oscar probably thought I had bounced back too quickly. His judgment of me was kind of hard to miss. I didn’t care what he thought. I cared about helping Dad get back to normal.
Oscar had his music and drawings, and no matter how stupid I thought they were, they were a place for him to retreat. To escape. Sure, I used lacrosse, but Dad had nothing. He had booze, but nothing positive. I wanted my strength to be his “something positive.”
I felt like me acting like I was totally fine helped Dad, in the beginning at least. Right after she died was the worst time. He appreciated me trying to bounce back… At least I hope so. Actually, really, I have no friggin’ idea, because we never talked about shit like that.