Daylily
01
A sigh left my parted lips as I looked down at the phone number I had dialed out on my cell phone. Every digit made my heart sink like it had just started taking cement in through its arteries. The muscles in my chest were tightening with every breath. I had made so many of these phone calls within the last two days, I had said the same words over and over again. I knew what had happened, I knew who was gone, it was drilled into my head like a sick school lesson.
Paul passed away Sunday night. We don’t have the time and place for the wake yet. My mother will reach out.
A knot formed in my stomach. It was almost comforting as I laid back on my childhood bed and shut my eyes. It reminded me of the few years where I would lay here and think about him, my mind swimming in fantasies. I pressed the edge of my cell phone into my forehead, wishing it would slice through and put an end to the throbbing pain behind my eyes. The faint sound of his voice hummed though my head like a soft breeze through the trees that lined my backyard. The same breeze I would feel when we would skate on the rink in the backyard, playing one on one until our fingers froze.
We were best friends for most of our lives. My father was his coach for his childhood years, his mentor for his teenage years, and the critical yet tender shoulder he needed through everything that came after the age of 18. They would talk once a week. He would always visit when he was home. Lunch every Saturday afternoon at 2 Doors Down in Halifax. Two beers, some fresh food, and the normal catch-up banter.
My father would speak about him to me all of the time. He did me the favor of keeping any conversation they had about me to himself, but he would still come home and ramble on and on about everything he’s done and accomplished.
Despite the pangs of jealousy I would get when he spoke about his accomplishments, I still knew that in the end, my dad understood and was still on my side.
“It was years ago, Livy. You just need to let things go sometimes.”
The words felt like my dads motto whenever he would see me get upset when we spoke about him. I was over how I fell to the side when he made hockey friends. I was over how our contact nearly stopped when he was drafted and went to the Penguins. I was over the awkward summer back when he saw me once and barely spoke during our lunch date.
I didn’t care about any of that. We were young, we were stupid.
I was afraid of whatever feelings I had when we were younger would come back full force. I was terrified of feeling that way about him. I knew he felt the same. I knew when we kissed as a joke in front of our friends when we were fifteen there was something there.
The memories of us trying to battle the overwhelming urge to kiss another pulsed through my head. Every time we were together it would pass through my mind. I would think about how soft his lips were on mine, how his hands left invisible burns on my skin.
We were so young, but it felt so real.
He kissed me again when he was drafted. In front of the world, he stood up from his seat, turned to me, and without a word pressed his lips to mine like I was the most important person to him in the world. I can still remember the look on his face when he pulled away. The pure terror that ran through both of us.
We knew what would happen. We knew it would fall apart.
We distanced ourselves. Day by day, the strings that used to hold us together loosened and withered away. While he was making millions in Pittsburgh and I was finishing up my studies in Vancouver, whatever we had disappeared. We were strangers when we would see each other. Foreigners in a different land, unable to communicate.
My heart was nearly stone when I finally pulled the phone from my forehead and looked up at it. The numbers were still there, the call button taunting me. He was the last name on the list. The last name without a big black strike through it.
I was afraid of what he would say, of what he would do. If I knew one thing about him, one thing that had and never will change, it was that he was one of the nicest and most sympathetic and willing to be there for you people on the face of the planet.
I knew calling him would have him at my doorstep within days.
I knew once I told him he would be back. The strings would be back.
The feelings would be back.
Minutes passed as I kept tapping the edges of the screen. My eyes refused to stop tracing over the numbers. With every straight line and curve I would think about trying to repair things with him. I would think about how broken and upset he would be.
Then it hit me again.
My dad was gone.
Tears rushed down my face as the feeling of fire rushed through my sinuses. The inside of my skull was full with smoke as I finally pressed my thumb against the call button and pulled the phone to my ear.
It was three rings before his voice echoed through the phone.
“Hello?” He seemed so cautious. I thought I could hear his heart racing.
Maybe it was just my own.
I sucked in a small breath before I pressed my back into my sheets, letting the faint smell of fabric softener and dust relax my nerves for a minute.
“Hey Sid,” I could feel the acid in my stomach slosh around as I moved my hand up to my forehead. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a long sigh and felt more tears force their way out of the corners of my eyes. “It’s Liv.”
He was silent. It was like the weight of the world had piled on top of him and pressed down without a sound. I thought maybe he had hung up. I thought maybe he had already known.
“What happened, Livy.”
His soft words sent a sob punching it’s way through my teeth. Within seconds I was sitting up, my knees to my chest as the horrible feeling of loss and loneliness started to rip through my chest. I had said the words so many times before. I had made nearly one hundred and fifty phone calls in the last two days. I knew what had happened. I knew he was gone.
