Read Why Girls Are Weird Online
Authors: Pamela Ribon
Why Girls Are Weird (17 page)
Having a holiday weekend without a family member felt like putting on a sweater that had an extra arm. Nothing fit right and there was all this extra fabric and you just wanted to be normal again. Not that I'd ever worn a sweater with an extra arm, but I'd never had a holiday with a dead family member before, either.
I was in the living room when Mom brought me a cup of tea. “I was thinking,” she started, carefully.
“Yes?” I was ready to listen to her talk for a while, to help her grieve. I wanted to be a good daughter, to be there for her when she needed me. I felt bad that I wasn't going to be able to stay for as long as she might need and was glad she was able to talk to me about all of this so soon. “Sit down, Mom.” I patted at the couch I was sitting on.
She stayed where she was and smiled nervously. “Have you called Ian?”
“No.” I said it quicker than I wanted to. Angrier.
“Don't you think you should?”
“Why?”
“Honey, you were with him for a long time. Your father liked him a lot.”
“He did?” That was certainly news to me.
Mom took a breath. “We all did,” she said, not bothering to hide the guilt trip. She left the room.
I grabbed the cordless phone with as much exasperated noise as I could. I made every movement as deliberate as it was elaborate, so from whatever room Mom had snuck into, she could hear that I was obeying her wishes, despite my best interests.
I got Ian's machine and stumbled out a mess. “Hey. Hi. Hey. It's me. Um, it's Anna. Hi. Hey, Ian. Um, this isâ¦this is not what you say when you get an answering machine. Or is it a voice mail? Do we not say âanswering machine' anymore? Like, do I still say âI got his machine'? You don't have to answer that. Hey, listen. My dad died. That's not a graceful way to say that, but there isn't really any grace in saying someone has died, and I hate saying the word
passed
like we ate bad chicken. I'm still talking. I should hang up. I'm in Hartford. My dad's dead. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Classy.
Meredith flopped down on the couch next to me a few minutes later. “I hate these cushions,” she said. “Why do Mom and Dad still have these stupid flower cushions?”
“They're from the last couch.”
“I
know,
Anna. I'm not stupid.”
Meredith was always three steps away from a fight.
“You asked,” I said carefully.
“I hate their new furniture. I tried to talk Mom out of buying it, but she said that it was the first pattern she could find that Dad actually grunted about. She didn't know if it was a good grunt or a bad grunt, but the fact that he showed signs of life about a swatch of fabric gave her hope that she⦔
Meredith stopped talking and lowered her head in her hands. She leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees. Her brown hair fell down around her arms. I put my hand on her back.
“I don't need you to do that,” she said. It sounded like she was crying.
“I don't mind.”
“Oh, well,
thanks
. Don't want to put you out.” She flipped her head up and I could see that she wasn't crying. Her face was flushed and her brown eyes were sharply focused in anger.
I bit my upper lip. “Meredith? I'm just trying to help, okay?” My voice had risen and we were already in a fight. I didn't want a fight. These things just happened with Meredith.
“I know. You're always trying to help, aren't you? But you and Shannon are going to leave here in two days and go back to your lives and I'm here with Mom. I have to take care of her now.”
“Mom will be okay, Mere.”
“No, she won't! Nobody's going to be okay!”
She stood up and grabbed a handful of Skittles from Mom's candy bowl. I hid my smile. Shannon and I find that bowl to be the most disgusting thing in the house. Mom never cleans it and it's always full of loose, dusty candy. Meredith was the only one who ate every piece.
“I don't know what else you want Shannon and me to do. Dad didn't want any kind of serviceâ”
“I know that.”
“I
know
you know that. I'm not arguing over how well you knew Dad. Jesus, I'm trying to comfort you and you're making it so fucking difficult.”
“I'm sorry. It's all my fault I don't grieve the way you want me to, Anna. We can't all be
precious
like you.”
I couldn't deal with her anymore. “Sorry I bothered.”
I walked out of the house and sat on the front steps. I lit another cigarette. My lungs were aching from all of the smoking, but I couldn't stop. I didn't know what else to do. There was nothing left to do. I wish Dad had left us with some kind of option. He said he didn't want a funeral. He always felt that the only people that would really want to mourn his death were the four of us. All of his relatives had already died, and he didn't have many close friends. But because of this we had no reason to be in the same room with each other and no real reason to talk about our pain. This was his memorial service. Mom wandering with a lost look on her face, Shannon watching MTV up in her old room, and Meredith bitching out anyone who tried to comfort her. Rest in peace, Dad.
