FULL NOVELXO Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 14
“Gold Soundz”—Pavement
Before I went to bed, I glared at my nightstand. It was covered in green leopard print that was peeling and curly. I was afraid to open the drawer.
What if Dad hadn’t left me a request? A message? A keepsake to hold on to?
I started making up excuses for him in my head. Why should he leave me a note? It wasn’t like I’d still lived here. He’d had no way of knowing I’d end up staying home for any amount of time. And he had seemed so forgetful, so spacey the months before he’d moved into hospice.
Just open it, Cal, you big, stupid baby.
My heart felt like a mangled piece of paper, ready to be torn. Decisions, decisions. In the end, hope trumped fear. I pressed my eyes shut, curled my fingers around the knob, and pulled the drawer out inch by inch. I opened my eyes, holding my breath.
There was a small USPS envelope resting inside it, neatly sealed atop a pile of decade-old nail polish. My body wilted with relief. It was so supremely Dad to use a USPS envelope. He liked free stuff. Our ideal dinner used to be Costco samples with their sundae for dessert.
Padding over to my study area, I pulled a small metal ruler from my bleached denim pencil case and used it to rip the letter open. I tugged the single A4 page out along with a postcard, struggling for breath, knowing these were going to be the only new words I’d ever get from him.
My eyes burned at the sight of his familiar handwriting. He had the most distinctive penmanship. Cursive and neat, it looked like it belonged in another century.
Dear Callichka,
If you’re reading this, it means that I’m gone. I hope you decided to spend a few weeks with your mother. I think you can both use the time together, and while I’m not sure what kept you away from Staindrop this long, running away from a problem never gets rid of it. Problems are like monsters. Fearing them only feeds them and makes them bigger. Please remember you are stronger than whatever wall is standing in your way. All you need is the right momentum (Newton, laws one, two, three).
My chest filled with warmth. The first thing he’d wanted from me, I’d already pledged to do—I was going to spend some time with Mom.
A little riddle to break the ice:
Question: Why did the scientist take out his doorbell?
Answer: Because he wanted to win the no-bell prize.
(Kindly pretend to laugh at this. If I find it extremely funny, even in my current state, then so should you.)
Now that you’re in an agreeable mood, I need you to do a few things for me. Allow me to point out that you are not in a position to turn me down, complain, and/or argue because I’m:
Dead, and therefore cannot hear you.
Always right.
100% going to haunt you if you fail me. I have a lot of free time right now, Callichka. Do not try me.
I thought long and hard about what it was I wanted from you. Birthdays, if you ask me, are overrated. It is death days in which you are granted all your wishes. And sure, I could’ve asked you to finally start your podcast, get things moving, take the plunge. But I believe that you cannot rush art and growth. So I’m going to let you take your first steps into your career at your own pace, even if I find it outrageously slow.
I snorted. My dad had been a teenager when he’d moved to America. He’d still had this Soviet air about him. A sternness that had collectively labeled anyone without a steady career, two degrees, and the durability to drink their own body weight an utter, useless slacker.
These are my two requests for you (and remember, you CANNOT say no):
Take me somewhere nice and spread my ashes. Let me explain. I’m afraid your mother will use my presence in her living room as an excuse not to move on. She deserves to move on. Deserves to fall in love, to laugh, to enjoy the remainder of her days. Which brings me to my next point: I would really rather not be there, on the mantel, when she and her new partner make out for the first time. Yes, I want her to move on. No, I don’t want it happening in front of my face. Or rather, dust. Spread my ashes somewhere beautiful and tranquil. Somewhere with a great view. Somewhere I can be free.
Remember how much you loved running? You stopped for the wrong reason. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it. Pick it up again. You’re not truly free until you break the chains of your fears. And you, Callichka, are afraid of running. Once you get rid of that anxiety, you will become invincible. You will record your podcast. You will push the envelope. You were made for stardom. So go on. Touch the sky. That’s where I’ll be waiting for you.
I’ve enclosed a little something for you to consider. Just an idea.
And always remember what I told you: the darkness envies the moon because it helps it shine. Don’t let people tell you you are anything less than perfect.
Love you more than a flower loves the sun,
—Dad.
I was crying so hard, it took me ten minutes to manage to read the card Dad had included in his letter. It was a 10K run for a children’s hospital in Portland. The run was set to take place here in Staindrop on Christmas Day, less than seven weeks away.
Admittedly, the slogan—10K for Kiddies—wasn’t the height of sophisticated copywriting. It sounded diabolical, not to mention extremely illegal. But I got why Dad wanted me to do something like this. It would make me commit to running every day, something I hadn’t done in years. It would be for a great cause—helping children. And it was also taking place right here, so it would force me to stick around for at least a few weeks.
“Jesus, Dad, you know I don’t run.” I shoved his letter and the postcard back into the envelope. In truth, I loved running. I just couldn’t disassociate it from the worst day of my life. “Also, where am I going to release your ashes?” I shook my head.
A knock on my bedroom door startled me. I blew out a breath.
“Open!”
“It’s me,” Mom piped from the other side. For some reason, I wasn’t relieved she wasn’t Row. She wedged her head between the door and the wall. “Well?”
I picked up the envelope and raised it, smiling with exhaustion.
Mom cupped her mouth, suppressing a gasp. “What did he ask you for?”
“To spread his ashes somewhere nice and make sure you move on and make out with someone on the couch.”
“Oh dear.” She blinked, digesting my words. “He was heavily medicated the last few weeks.”
I snorted. “No, Mom. He loved you enough to want you to be happy, even if it’s not with him. That’s a good thing.”
She struggled to swallow, waving a hand in the air. “Too soon to talk about this.”
I decided to change the subject. “He also asked me to take up running again.”
She bit down on her lower lip, toeing a circle on the carpet through her silk slippers. Semus materialized from behind her, meowing and looping himself through her legs. He curled his tail around her ankle and gave me a Bitch’s still here? look.
I picked you up from the shelter, you ass.
“Mamushka, was it really that important to him I run again?” I asked. Though I already knew the answer. Yes. The way I’d given up on my passion, and the unknown reason for it, was traumatic for everyone in my household. My parents never quite believed my story of how I got the injuries. I still limped whenever I was excited or exhausted, even though I had gotten the all-clear from my doctor years ago.
“You were really good at it,” she admitted, wincing apologetically. “It made you happy, and your smile was his favorite view.”
“Well, I’m too rusty.” I slammed the envelope into my nightstand drawer, banging it shut. “I can barely walk without breaking a sweat,” I lied. I was in good shape from years of bussing tables and navigating through New York carless.
“There are seventy-year-olds running marathons.” She readjusted the belt of her robe. “Besides, you seem in great shape to me.”
“It’s not that simple,” I huffed.
Running wasn’t just about running. It was also about other things. It signified pain, humiliation, and uncertainty for me. Besides, if God wanted us to run, why had He invented Zumba and Pilates? They were so much more fun.
“Simple? No.” She rapped her knuckles over my doorframe. “Worth it? Definitely. I don’t think he wanted to make your life easy, though.”
“No?” I looked at her miserably. “What did he want to make my life, then?”
“Better. Good night, Callichka.”
“Good night, Mamushka.”