Page 82 of The Only Thing That's Real
My pops loved Frank Sinatra. He used to sing New York, New York to me every time I called or came home for a visit.
“Here. Let me get the back for you.”
My sister takes the flat iron out of my hand, helping me with my hair. I watch her in the bathroom mirror and think back to my teen years. I don’t remember her ever helping me get ready. With our five-and-a-half-year age gap, she was already at Oregon Statebefore I started high school. I’ve spent more time with her the last five days than I have, maybe ever.
I’ve helped at the shop, free of charge, of course, and spent time with my niece and nephew and my brother-in-law, Trent, who is currently at the park with the kids. Becks hasn’t said anything about the tension between them, but it’s there, and I’m worried about her.
The two of us packed up Pop’s room at the memory care facility and we put together the photos and program for today’s memorial. We may rarely tell each other how we feel, but we’ve always worked well together. I’ve spent all of my evenings at the cabin, and one night she came over to share a bottle of wine while we caught up on all the life we’d missed out on by living on opposite sides of the country.
It took a loss to bring us together, but I’m glad we’ve had this time with just the two of us. We’ve done our best to steer clear of our parents, but there was no getting out of family dinner once my aunts and uncle returned to town yesterday. Luckily, we maintained an appearance of family unity, and my father spared me his hostility.
“All done.”
“Thanks.” Turning to the side to inspect the back of my hair, I slip on my heels, letting out a big breath when our eyes meet in the mirror. “Ready?”
“Not at all, but nothing we can do about it,” Becks states the truth.
We’ve been so busy all week that the quiet morning has made things feel all too real.
Trying to keep the mood as upbeat as possible, I lead her out of the bathroom and through her bedroom, whispering in her ear as we come to a stop in front of her bedroom’s full-length mirror. “You know what else we can’t do anything about? How hot we look.”
She chuckles. “Dad’s gonna be pissed.”
Richard Jameson bled maroon and gold. His love for this town, its high school, and every person who lived here filled his soul with joy. His family and Goose Hollow were all he needed. He was a simple man who made everyone’s life better. It seemed only fitting that his granddaughters dressed accordingly. I’m wearing a mid-length maroon dress with cap sleeves and a skinny gold belt. Rebecca is wearing a gold sleeveless sheath dress with a maroon pashmina draped over her shoulders.
“I can’t wait to see his face. It will be worth the tongue lashing I get later,” I say, as we inspect ourselves in the mirror.
“He won’t be able to go off in a room full of people,” she assures me. “It’s gonna kill him.”
She only lives two blocks from the church, so we walk arm in arm, our heels keeping time against the pavement, enjoying our last minutes of calm before we have to put on our masks, becoming the perfect daughters.
The chill of the air-conditioned church feels good against my warm skin. It’s already eighty-eight degrees outside and it’s only 1:30. My parents are already here, as are my aunts and uncle.
Our arms still linked, we make our way to the front of the church, tightening our holds on each other when Dad turns and takes us in. He thunders toward us, but Aunt Holly steps out of one of the pews, cutting him off.
“Look at you two! You’re perfect! Dad would absolutely love this.” She wraps us in her arms while Daddeflates, turning on his heel, and thankfully walking the other way. “Come. Look at all the flowers people have sent. Dad was so loved.”
She’s right. There are more flower arrangements than there is room for them. They’re crammed into every nook and cranny of the church stage. Many of the arrangements are maroon and gold, just like our attire. There’s one bigger than the rest and as I examine it my aunt confirms what I already knew. It’s from the McKinnons. But I know, it’s from Knox.
God, I miss him. Like deep down in my soul. I’ve never missed anyone like this before. It’s an ache in my chest that coincides with an emptiness that feels like I’ve left something important behind.
Pushing my melancholy aside, Becks and I say hello to Mom and our other family members, who all praise our choice of attire. Eventually, Rebecca and I each take a stack of programs, making our way to the church doors. As people arrive, we accept condolences and hugs, showing our thanks by handing everyone who enters a program featuring our grandfather’s handsome face.
“Hey, you,” a familiar and welcome voice chimes.
Happy to see Daisy’s face, I pull her into a hug. “Thanks for coming.”
“No thanks needed. I know I’ve already said it, but I’m so sorry. The entire town will be worse off without him in it.”
“That means a lot. He?—”
“Excuse me a moment,” my dad interrupts. With a sharp tug on my elbow, I’m pulled away from the conversation and out of the receiving line to a corner where no one can hear my father’s vitriol as the real him comes crawling out of its hole, to spew the venom he’s had to keep inside.
His grasp remains firm, positioning us so our backs are to those in attendance. “Is the title of family martyr not enough for you? How dare you disrespect the man who loved you, even though he knew you were your mother’s bastard.”
My pulse thunders in my ears, a cold sweat covering my body. Dad isn’t often kind, but he’s never gone this far. Never called me a bastard. I’ve always known that’s how he sees me, but he’s never said it.
“How am I disrespecting him?”
