Sorry I Wasn't What You Needed by James Bailey

Author:James Bailey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Dysfunctional family, Family, Suicide, Grief, Relationships, Sibling rivalry
Publisher: James Bailey
Published: 2015-05-10T00:00:00+00:00

SEVENTEEN

We emerge from the restaurant into a steady rain shortly after two. I can barely see the lights on the storefronts across the street through the fog. By the time I reach Dad’s car I’m wet to the skin without having felt the individual drops hitting me. In Baltimore the rain comes down in sheets, like someone on a nearby roof is aiming a fire hose at your head. Here it’s more like walking through a cloud. I’m slowed on the drive home by delivery vans, school buses, and a minivan driver who seems to believe it’s okay to drive twenty in a forty zone because she’s got her hazards on. When I finally reach Dad’s street, the mailman jerks his Jeep into my path without looking or even offering a chagrined apology wave. He squeals to a halt at our box as I turn into the driveway.

I haven’t thought to check the mail since arriving Sunday. But it doesn’t stop just because its recipient does. The box is jammed so full the door won’t close tight. The envelopes cling together when I draw them out. Inside, I peel each piece off the stack and lay it to dry until the entire tabletop is covered. There are fundraising pitches from libraries and nature conservancies and the alumni association at the University of Washington, where Dad got his Master’s. His Newsweek and Popular Photography magazines sandwich a package marked “Do not bend—postcards” and a statement from TIAA-CREF Financial Services.

The TIAA-CREF envelope disintegrates when I rake my finger through it. I flatten the folded sheets on the kitchen counter and stare unbelievingly at the bold number in the center of the first page. Kerry and Audra were way off. The balance on Dad’s retirement account reads $695,454.29. Divide that by three and ... this can’t be right. I can’t really be about to come into two hundred something thousand bucks. Plus my share of the house, which even in its run-down state ought to fetch another three hundred grand.

I shimmy out of my jacket and hang it on a chair, remove my tie, and unbutton my shirt down to my waist. The clamminess has traveled up my arms to my torso and the open air feels good on my skin as I flap the cloth against my chest. I take a beer from the door of the fridge and pop the top. My eyes are locked on Dad’s balance as I sip. $695,454.29. I can’t even fathom what I would do with that much dough. Even a third of it sounds like a fortune, like winning the lottery.

I know it’s wrong to celebrate, but I can’t suppress the first scream that comes out. They keep coming, building in volume. Some are just noise, others deep and meaningful expressions like, “Fuck, yeah,” and “Daddy need a new pair of boxers, baby.” I pause to ponder the likelihood of a) ghosts in general, and b) Dad’s ghost in particular, and whether it might be nearby, watching me moonwalk in my socks across the kitchen floor.

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