But telling him, it was the final realization.
It was the last puzzle piece in my brain.
The last crack that gave way to the flood.
“No, Livy, please.” I could hear the desperation in his voice. His breaths were shallow. The background noise of things slamming and moving around pulsed through my head like a bullet. His words felt like a breeze.
“He’s gone, Sid.” The words sent the world spiraling into silence.
My father’s long battle with cancer had been a quiet one. It had started when Sid and I were fifteen. I remember walking back to my dorm form hockey practice, drenched in sweat, pleading with god for a nap and a shower when I got a phone call on the small cell phone I had. My mother was shaking as she whispered to me, telling me not to worry, but my dad was sick.
I remember breaking down in the hallway. I remember the way the walls felt as I slid down them, unable to process the information that she had given to me. Tears were rushing from my eyes, but I didn’t sob. I didn’t make a noise as I let her explain things to me.
He’ll be okay, Liv.
I never went to shower.
When my muscles finally came out of their paralysis, I ran. I ran across the campus, into the ice arena, and right onto the bench. When the coach of the boys team saw me, he called Sid off the ice. The coach tried to speak to me. He tried to ask me what was wrong, if anyone hurt me, if I needed any medical attention.
When Sid saw me, it was like he knew.
“My dad has cancer,” I whispered into his jersey, unbothered by the hard shoulder pads that were digging into me. He held me for what felt like days. I cried out every ounce of water I had inside of my body. I was freezing and burning up at the same time.
I slipped back into reality as my fingers gently ran across the sheets under me.
“Are you okay?” I whispered into the phone, my tears subsiding for a minute.
Sidney took in a shaky sigh and exhaled. “I… I’m… Yeah.” He paused for a moment, “I just… I just got to my parents house when you called… I… I can’t…. Process it.”
“I understand.” My heart started to race as my mind laid out the map of where his parents lived in comparison to my own.
A few blocks, if that.
“Do you need me, Livy?”
The question hit me like a bullet to the brain. Every thought I had lined up, everything I could have said, could have told him, was demolished. I thought about opening the front door to see him. I thought about his arms wrapping around me while I cried into him. I thought about the familiar scent of his deodorant mixed with his shampoo.
I thought about how the world stopped spinning when he held me nearly fifteen years ago.
Before I could part my lips to answer him, his voice drifted into my chaotic brain.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Paul passed away Sunday night. We don’t have the time and place for the wake yet. My mother will reach out.
A knot formed in my stomach. It was almost comforting as I laid back on my childhood bed and shut my eyes. It reminded me of the few years where I would lay here and think about him, my mind swimming in fantasies. I pressed the edge of my cell phone into my forehead, wishing it would slice through and put an end to the throbbing pain behind my eyes. The faint sound of his voice hummed though my head like a soft breeze through the trees that lined my backyard. The same breeze I would feel when we would skate on the rink in the backyard, playing one on one until our fingers froze.
We were best friends for most of our lives. My father was his coach for his childhood years, his mentor for his teenage years, and the critical yet tender shoulder he needed through everything that came after the age of 18. They would talk once a week. He would always visit when he was home. Lunch every Saturday afternoon at 2 Doors Down in Halifax. Two beers, some fresh food, and the normal catch-up banter.
My father would speak about him to me all of the time. He did me the favor of keeping any conversation they had about me to himself, but he would still come home and ramble on and on about everything he’s done and accomplished.
Despite the pangs of jealousy I would get when he spoke about his accomplishments, I still knew that in the end, my dad understood and was still on my side.
“It was years ago, Livy. You just need to let things go sometimes.”
The words felt like my dads motto whenever he would see me get upset when we spoke about him. I was over how I fell to the side when he made hockey friends. I was over how our contact nearly stopped when he was drafted and went to the Penguins. I was over the awkward summer back when he saw me once and barely spoke during our lunch date.
I didn’t care about any of that. We were young, we were stupid.
I was afraid of whatever feelings I had when we were younger would come back full force. I was terrified of feeling that way about him. I knew he felt the same. I knew when we kissed as a joke in front of our friends when we were fifteen there was something there.
The memories of us trying to battle the overwhelming urge to kiss another pulsed through my head. Every time we were together it would pass through my mind. I would think about how soft his lips were on mine, how his hands left invisible burns on my skin.
We were so young, but it felt so real.
