Page 37 of Never Bargain with the Boss
Not wanting to linger in the horror of that day, I mentally move past it, forcing myself to remember the rest. “I blocked out a lot from that first year. I spent too much time drunk and depressed and stumbling around in a fog. I went through all the stages of grief, first drunk and then sober—mad, sad, bargaining, denial, a lot of guilt—and what did it get me? Nothing. She never came back. And now I wouldn’t want her to see what I’ve become—a shell of a man, because I’m empty inside.” I swallow hard, the pain from acknowledging that just as real as if I’d been punched. In a way, that’s what Michelle’s death was—a sucker punch.
“But eventually, I came out of it for Grace. Not quickly enough, but I had to. She needed me. Or maybe I needed her?” I sigh, shrugging because I’m not sure what it was, but I’m glad that I didn’t stay in that dark place any longer than I did. “It was so tempting to drink myself into oblivion to avoid the new reality I found myself in—and for a while, I did just that—but one night, Grace crawled into the bed I’d shared with her mother and touched my face, and in her little-bitty voice, she told me to smile. And I did. It was fake as hell, but I did it. That was the moment I started healing.”
I don’t remember a lot, but I vividly remember holding my little girl as she slept that night. I’d stared at the ceiling, lit by the crack in the bathroom door because she was afraid of the dark back then, and realized that I had to get my shit together. She’d lost her mother. She didn’t deserve to lose her father too.
“Everything changed. The dreams I had of the future, what I hoped and planned for, were gone. Friends drifted away because they didn’t know what to say. My parents and siblings took care of me and Grace… fuck, they still take care of us… basically doing whatever they can to keep us on an even-keel, all the while watching to make sure I don’t fall back into that black hole because Grace is all I have. She’s it for me.”
My throat is rough from everything I’ve said, but I grit out, “Everything I do, it’s for her. Grace first.”
I risk looking at Riley, praying I don’t find pity in her eyes. I hate that look, and it’s become one I’m all too familiar with over the years.
He’s a single father, you know?
Poor girl, only has a dad, no mother.
He spoils that girl rotten like it’ll make up for her mother being dead.
But what I find isn’t pity. It’s understanding. It’s comfort. “I’m sorry, truly. Michelle must’ve been an amazing woman, wife, and mother for you to love her so much. And Grace is doing great, which is because of you, so I’m really glad you found the strength to come out of that dark place for her.”
People often don’t know what to say in the wake of a loss, whether it’s fresh or long past. They want to sidestep it, or minimize it in some way, spouting platitudes like ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ and ‘Everything happens for a reason’, or the worst, ‘They’re in a better place now.’ Every one of those clichés made me angry in the weeks after the accident, when I didn’t feel strong, and there was no good goddamnreason, and Michelle’s place was at home with Grace and me. Honestly, they still piss me off now, sounding like script-filled sympathy cards with lazy attempts at comfort.
But Riley doesn’t say any of that. Instead, her heartfelt words acknowledge that my wife existed, was important to me, and that her loss will always be a wound that doesn’t heal. She soothes the soul-deep doubts that, even though I’m doing the best I can, I’m not doing enough for my daughter, because there’s no denying that Grace would’ve been better off if she’d had her mother all these years. But she is remarkable and I’m proud of whatever small hand I’ve played in that process of whom she’s become.
So I say the only thing I can think of. “Thank you.”
It’s a thank you for listening to me, for not flinching away from the dark ugliness of loss, for not judging me for how I dealt with it in those early days. Mostly, it’s a thank you for just being herself, Riley. Because while she lives in the light and in the moment, she’s been through the dark and has pain in her past too.
“Don’t put too much on Grace, though. She deserves a father who lives, not just exists for her. One day, she’ll grow up and want to spread her wings. You don’t want her to feel trapped because she’s all you have.”
I suck in a painful breath, but it catches in my throat. “That’s not what I’m doing.” Even as I say it, I’m considering whether she’s right.