AK,
I'm so sorry about everything. I'm sorry you're in so much pain. I wish there was something I could do, something I could say. Fuck. It feels so helpless over hereâ¦close enough to do something, but too far away to do anything real.
Even though I never met your father, I know he must have been a remarkable man. Half of his genes created one of the most spectacular women I've ever known.
Take care of yourself. Let me know if there's anything I can do. At any time. I'm here. Always.
-LD
-----
21 NOVEMBER
Why is it that when we cry our mouths salivate? Is it because the back of the throat swells up? Is it to clean out our mouthsâwe cry when we're in pain and the tears are an antiseptic? Is it because our tongues swell and rest on a salivary gland?
I think it's so we have a harder time talking when we cry, to prevent us from saying things we don't mean when we don't know how to express exactly what we're feeling. It might also be a defense mechanism. People stay away because we're weepy, drooling messes. The ones who love us no matter what let the snot and drool get all over them while they hold us.
I've been pretty snotty and drooly this weekend.
My father died today, on this holiday when we traditionally give thanks, and I'm very thankful to have been this man's daughter. Because of this, I feel the need to tell all of you a little bit about him.
He was a good man. He tried to be a better man. He changed over the years. Became a quieter version of himself. I heard many stories about crazy things he did back when he was my age. Back before he had to be responsible and become an adult. Back before his daughters forced him to become a father.
I'm not going to go on about him because he wouldn't have wanted it. He wouldn't have wanted to waste your time. My father isn't the type of man who is going to be missed by hundreds of people. He kept to himself. He minded his own business. He made sure he took care of the people who mattered most to him. You can bet your ass that the handful of people he loved and cared for are going to miss him tremendously.
It's different here at home without my dad. He was a part of this house as much as any wall or room. I rarely saw Dad outside of this house over the past few years. In fact, I rarely even saw him standing. He loved sitting in the living room, his recliner kicked back, remote in one hand as he watched television, his head leaning back more and more as he fell asleep to the sound of football. He had his routines. He had things that made him happy.
He paid his taxes. He owned his house. He raised a family. We never starved. We always had clothing. We even had cable. He was good at his job, a job he never really bothered to explain to all of us. He was good at being a husband, a job my mother never really bragged about. My father was a man who did the things in life you're supposed to do.
Looking around this place he left behindâat my younger sisters all grown up, starting their own lives with determination and self-esteem, at my mother who doesn't have to worry about how to pay for the house or pay the bills, or me, his oldest daughter, who lives on her own over a thousand miles awayâI'm starting to realize why he was so quiet those last few years.
He was testing us. He wanted to make sure we'd be okay without him.
He didn't want a funeral. He didn't want a group of people gathered in his memory. I'm writing this at the risk of disobeying him, but I wanted to tell the world that he existed. I want everyone to know that I had a father and I'm very sad that he is gone. And this is my diary. If I didn't write about it, I'd be saying it wasn't important to me. And reading back over these words, for the first time now this all feels very real. It's all sinking in. I'm telling myself as I'm telling all of you. My father is gone.
Hey, Dad. I don't know that much about the Internet, but I have an incredible hope that these electronic waves are made out of some of the same particles you're made of now. I know we didn't get a chance to formally say good-bye, but maybe you can feel these words and feel all of the love I'm shoving into them. I'm packing them tight with all of the things we never got to say.
Thank you for being a good dad.
Make sure they let you mow the lawn in heaven every once in a while. I know how much it'd mean to you.
Love forever,
Anna K
Anna K,
Having lost my father three years ago, I know what you're going through is hard. I don't even want to say that I know what you're going through because this is a very personal journey you're about to embark on. Just know that so many people love you and we're patiently waiting your return. Take good care of yourself.
Travis Robinson
-----
anna k i am really sorry about your dad i hope everything gets better for you soon happy thanksgiving and spend it with your family who love you we'll be here when you are back bye from mexico
-goosie123
-----
Anna K,
I'm very sorry. About everything. About what I did to you. You have to know that I meant everything I said in the nicest way. I admire you, that's all.
None of that matters right now. You take care of yourself. I'm sorry you had to suffer such a loss this holiday season. You're in my thoughts and prayers.
