Week eight began with my father, Sarah, and I sharing another meal. Just like last time, the three of us sat around the dining table, and I was already hoping for it to be over with.
Sarah, completely enraptured by the colorful salad on display, was complimenting my father on his hard work, while my father gobbled up the recognition wearing a sheepish grin.
Okay, maybe it was just me that was preparing.
"It's so beautiful, Phil. And you used pumpkin seeds as a topper. I love pumpkin seeds."
"You helped, Sar."
"Oh, I guess. But you did all the heavy lifting."
Once again, my appetite vanished into thin air.
The evening wore on. I was compelled to answer questions about myself. I felt threatened. To me, it seemed like Sarah was trying to dig into my character and figure me out. But I answered her questions, and just as easily threw some back at her. Her million-dollar smile and syrupy voice, while giving my father a figurative sugar high, gave me a literal headache.
Dessert was finally on the table, and I couldn't wait to scarf it down, claim my stomach was uncomfortably full, and put the cork in this night.
"So, Elliot, where are you transferring to university again?" Sarah asked.
"Western. In the fall."
"That's great. Really good university. What are you studying?"
"Communications."
The dessert and conversation were weighing heavily in my stomach.
"Ell's mother studied Communications at school," my father casually said, as though speaking of the weather.
"Oh," Sarah said, somewhat surprised at the comment. "That's great. She must have passed down some good genes."
Instead of responding to her comment, a roaring in my belly - one that had nothing to do with the pie - caused me to round on my father. This was the second time he had brought up my mother over dinner with Sarah, which was noteworthy, considering he never mentioned her when it was just me. My skin was flushed, the anger having arrived at lightning speed, and it made me wonder just how far away it was to begin with.
"And she got a minor in English Lit. Why don't you tell Sarah that too?" The sound of my voice was startling; a combination of spite and fury geared for attack.
Flabbergasted, my father paused his fork midair as food toppled off. It was as though he had forgotten I was sitting around the table.
"W-What. Oh – yes – she did get a minor in English Lit. as well."
I didn't dare look at Sarah, certain I could paint her expression with precision. Determined to keep my eyes glued upon my father, I said, "What else do you have to say about Mom? Since you seem more than happy to talk to a practical stranger about her, but not your own daughter! Come on, Dad, I'm dying to know."
"Ell..."
"Should we tell Sarah how she read through a book a week? Or how she would garden until her hands were nearly black from dirt? Or that even when she was mad, you could still get her to smile by singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow?"
I had gone from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds. I was a rollercoaster and everyone on the ride had been thrown back in their seats, horrorstruck. My father, obviously, was still recovering from the shock. My voice was piercing and my words were sharp. I knew I had wounded him before he was any the wiser.
"What else, Dad? What else should we tell Sarah about Mom?"
My father simply gaped.
Throwing myself out of the chair and colliding with the corner of the dining table, I flew from the kitchen. Heat embedded my skin. I wouldn't have been surprising if a trail of smoke was left in my wake.
I needed to run.
Storming down the porch stairs, I took off at a sprint wearing a pair of jeans and my converse. But this didn't slow me down. My lungs were on fire, and I needed to run faster. I shot down the sidewalk at what felt like the speed of light. The dimly lit houses blurred together, and after I reached the end of the block, I hooked a right and ran faster. My feet pounded the anger into the pavement. When I completed the loop and reached my house, I flung myself onto the porch stairs and tried to level my breathing.
The door creaked, but I didn't look back. I wasn't ready to meet my father, not yet. I had not been left alone long enough to feel the shame that was sure to spiral, the shame that would lead to an empty apology.
I was caught off guard by the body that sat beside me. It was not my father. It was Sarah, her hair brushing against my shoulder and she settled into place.
I didn't say a word, in part because of the anger, but also because of the shock I felt at seeing her instead of my father. I wanted to run again, but this time, I wouldn't stop.
"So, tell me how you really feel." Her tone was airy, and I assumed it was an attempt to lighten the mood.
It didn't.
"Why are you here?" I asked brashly.
Sarah weighed her words before she spoke. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine."
A person walking their dog strolled by on the sidewalk. The dog turned to face Sarah and I, halted, sniffed the air, and then continued walking.
"I'm not all that convinced, if you don't mind me saying so."
My senses were leveling out, although they were nowhere close to calibrated.
"I know how you're feeling," Sarah said.
"No, you don't."
"Well, maybe not exactly. You're right." Sarah paused and wrapped her arms around her chest. "My mom died when I was young, back in grade school."
I wasn't expecting this confession. Usually when people told you they knew how you were feeling, it was complete nonsense. How could a person know what you were feeling on any given day, let alone when your own mother had died? It was almost worse than hearing "I'm sorry" countless times, days on end. Both of these were said as a means to an end for a conversation neither party wanted but were expected to take part in. I would have been perfectly happy had everyone either left me alone, or, stood by my side like normal until I had been ready to talk.
"How did she die?" I asked.
"Stroke. She was thirty-seven years old."
I gulped as the images I kept buried began to surface. The ocean filled my vision. "Mine died suddenly, too. She - she..." Electric silence filled the space around us. "She drowned." Roaring waves crashed behind my eyes, and I blinked them away. "We were at the beach and - and she went swimming, and then... and then" - I closed my eyes, voice trembling -"the current was so strong - she got swept out and she - she drowned."
Sarah placed a warm hand on my knee, but I didn't push it away. "I am so sorry, Elliot. So sorry. No one should have to go through that. No one should have to lose their mom so suddenly, let alone so traumatically."
The swells were shrinking, but my chest still ached. "I don't know if it would've been easier had I know it was coming - if I knew she was going to die."
"Me either. I spent a lot of time thinking about that," Sarah stated.
Another few moments of silence passed, some of the electricity cooling.
"Your dad talks about her a lot, you know. Your mom."
"That's hard to believe," I said. Sarah remained silent, allowing time to finish my thought. "He's never brought her up since she died. Not to me, at least."
Sarah tilted her heads towards mine. "I'm not here to make excuses for you dad. I understand where your anger is coming from, I get it. He should have realized that it was important – so important – to discuss her after her passing."
My voice was broken. I was left with ragged breaths.
"You do have to understand though, that he was hurting – still is hurting, and I don't think he knows quite how to talk with you about her."
"He's had almost two years to figure it out."
Sarah nodded. "Yeah – and I think in the beginning, he was in so much pain, it was easier for him to shut out his feelings, not talk about them to anyone, especially his daughter, whom I'm sure he thought was suffering enough without having to deal with her dad's feelings.." Sarah looked out towards the sky. "And then time passed, and maybe the thought crossed his mind about having a discussion with you, but, how could he? The more time passed, the harder it got to speak with you. It was easiest to carry on the way things were, they weren't perfect, but they were working."
"He could have tried!" The words were physically ailing.
"I'm not making excuses – like I said – I'm just trying to help you understand. That's all. You have every right to be furious, even angrier than you were in the kitchen, especially with me there, sitting and eating with the two of you – I can only imagine, but, I'm telling you from someone who has gone through this before, realize that anger and use it."
"How?"
"Do what your dad was unable to do and talk with him."