Yesterday
Oscar held his hand just over Dad’s mouth to check for breath.
“Do you feel anything?” I asked.
His eyes bulged. “N-no.” Oscar lost it.
My legs refused to hold me up. I fell backward into the chair. Oh my God. I wasn’t ready for him to go yet! He couldn’t be gone. I dropped my head into my hands. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
Images and memories flashed in my brain: Dad pushing me down a snowy hill on my teal-blue saucer sled, him and Mom holding hands at the zoo, his bright-red face when he forgot to reapply sunscreen during the family trip to Jamaica, the way his shoulders popped when a good reggae song came on at the bar, the way he walked, talked, laughed, smiled.
I raised my eyes just as Oscar was trying to move Dad’s head. Were people supposed to handle the dead right after they died? It didn’t seem right to me. He shouldn’t touch him. I barked, “What are you doing? S-stop! Stop! Don’t touch him!”
Oscar immediately dropped Dad’s hand, and his limp arm fell like a tree trunk. No! That’s not right either. Just then, at that exact moment, there was a knock on the door. Oscar and I turned, and in walked Jacque Beaufort. There wasn’t time for me to wipe off my tears and runny nose. I didn’t want her in here. This was none of her business. I yelled, “Not now!”
She jumped back a step and apologized. Without another second of hesitation, she turned and ran out.
She was lucky I didn’t throw anything at her. A powerful surge of anger shot through my body like a million pistols unloading their bullets. He should not be dead! How can he be dead? Oh my God. Dad and I understood each other, we accepted each other. No one, not even Growler, would ever be able to come close to him. Dad, come back! Without thinking, I punched the seat of the chair. I had to try to get some of the anger out. My body temperature went through the roof. Beads of sweat ran down my temples.
I needed my fist to land on something again. The chair got it. Unintelligible sounds accompanied each punch. I sounded like an angry bear.
“Vance? Vance!” someone shouted.
I froze mid-punch and raised my eyes. I had to blink rapidly to clear away the tears. Peggy stood a few feet away, and she didn’t look happy. “You can either dig deep and calm yourself down, or I can call down to Thomas and he can help you calm down.” Peggy turned to Oscar. “Thomas is six-five and three hundred pounds.”
Freaking out while sandwiched between Dad’s bed and the chair wasn’t something I’d planned on. It just came over me. I did not want to meet Thomas.
Like an imploding building, I fell to my knees. The crook of my arm captured my sobs. Peggy sat in the chair I’d just been beating the shit out of and whispered, “If you are hurting deeply, it’s because you loved him deeply.”
That made me pause. And then a crapload of questions attacked me rapid fire: Why does this nurse have to be named after my mom? Why did my mom have to die? Will Dad finally get to apologize to her? How can I have no living parents? Who will call us down on Christmas morning? What will we do with all of Dad’s things? Am I old enough to take over the Blue Mountain? How will I call my grandparents without knowing the phone number? Where is Oscar going?
Oscar walked out. Peggy said, “Let’s get you off the floor, hon.” I politely refused her help and got myself into the chair. She said she’d let me have some privacy. Once I was alone, I rested my forehead on the mattress and continued crying like a baby.
I felt stupid talking out loud. He wasn’t there anymore. Did I say good-bye? My head throbbed. I didn’t know if I’d said good-bye. With panic in my voice I stuttered, “G-good-bye, Dad. I love you.” That wasn’t enough. I had more to say. “I will make you proud. You’ll see.”