Hugs, kisses, and tears all around. Goodbye is harder this time for all of us.
When I walk back to my car my heart feels so grievous it’s slowing mobility. There’s a sluggishness that only sorrow can create. I’m lost in thought until I reach for the door handle of my car and hear someone clear their throat.
It’s Loren.
This is the first time I’ve ever been alone with him. A million insults flood my mind, but the one that comes out on top is, “You’re an asshole.”
He folds his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the left like he’s thinking over my accusation. “You’re not wrong about that. I am.”
I didn’t expect that, but I continue, “You ruined my family.”
It only takes a moment for him to apologize, “I’m sorry, Seamus,” which should make it feel rushed and unfeeling, but it doesn’t.
His sincerity only proves to fuel the anger in me. I clasp my fingers together and cover my eyes with my hands trying to shield myself from the situation, from him, from Miranda, from my grief. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose everything you love?!” I shout. When he doesn’t answer, I shout again still hiding behind my hands, so I don’t use them to assault him, demanding an answer, “Do you?!”
“No,” he says it quietly like an apology.
I shake my head and drop my hands. “Of course you don’t.”
“Perspective. That’s what it’s all about. Perspective turns many a negative into a positive, and many a positive into a negative.” It sounds cryptic.
I don’t have the time or patience to sift through his bullshit. I open the door and climb into my car. After I start the engine and slam the door, I roll down the window. “I wouldn’t wipe my ass with your distorted perspective.”
I drive away, only stopping for gas and food until I reach home.
Baking a new pie
present
I traded in my two-seater, me, convertible for a massive, them, SUV. I got choked up when I handed the keys over to the salesman. If my identity is a pie, it was sliced and a generous portion was served to the smarmy salesman, complete with whipped cream on top. And goddamn sprinkles. I discovered I don’t like sharing my pie, especially with whipped cream and sprinkles. Because once it’s gone, it’s gone. And then I have to bake a new pie. A new me. Sonofabitch. Nothing scares me more than change, evolution. I feel it coming. I thought I was somewhat ready. I’m not. It’s paralyzing. I’ve just been placed on a small piece of glass and slid under a microscope for the world, and me, to analyze. I already don’t like what I see. I’m looking away.
I packed up the kids and a few suitcases of our clothes, and we said goodbye to Loren’s estate this morning. The rest of our things will be shipped when I find someplace permanent to live. Surprisingly, leaving wasn’t as traumatic as I thought it would be, given this whole change-is-a-motherfucker thing. Maybe it’s the new meds the doctor put me on a few days ago. Loren hugged us all, which was an uncharacteristic, considerate gesture. I think he was so giddy to return to his former state of bachelorhood that the hugs were more celebratory than civil. I was torn seeing his arms wrapped around Kira. Half of my black heart smiled, the other half wept. It’s probably the one and only time it will ever happen. Could have been…should have been…right…wrong…it’s all goddamn bittersweet.
We’ve been on the road for three hours. We’ve stopped twice for emergency bathroom breaks and once for food. This trip is going to be the death of me. I don’t do well on road trips. I prefer the seemingly instant gratification of flight over the drudgery of confinement in a car where eighty miles per hour feels like slow motion.
At five o’clock I tap out, exhausted, and exit for the gleaming Marriott sign. I’ve never been so grateful for a bed and fluffy pillow.
I sleep in one bed, the kids share the other. I ask Kira if she wants to share mine. The offer feels forced and foreign, and I’m sure that’s how she deciphers it. They’re much more perceptive than I once gave them credit for. She opts to sleep in between her brothers. I don’t blame her. They’re a little pack of wolves who protect their own. I’m an outsider.
The next morning everyone wakes rested and ready for California. Showers for us all are followed by a big breakfast. It’s my attempt to plump them up and keep them satisfied for more than two hours before hunger puts the brakes on geographical progress. We all order pecan pancakes. I’m not one who puts much stock in things happening for a reason, or divine intervention, but I can’t help but feel like our eating my favorite food in harmony is a coincidental, symbolic step in the right direction. I feel like one of their pack instead of an outsider.