Shine A Light On Me

My second year of teaching began stressed as usual, but there were some perks to having money, for once! I had a brand new telescope I bought with my tax return. I’d been waiting and wanting one for a decade. I didn’t get a Dobsonian because it was too big but I made sure to get an Orion one just as my dad’s. It was a pretty great treat because Jon had never used a strong telescope before. He got to see the sharp craters of the moon, all the wonderful shadows. He was dazzled. 

At the beginning of the school year, there was an eclipse that our entire school took part in viewing. Outside my classroom I took pictures of crescent-shaped leaf shadows from the trees. I thought of my dad. I remembered him trying to explain it to me as a little kid, but I didn’t get it. I can still recall the shadows of my little legs and looking up dejected because I couldn’t comprehend it all. 

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One day I realized I didn’t know where my gold necklace was. Off and on for two months, I searched for it in absolute despair. I checked all the places I could think of, my backpack, my desk at home, my jewelry box, and the bookshelf. I checked them dozens of times, searching every crevice, corner, and container. School pictures were approaching and I still couldn’t find it. 

For the fourth and final time, I desperately searched. Angry and tearful, I accepted that it was gone. I had a talent for accidentally throwing important things away. There was a sunken terror in the pit of my stomach knowing it was over. During my second year teaching, that first day of school as well as picture day, neither of them occurred with the necklace that I needed so badly to feel calm.

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On a random Sunday night, after a somewhat happy and long day of errands, we got pulled over by a cop. The blue and red flashes filled the car as well as the dread of the inevitable. I had an eight year old inspection sticker and old Texas plates. The tail light was out and now we had an almost two hundred-dollar fine. 

With a cheerful determination, I went to the Tag agency office to get proper information on what to bring to get Oklahoma plates. Ready to put the misery to rest, I immediately went Friday after work. I had all my papers and the car title with my dad’s name on it. The girl behind the desk got panicky as I explained my dad died and the car was paid for, as well as mine. Unaffectedly, she asked, “Did he leave a will or instructions to leave the car to you?” I felt a twig deep somewhere inside my body snap. With a heavy pause, filled with unbearable memories and frustrations, I shook my head no. 

She fumbled for help with another person and made a phone call. The memories started to sink in, thoughts of my dad being sick, filling out forms with my mom, waiting in lines at doctor’s offices, stressfully and vulnerably trying to figure things out on our own. As I watched the woman shuffle around, I sensed things were not going to end well. She gave me no real answer and a generic Texas DMV number to call and a half-hearted “sorry,” looking as though I was making her uncomfortable. Apparently, I’m the only person this has ever happened to. 

I slowly took all my stuff and walked back outside to my car. As I sat, I rubbed my forehead. My brain flipped through a rolodex of emotions, considering which one I needed to react to the moment with. I was angry, exhausted, irritated and hopeless. It had been almost three years since my dad died, since the monster tore through our life. We didn’t plan for it, we weren’t thinking of all the things that would be wrong, all the paperwork that would be bestowed as punishment. Who’d think dying would be such a pain in the ass? In America, in this world, death actually brings more complications. At best, it’s hilarious. At worst, it’s infuriating. 

Rationally speaking, that young woman didn’t understand and didn’t know what I’d seen. She didn’t know how traumatic it had been, that I was reliving all the anxiety. Not even in stating my dad dying, did this spark a remote offering of an apology or acknowledgment of a suffered loss. It wasn’t her fault, logically I know that. But I still felt slighted, misunderstood, and incredibly alone. I didn’t know what to do. My life felt like strings connected together by knots. Sitting in my car, the only decision I made was to cry.

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The second year of teaching went quickly and December brought fresh torment. During this time, one of my dear friends and coworkers had secretly been dealing with a brain tumor. She had told me a little about it but brushed it off as slow moving and not a real threat. We had dinner one evening together in December. I loved getting to spend time with her, she’d had a long career and had lots of stories to share. She had a daughter the same name as me which I think she liked. We’d gotten along so well. Then later that January I found out she had a secret surgery and that it hadn’t gone as planned. She was in a coma. 