Love, Tess
-----
Anna,
There is nothing I can say to make it better. I want you to know that everyone feels your loss because when you're sad, we're sad. We love you and our thoughts and prayers are with you. Take care.
-Michelle
-----
There were at least fifty e-mails when I checked a few hours after posting my entry. All from people I didn't know. All from people saying they were praying for me. They were sorry for my pain. So many people from all over the world stopping for a moment to pay tribute to my father, a man they'd never met. A man who knew nothing about them.
By Friday evening the house was too quiet for me. People had stopped coming by earlier that afternoon. Our fridge was full of food we didn't feel like eating. Shannon decided to go out and see a movie by herself. Mom retreated back to her room. Meredith went to her apartment.
It was only ten.
-----
AK
Oh, Anna. I just read. Again, I'm here. For anything. I'm so sorry.
-LD
-----
LD-
203.555.4302
-AK
p.s.: hurry.
-----
The phone rang three minutes later.
“Hello?” Did I sound nervous?
“Hi, can I speak to Anna, please?”
“This is she.” Why was I being so formal?
And then it was quiet. His voice was deeper than I thought it would be. I put on my coat and walked out back with the cordless phone to sit on the steps.
“How are you?”
“I don't know,” I said. I laughed. “I guess I'm okay. Am I allowed to be okay?”
“Are you at your Mom's house?”
“Yeah.” I lit a cigarette. “Everyone's doing something and I felt weird being all by myself. I want to go home.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Yeahâme, too.”
“Is Ian there?”
“No.” It wasn't a lie.
It was quiet. I could hear his breath. The muffled sound of a television.
“So, I guess you're a real person,” I said.
“Looks like it. You're not a man, which was my biggest fear.”
“You don't know. I could have a high voice.”
“Well, it's a nice voice. For a man or a woman.”
He listened to me complain about how strange it was being at home, about my problems with Meredith and how Shannon had been reading my website. I told him about those final moments at the hospital. I talked until the sound of sirens on the other line stopped me.
“Sorry,” he said when they died down. “Go on.”
“Are you in an ambulance? Did I bore you to death?” Death. Too soon for that word.
“I live very close to a hospital.” Too soon for that word, too.
Another siren on his end of the phone snapped me back. “That's so loud,” I said.
“You get used to it.”
My fingers were freezing, but my face was warm from blushing. I couldn't believe I was speaking to him for the first time in my life.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked.
“You can,” he said.
“What the hell's your name?”
He laughed. How absurd that all of this had happened without us learning each other's names. “It's Kurt. Kurt Worschauser.”
“Well, hello, Kurt Worschauser. I'm Anna Koval.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“We'll cover learning how to spell your last name the next time we e-mail.”
We talked about the painting he was working on. He had found an old picture of his great-great-grandparents, and he was doing something with that. I understood the words
composition
and
balance,
but that was pretty much it.
“Where are you?” I asked him.
“I was going to stay at my sister's, but I had to leave. Arial was screaming. My niece. I can't stand it after a few hours.”
He told me about the snow outside his window, and I told him about the ice crunching under my feet as I wandered to the swing set. He told me to take my cold ass inside. I went in briefly, but Shannon was back from seeing a movie, and she wanted me to get off the phone to keep her company. I asked her to give me another ten minutes.
“You're like my imaginary girlfriend who's away at camp,” Kurt said before we hung up. “I only have to read your letters when I'm bored, and I write back when I feel like it. We don't argue because we never see each other.”
“Plus,” I said, “we don't go on dates that cost you cash, and we don't have an anniversary where you have to buy me presents. We never have to argue about where we're sleeping. I don't know if you're a shitty driver or a bad tipper.”
“I might be a bad tipper.”
“I might be a shitty driver. It doesn't matter.”
“How perfect are we?”
“Perfect,” I smiled. “As long as we never, ever meet.”
“It would ruin everything.”
Later that night, I couldn't sleep. I went back out into the backyard and smoked cigarette after cigarette, wondering what I was doing. I could tell Kurt was interested in me and I was very much interested in talking to him, but I was too scared to tell him who I really was. He liked Anna K. He might not like me. What did I think was going to happen? Why, of all the people in my life, did I want to talk to Kurt, whose name I didn't even know until he called?
As I stubbed out my last cigarette, I decided I shouldn't talk to him on the phone anymore. I didn't want to have my heart yearning for someone I couldn't have.