Riley looks at me, and this time I do see something—sadness. “When my mom died, it felt so unfair because everyone else still had their mothers. I’d see them—at the grocery store, at school, on TV—and I’d ask why they got to have one and I didn’t. I was still so young, at an age when I thought ‘fair’ was a reality that existed for everyone. Mom’s death was my first painful life lesson that fair is imaginary, and nobody’s doling outthisandthatto everybody on Earth, making sure no one gets more or less than another.” She takes a measured breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly, and her voice is stronger when she continues. “I spent a long time thinking I had to live for Mom, like because her life was cut short, I had to make mine this Massively Important Experience. It made me freeze up for a while, every little decision had this weight, and I couldn’t breathe, much less decide anything.” She stares out over the yard, and I wonder if she’s done. Fuck knows, what she’s said is a lot. But she huffs out a teeny-tiny laugh like she’s remembered something funny amid this awful sadness. “I was trying to pick an outfit for school pictures one time, and mind you, I had all of two nice shirts, and I just couldn’t choose one because I couldn’t decide which would look better blown up as my memorial photo at my funeral if I died before the next round of pictures.”
“Fuck,” I growl. “That’s rough.”
She shrugs it off like that’s not the darkest of dark thoughts for a literal child to have. “There are good things, bad things, and in-the-middle things. You’ve gotta take them all, enjoy them or do your best to get through them, and in the end, try to focus on the good ones as much as you can. Even if you have to create those good things for yourself. That’s what I try to do every day.”
I feel like I learned a whole hell of a lot about Riley from what she just shared. I knew that despite her easy smiles and playfulness, she wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but hearing how deep-rooted her pain is makes the fact that she chooses light and happy as often as she can that much more surprising. There is a powerful beauty in that. In her.
“You don’t merely try. Youdothat every day.”
A smile blooms slowly across her face, and I feel warm inside for being the one who caused it. I’m not often a smile-bringer the way Riley is, and after the heaviness of our conversation, that she can smile is only further testament to her strength.“Was that a compliment? An honest to goodness, raving review on my awesomeness? I knew you’d come around to the dark side.” She’s teasing lightly, not letting either of us wallow in the bleakness a conversation about death would typically entail, and I appreciate that more than she could possibly know. Well, actually, she probably does know. That’s why she’s doing it.
Magic. That’s what she is. Because I’ve never said any of what I just shared with her, and yet, somehow, I do feel better now that I have. And no one has ever told me anything like what she did, and I will carry that honor with the respect it deserves.
“If you’re the dark side, what does that make me?” I ask, intending it to be rhetorical.
“Responsible,” is Riley’s quick and sure answer. “I’m not dark as in evil, but rather like instant gratification. I bounce from one thing to the next, wanting new experiences and taking every opportunity, because I understand that death is inevitable, and at some point, I won’t get any more chances. So I take advantage of every second I get.” She purses her lips in a tiny smile, and I wonder what adventure she’s remembering. I want to hear about them all, every single story about every single escapade she’s ever had.
“You sound fun, and I sound boring as fuck,” I reply solemnly, and she laughs.
“No, you don’t,” she retorts, playfully bumping my side with her shoulder. “You sound like a good dad, who’s doing the best he can for his daughter. I’m sure Michelle would be proud of you. I am.”
That brings me up short. I’ve never really wondered what Michelle would think about how I’ve parented Grace. We stepped into that role together initially, but in the aftermath, I simply did my best. Admittedly, I haven’t always been good enough, but I’m still trying, every single day.
I smile as I confess, “That means a lot to me.”
“It should. I don’t hand out compliments very often,” she answers, her eyes sparkling as they dance over me, because yes, she does. And somehow, for such a landmine-filled conversation, she’s brought it back to somewhere safer and lighter. But there’s mystery building in her gaze. “You know what you need to do now?”