I'm So So

Content Warning: Grooming, child sexual abuse, sexual exploitation, familial abuse, terminal illness, and complicated grief.

"I'm so so," he writes on the back of the box housing a necklace in the shape of a red umbrella. How fitting, when it rains, it pours. One tiny tumor and his speech is gone, and motor function is as quick as his recollection, which is not quick at all.

Mom pulls it from his hands, strikes a line through his writing, writes “to my daughter, with love” next to it, and hands me the box with a forced smile.

I suppose I’m grateful for it, but it doesn’t make time slow down, nor speed up. I’m not sure which I’d prefer.

Frank’s been in my life since I was five. I was dancing around in pink silky pajamas when I met him. He gave me the one thing I always wanted growing up. A baby sister.

She was the most precious thing I’d ever laid eyes on. She had eyes both the shape and color of an almond. Her blond hair swooped down her little head and curled into ringlets at the bottom. Her little fingers wrapped around my heart the same as my fingers.

I spent all of my time with her. I would wake her from her naps because I missed her when she was sleeping. If I could be holding her, I would be.

When she had begun to walk, it was with me in tow. Because that was my heart, walking around outside of my body.

Given the 10-year age gap, it took about that long to grow this close to her, but now I don’t know a day without her. She’s just 16 and about to lose her father.

No daddy-daughter dance, no high school graduation photos, no favorite grandpa t-shirts in her future. Things I’ve gotten two times over, and she won’t have any of.

Mom has become the full-time caretaker. Her back bent and eyes sunken from carrying the weight of him and the end of his life. A lifetime of nursing comes in handy to treat a foot infection and a surgical wound, though it could never prepare her for begging her husband to hurry up and die.

Cancer is ugly. It shows humans at their absolute weakest and most vulnerable form. Your loved ones get to see your inability to walk or maintain bodily functions. They get to hear your forced breaths and slurred speech. And when you die, they also get to see the contents of your safe.

I spend a lot of time thinking about those silky pink pajamas. They were always his favorite, second only to the Billabong bikini bathing suit Mom bought for my sixth-grade field trip to see the whales in Boston. That same bathing suit he’d slide his hand into, one night in the hot tub when Mom’s at work.

I think about the Christmas trips to Florida, where he drove all night to a Disneyland resort, saying no to nothing, and yes to anything that brought a smile to my face. I remember we rented the two-person bicycle cart, but my feet wouldn’t reach the pedals. I steered while he powered us through the Florida humidity.

I think about that New Year's Eve, the one I was wearing my new favorite band tee and my hair curled just right. The same night when the ball dropped, he slid his tongue in my mouth.

I think about the times he held me while my heart broke, one stupid boy after another. He wiped my tears and rubbed my back. He told me I was beautiful and deserved more.

I think about the times he walked into the bathroom while I showered and would ask if I needed any help. He'd linger and peek around the shower curtain. Or the winter nights I'd warm up in a bath, and he'd bring me a glass of blackberry brandy.

I think about the time he taught me how to ride a motorcycle. We rode the distance of three towns every Sunday. The wind in my hair, freer than I'd ever felt.

I think about the times my drawers are left open just enough to suggest someone’s been there. Things moved, clothes unfolded, paper shuffled, bedside stands ransacked.

I think about the times he taught me how to drive. The endless trips to Dunkin' Donuts, where he pumped the gas and read the newspaper while I navigated busy intersections.

I think about the naked photos I find of myself on the computer. Some I took myself for a military boyfriend, and others that I didn’t.

I think about how I moved 900 miles away from home, and he sold the house and moved around the corner. Leaving behind the life he'd known for fifty years.

I think about the time he fixed my hose spigot when it broke off on the side of the house. I called him in a panic, and he was there in 5 minutes with all the right tools.

I think about how I would check my room for hidden cameras before I undressed.

I think about how he held my 4lb twin boys and cried tears of joy at their arrival. How he loves them so deeply as any completely smitten grandpa would.

I try not to think about that summer night camping with a bottle of Southern Comfort, where I couldn’t remember the next day.

I don’t want him to die, but I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.

I spent 21 years hiding from my reality. Pretending all was well, so my sister would have a Dad. So life could proceed as normal for my favorite person on planet earth.

All for nothing, because he’s going to die anyway. He’s going to leave her with a broken heart. Could I have spared my own?

Who knew that cancer could be merciful? It could give you an opportunity to die before you face the wrath of your wife. It could give me the chance to be free of a monster.

It doesn’t give you an opportunity to trash the printed photo that’s aged as if it had been handled a hundred times, and the black lacey panties you pulled from the dirty laundry by the door.

Are you “So sorry?”

Yeah, me too.

I’m sorry I chose silence. I’m sorry I chose comfort for everyone else but never myself. I’m sorry I didn’t protect my own little self the way I tried to protect my little sister. I’m sorry I signed myself up for a decade-long reconciliation with a dead man.

Good riddance.