We had such a nice dinner together but she never told me she’d be having the surgery within a few weeks. I was in total shock. It reminded me of my dad in so many ways, the both of them, their personalities. She didn’t want emotions, sadness, any of it. So we’d had that wonderful dinner, enjoying each other’s company and I thought I’d see her again. Instead, she was in a hospital bed, likely to never be the same. I thought of her family each day and sent flowers.

The holidays followed by the anniversary of my dad’s death were like taking hit after hit. No matter how hard I tried to think about all the good holiday memories, they would be chased by the horrifying ones from the last one we’d spent together. Throughout January, I fought memories of my dad. That same month my mom was having surgery for a hiatal hernia. The reality of my mom’s age and inevitable death one day, was gnawing on the back of my neck. 

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One night, distraught and overwhelmed, I couldn’t hide it anymore. I had been sick for weeks and I missed my friend. I was thinking of her constantly, especially at school when I was supposed to be focused. I was also worried about my mom. That familiar powerless feeling crept back in, knowing I couldn’t help them. But in general, on that Friday night, I was now crying about my dad. Jon sat in bed with eyes that seemed to suggest he was hoping to think of something good to say but couldn’t. I sat down on the bed, sniffling. “I miss my dad. I wish there was some way I could talk to him. I hate not being able to talk to him!” 

As I sat there crying, Macchi began to get hyper. Not more than a few seconds later, I could hear her claws tearing into the carpet under the bed as she zoomed down the hallway out of the room. Just as quickly as she had left, she exploded back into the room. She ran under the bed, found something behind the shelf and proceeded to strike it with her paw furiously, PLIP! PLIP! PLIP! PLIP! PLIP! All in rapid-fire of about five seconds. Then even faster, she took off again, out from under the bed and down the hall. 

Still crying, I was furious at her, “What is wrong with her?” Now I had to go retrieve whatever it was she managed to find behind the shelf so she wouldn’t torture us pawing at it all night while we tried to sleep. Muttering all these annoyances to myself, I peered down behind the shelf. At the bottom, I could see something sticking out. “Oh my God,” I grabbed it and put it on the bed. I stared at it in full shock for about a minute.

After a pause, I opened the baggie and pulled out the contents. Unwrapping the notebook paper, there was my gold heart necklace. Speechless, I shook my head and smiled. My smile became a sob. I couldn’t believe it. Jon and I stared at each other in silence. “I thought I lost it. I was so sure it was gone, I looked everywhere for it all year. I looked behind this shelf three times.” Of all the times, of all the moments… how? 

Macchi calmly came back onto the room, jumped onto the bed and stretched out like a proud tiger. She slowly blinked her amber eyes at me. I had often joked about her being a magical conduit, but this was something else. Jon, who is the most un-superstitious person I know, looked, something as I can only describe as, lightly terrified. Nervously I asked, “That was pretty weird… wasn’t it?” he nodded with the same unidentified expression. Macchi sat contentedly. Was it a message? Did something come through? Did he hear me? I don’t know but I stopped crying.

For the third anniversary of my dad’s death, I actually tried to raise money and spread awareness about the disease with my co-workers. That spring break I went to see my family and did the Purple Stride with my sister and nephew in Austin. The year before I was so nervous, doing the run alone in Tulsa. Now I was with my family, goofing off, probably annoying people who weren’t quite at that stage yet emotionally. We were survivors of a different kind and happy to have each other. 

When I was younger in my late twenties, I had seen an old man when I was at work. This man was probably about eighty. He reminded me of my dad. Some stamps he had in his front shirt pocket fell out as he had bent down to look at something. Before I could help him, someone ran over and got the stamps for him. My eyes watered, imagining a time that my dad would ever be that old. Back then I felt such deep fear, sadness at the idea of watching my dad become an old man. All I ever knew was the strong person he’d always been and projected towards the whole world. Now as it turns out, now I find myself wishing I had gotten to see him grow old.