He kissed me again when he was drafted. In front of the world, he stood up from his seat, turned to me, and without a word pressed his lips to mine like I was the most important person to him in the world. I can still remember the look on his face when he pulled away. The pure terror that ran through both of us.
We knew what would happen. We knew it would fall apart.
We distanced ourselves. Day by day, the strings that used to hold us together loosened and withered away. While he was making millions in Pittsburgh and I was finishing up my studies in Vancouver, whatever we had disappeared. We were strangers when we would see each other. Foreigners in a different land, unable to communicate.
My heart was nearly stone when I finally pulled the phone from my forehead and looked up at it. The numbers were still there, the call button taunting me. He was the last name on the list. The last name without a big black strike through it.
I was afraid of what he would say, of what he would do. If I knew one thing about him, one thing that had and never will change, it was that he was one of the nicest and most sympathetic and willing to be there for you people on the face of the planet.
I knew calling him would have him at my doorstep within days.
I knew once I told him he would be back. The strings would be back.
The feelings would be back.
Minutes passed as I kept tapping the edges of the screen. My eyes refused to stop tracing over the numbers. With every straight line and curve I would think about trying to repair things with him. I would think about how broken and upset he would be.
Then it hit me again.
My dad was gone.
Tears rushed down my face as the feeling of fire rushed through my sinuses. The inside of my skull was full with smoke as I finally pressed my thumb against the call button and pulled the phone to my ear.
It was three rings before his voice echoed through the phone.
“Hello?” He seemed so cautious. I thought I could hear his heart racing.
Maybe it was just my own.
I sucked in a small breath before I pressed my back into my sheets, letting the faint smell of fabric softener and dust relax my nerves for a minute.
“Hey Sid,” I could feel the acid in my stomach slosh around as I moved my hand up to my forehead. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I let out a long sigh and felt more tears force their way out of the corners of my eyes. “It’s Liv.”
He was silent. It was like the weight of the world had piled on top of him and pressed down without a sound. I thought maybe he had hung up. I thought maybe he had already known.
“What happened, Livy.”
His soft words sent a sob punching it’s way through my teeth. Within seconds I was sitting up, my knees to my chest as the horrible feeling of loss and loneliness started to rip through my chest. I had said the words so many times before. I had made nearly one hundred and fifty phone calls in the last two days. I knew what had happened. I knew he was gone.
But telling him, it was the final realization.
It was the last puzzle piece in my brain.
The last crack that gave way to the flood.
“No, Livy, please.” I could hear the desperation in his voice. His breaths were shallow. The background noise of things slamming and moving around pulsed through my head like a bullet. His words felt like a breeze.
“He’s gone, Sid.” The words sent the world spiraling into silence.
My father’s long battle with cancer had been a quiet one. It had started when Sid and I were fifteen. I remember walking back to my dorm form hockey practice, drenched in sweat, pleading with god for a nap and a shower when I got a phone call on the small cell phone I had. My mother was shaking as she whispered to me, telling me not to worry, but my dad was sick.
I remember breaking down in the hallway. I remember the way the walls felt as I slid down them, unable to process the information that she had given to me. Tears were rushing from my eyes, but I didn’t sob. I didn’t make a noise as I let her explain things to me.
He’ll be okay, Liv.
I never went to shower.
When my muscles finally came out of their paralysis, I ran. I ran across the campus, into the ice arena, and right onto the bench. When the coach of the boys team saw me, he called Sid off the ice. The coach tried to speak to me. He tried to ask me what was wrong, if anyone hurt me, if I needed any medical attention.
When Sid saw me, it was like he knew.
“My dad has cancer,” I whispered into his jersey, unbothered by the hard shoulder pads that were digging into me. He held me for what felt like days. I cried out every ounce of water I had inside of my body. I was freezing and burning up at the same time.
I slipped back into reality as my fingers gently ran across the sheets under me.
“Are you okay?” I whispered into the phone, my tears subsiding for a minute.
Sidney took in a shaky sigh and exhaled. “I… I’m… Yeah.” He paused for a moment, “I just… I just got to my parents house when you called… I… I can’t…. Process it.”
“I understand.” My heart started to race as my mind laid out the map of where his parents lived in comparison to my own.
A few blocks, if that.
“Do you need me, Livy?”
The question hit me like a bullet to the brain. Every thought I had lined up, everything I could have said, could have told him, was demolished. I thought about opening the front door to see him. I thought about his arms wrapping around me while I cried into him. I thought about the familiar scent of his deodorant mixed with his shampoo.
I thought about how the world stopped spinning when he held me nearly fifteen years ago.
Before I could part my lips to answer him, his voice drifted into my chaotic brain.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”