My dad, Gregory Finch, looks older than his forty-eight years. His hair has been a dark grey since I was eight, and he could give two shits about his clothes. His complexion is pale, his slight body hunched. Dad seems only to want to be forgotten, but I won’t do it. I won’t. He is funny and warm, deep down. Beneath his grief and string of bad luck, he is the man I remember from my childhood: loving, optimistic and kind. This is the man I fight for. This is the man I will always see.
“Bean? Is that you?” he calls from the living room.
“Yeah, Dad. It’s me. Can you turn the volume down a touch? I could hear your show halfway down the street.”
Sitting in his favourite brown velour wingback, he grumbles under his breath as he reaches between his thigh and the arm of the chair to grasp the remote. To my surprise, he turns the TV off.
“What’s wrong, Bean? You look tired.” His concern is genuine. We all watch out for one another’s shifts in moods and appearances since Mom’s death. “Come sit by me. Tell me about your day.”
I flop down on the chesterfield belly-first and shut my eyes tight. I wish there were a magic pill to take the pain of grief away. I’ve tried. I’ve used painkillers, wine, weed… But the grief persists. It beats on in spite of me, threatening to swallow me up. And then the guilt sets in… As if my attempts to numb out are nothing more than attempts to forget her. My eyes fill with tears. I bury my head in cushions.
I feel a hand tentatively rub my back. “Did you have one of your episodes today?”
Remaining where I am, I nod slightly.
“Aw, Bean…”
And that’s it. Sympathy like that from my father is enough to break a thousand dams within me. I let myself cry and just sink into the softness of the sofa while my grieving father helplessly rubs my back.
Later, Dad says: “Maybe we should see someone.”
My head whips up. I know that he means a therapist…a grief counsellor. “Are you serious?”
He nods. “I can’t stand to see you like this. Wes has Tanya up there in Ottawa to see him through. But you and me…we just have each other. And I don’t know what to do anymore. Do you?”
I shake my head. “I’ll ask around for some recommendations.”
Dad grunts in approval and moves shakily to the kitchen. More coffee. He’s been wearing the same blue sweatpants for four days straight. For three straight days, I’ve pretended not to notice. I make a mental note to pick them up off his floor after he’s gone to sleep and throw them in the wash.
It’s been ten months since Mom died. Her birthday looms over us like a shadow, pervasive and thick. It makes me sick. Do the dead get birthdays?
I text my brother, Wes: Do the dead get birthdays?
Thirty seconds later, a reply: She does.
Normally I avoid my reflection in the mirror, but for some reason, tonight counts. I’ve never hung out with Vicky. She intimidates the hell out of me, and not just because she is psychic. She’s confident too…and sultry. I’ve never used that word to describe anyone, but Vicky just is.
Observing myself, I lift up my sweater to glimpse my stomach. It’s smaller. I’ve never been thin, but the past year has taken a toll. I’ve lost weight without intention, without thought. It’s not a good look. I’m soft and drawn. I need sunlight and bright food.
Pulling off my black sweater, I replace it with a pale pink shirt. The blue jeans can stay. I’ll clean off the salt stains. My hair hangs in accidental brown waves as I pull on an Alice band and tuck it behind my ears. My eyes are blue and large, my lips full. The only makeup I can handle is mascara. And red lipstick—crimson red.
There’s a light knock on my bedroom door, and I hear my dad clear his throat. I tell him to come in.
“Wow, Bean. You look great. What’s the occasion?” He says as I let him in.
“Nothing,” I say, not wanting to make a big deal of things. “I’m going out. Vicky asked me.”
He knits his brow in what appears to be confusion, trying to remember who Vicky is. And then the light goes on. “Yoga Vicky?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Right. I only saw her the one time, but holy jumpin’ is she tall! You and your mom were always so petite. I’m not used to the tall ones, Bean.”
“I know, Dad.”
“…Pretty sure that in a fight, she’d have me.”
“I get it, Dad,” I say, half-laughing.
He winks at me and walks away. And I finally feel ready to go out. Ready to finally, possibly, have some fun.
