Page 2 of Last Letters to Ara
More than I already did.
• • •
We are ushered into the next room where finger food and drinks await. Someone ought to make these things look less like a cheap party and more like someone will be missed. This whole “positive outlook” thing is a crock of shit.
I spy an empty corner and decide to make my way over, hopefully before anyone notices me. I’ve just about made it when a man I’ve never seen in my life approaches. “You must be Sarah. My name is Phil, I knew your father.”
I cringe at the use of my actual name and give him a nod, intending to pass him by.
“He was a good man, your father.” He chuckles,actuallychuckles. “He saved my ass from the IRS a time or two. Got me a good gig pretty recently, as well.”
“How cool,” I say, intending for the conversation to come to a fast halt. He can take his IRS stories to someone who cares.
“Yeah, our offices have been in the same building for years. I was lucky to know him.”
“Nice,” I say and this time I make a point of giving him my shoulder and heading in the opposite direction. Another corner will have to do.
I’ve made it all of five feet before the next onslaught. This time, it’s the receptionist from Dad’s office. “Hey there, sweetie, how are you holding up?”
How does she think I’m holding up?
“Fine, thanks.” I look around for somewhere that isn’t filled with people, and I come up optionless. Before I can make a run for it, everyone standing in this dreadful room notices me all at once. It’s like a scene from a horror movie as they all start to slowly walk toward me and I can’t get my legs to move.
I endure person after person, sharing endless streams of cliché words they probably stole from a Hallmark card on their way over. As if a stranger saying “I’m sorry for your loss” does anything to fill the vast, gaping hole in my chest that was ripped open with a single phone call.
If Dad were here, he would find a way to calm my racing heart, resolve my inability to take such a level of emotion and human interaction. He would come up with something funny, using humor to ease what I’m going through, and we would probably strike a bet on how many times we’d hear “He was a good man” and “You have my condolences.” The loser would buy the other a chocolate frosty from Wendy’s and call it a day.
Except here I am, alone. Utterly fucking alone. Just like I will be for the rest of my life.
I don’t wait for whoever is speaking to me to finish their sentence as I finally get my legs to work, leaving the haunted house behind me.
Less than an hour later, I arrive at the only place I’d want to be right now, trying to think after the unthinkable and finding relief in the chaos of the busiest terminal at Tampa International Airport, the way I always do when I need to take my mind off something. Thankfully, my favorite seat is empty, allowing me to be alone without making it excruciatingly clear that I am exactly that. There is something peaceful about watching people going on about their lives as if a tragedy didn’t just happen in your own.
I’ve never felt this level of soul-wrenching emotion, not even when I received the news of his death. Having no idea he was battling cancer, I assumed they had the wrong number. Of course, they never expected that their patient’s daughter would be in the dark about his terminal diagnosis, treating it like just another afternoon call.
Deep down, I had known something had been off for months. Not just because of the coughing and the mold, the time off work and doctors’ visits, but because Dad hadn’t seemed quite himself. We had this unspoken rule where if the other person didn’t want to talk about it yet, we gave them time. So I let it be, convincing myself that if it were something serious, he would tell me.
In my bones, I knew that Dad would never have abandoned me just before the holidays for some accounting convention in New York, nor would he have stayed for the expensive fifties and over holiday retreat he’d received as a gift. Though I didn’t believe his story for a minute, I’d hoped he was on a secret getaway with a woman whom he wasn’t ready to share with me yet.
If only.
If only he had just been nervous to introduce me to a woman. If only he was out, living his life after missing my mother for the last twenty years. If only he would be back in town at the end of this month. If only he wasn’t taken away from me and sent to the unknown place one goes after death.
Part of me wonders where that place exists. Is he sitting in Heaven with the perfect ratio of chocolate brownie and vanilla ice cream? Is he hovering around somewhere, watching over me? Does he have a one-way looking glass into my life whenever he wants?
What if I’m having hot, sweaty sex when he decides to pop in for a peek? For the first time since he died, I crack a smile at the thought of how mortified he would be at discovering such a thing. My smile falters as a deep clearing of the throat draws me from my thoughts, back to the present.
I blink, clearing my mind a little, and look over to where the sound came from. Someone is a few chairs down, staring expectantly. A guy, to be more specific. He looks like James Dean and Adriana Lima had a love child with his dark, glossy waves, styled to perfection. I can’t help but notice that he has the kind of bone structure celebrities pay big money for. High cheekbones. Strong chin. Perfectly sized nose. Chiseled jawline. His full lips start to lift into a grin on one side...is that adimple?
I decide immediately that I don’t like him. Nobodythatgood looking is worth knowing. He’s probably Captain of the Tinder squad, out here looking for a stray flight attendant thinking he’s in for an exciting weekend. I barely withhold my sound of disgust.
“I guess you didn’t hear me,” he says politely.
At least he doesn’talsohave an accent.
Tinder Boy’s eyes are a piercing green, clearly questioning whether I’m mentally sound. Maybe if I ignore him for long enough, he’ll think I’m not and he’ll leave me alone.
“I asked what you were smiling about.” Tinder Boy is good, he’s got the nice guy act down pat. I don’t even feel like showering yet.
