Page 6 of Last Letters to Ara
After flicking through the ones I’ve already seen way too many times, I find the perfect one for tonight.P.S. I Love You.
“Dad! Can you bring some tissues back with you?” I call to him in the kitchen.
I hear him grumble something about needing strength, and I can’t help but smile. He’s going to get emotional, and he knows it.
A few minutes later, he walks back into the living room with popcorn and tissues and some chocolate that he must have had stashed somewhere, and I think about how lucky I am to have him as my dad.
Present - Ara
I WAKE UPto incessant knocking, shooting upright way too fast I nearly give myself a brain aneurysm. I’m still on the couch, surrounded by empty wine bottles and dirty cereal bowls. If I don’t do dishes soon, I’ll be eating with measuring spoons.
Classy, Ara.
Glancing up to the TV, I find my reflection looking back at me through the “Are You Still Watching” screen. I have, no doubt, seen better days. The knocking continues, reminding me of why I’m awake right now.
Grumbling about knocking etiquette, I stand to wrap myself in a blanket but realize there is no need. I’m still wearing my clothes from the funeral yesterday. Even worse? I slept with my bra on.
The knocking still doesn’t stop.
“One second, please!!” I yell, not the least bit friendly. I mean, for fuck’s sake, who knocks like that this early? Except, a look at the clock tells me that it’s 12:30 pm on a Monday, aka not early at all.
“I can’t leave until you take this!” The delivery man yells from the other side of the door.
Ugh.I hope this isn’t some strange attempt from Dad’s lawyer to get ahold of me. It’s only been a week and he already expects me to come by his office. I throw the door open just before he starts another round of knocks.
“Can I help you?” I don’t mask my irritation. The delivery man is so out of breath that he’s barely leaving oxygen for the rest of us. Though, I shouldn’t judge. The stairs take it out of me every time.
“I’m just here to deliver this letter,” he says, trying to catch his breath, as he holds out a letter wrapped in a pretty, gray envelope. It’s old-fashioned, not anything official from a lawyer, but I’m still not interested.
I’m about to close the door on him when I spot the handwriting on the envelope. For a moment, I am utterly frozen. All I can do is stand here, weighing the options.
More than likely, the loss of Dad and my inability to connect with anyone else has officially driven me bat-shit crazy? Although, it could also be a dream. I discreetly reach down and pinch my leg.
Nope. Not a dream.
Insanity then.
Or could the wine still be clouding my judgment? Probably not, seeing as though I’ve never even had enough to get drunk, just a glass to soften my thoughts and make me sleepy. Nobody needs to know that I start the moment I wake up, and timing it out so a bottle gets that delicious haze lasting throughout the entire day.
“Are you okay there, darling?” Even the delivery man knows that I’ve lost it.
I rip the envelope out of his hand and close the door. As an afterthought, I yell “Thanks!” through the door. I’m not usually this curt with people, but I’m worried that I am on the verge of a mental collapse, and I don’t want any witnesses.
Walking the short distance between my door and the living room of my small apartment, I sit down on the shabby chic couch I got for free on Facebook Marketplace, and stare at the envelope.
It is unmistakably Dad’s handwriting. Which isn’t possible.
I grab my keys, phone, wallet, shoes, and purposefully avoid the mirror in my entryway as I rush from my apartment.
Not sure where I was headed at first, I guess it isn’t a surprise when I find myself at the checkout of the Publix liquor store. With a bag holding my foot-long chicken sub and donuts in one hand, I awkwardly use the other to pull out my ID for the cashier.
Not that he particularly needs to see it. I’ve been here almost every day since I received the call about my dad. At first, I thought it would be too embarrassing to purchase seven bottles of wine all at once. Turns out, coming back every day issomuch worse.
He nods.
I pay.
I run back to my car.
