July 2010
I always thought that the day my house would have this many of Dad’s friends and loved ones, would be at my father’s fiftieth birthday party. I never thought it would be for his funeral before the age of fifty.
Every room in the first floor of the house is full of people. They’re all dressed in black and no one really seems to even crack a smile. They only smile when their eyes meet mine as if that is supposed to make me feel better. Their smiles are just reminders of the unlucky rest of my life, without Dad. Without his smiles to enjoy on a daily basis. All this makes me want to run up to my room and not come down till everyone leaves, but mom needs me down here to keep an eye on the girls.
Leola and Lila are taking all of this better than I am. Maybe because they’re too little to really understand what it means to lose a father in such a tragic way and to have to live without him for the rest of their lives.
After I got home from the hospital, the girls and I went in the parents’ bedroom and sat on their bed. I held them in my arms as they slept. If only I had given Dad my seat, he would be here and you girls wouldn’t have to grow up without a father, I whispered to myself as painful memories of a fatherless childhood invaded my thoughts. It is really disheartening to grow up without a father. It is even more painful when the father is there but not living out his fatherly responsibilities. Now that I look back at my life without him, I realize how hard it was not having him around to be the father figure I needed. As I look forward and realize that my life will be without him, I am mostly afraid of not having enough good things to remember about him and of only having memories that will haunt me forever.
From across the living room, mom signals me to walk to her. I walk with my head down trying to get my thoughts out of the hurtful past into the present needs of my family.
“Yes, mom” I say as I sit and put my left arm around her. Standing in front of her is a man who seems familiar.
“Sweetheart, this is your dad’s book publicist and longtime friend. You do remember, Jess Reign, right?” she introduces him.
“He was telling me that he would like to talk with you about one of your dad’s last request…a book about South Africa.” she says in an encouraging tone.
Jess went to school with dad. They were both Creative Writing majors in college. They were friends but not as close friends as after dad reconnected with him when looking for a publicist for his first biography. Jess was genuinely inspired by my dad’s story and became not only the publicist but a family friend.
“Your father charged him to help you. Talk to him, please,” she says as she takes my hand. “It would be good if you could think about it.”
“Your dad was very excited about your world cup trip,” Jess says. “We talked extensively about it and planned it together. He was even planning on writing a book about it. He was really looking forward to your input in the book. He was a big believer that one day you would write books just like him,” he smiles.
“I know it must be difficult to talk about anything at the present time. But I would love to make his wish come true. Of course whenever you’re ready.” Jess adds without letting me answer.
If it wasn’t Jess asking such a favor, on such a day, I would have probably lost my mind and would have accused him of being a gold digger. But Dad has always spoken positively of him and I know him well enough to recognize his devotion to dad. He was genuinely and unselfishly both dad’s closest friend and publicist.
“I would love to help you accomplish this for my father, but I’m not ready at the moment. I will think about it and when I’m ready, you will surely hear from me,” I say.
All of a sudden, these talks, looks and sad moods in this house, are making me uncomfortable. “Excuse me” I say as I stand, in a hurry to walk away and put this conversation behind me.
“Thank you, Lod. Your father is proud and he will always be proud.” Jess encourages me.
“Thank you” I say as I make my way outside. I take a deep breath in as if taking my first breath in ages. I spot Leola and Lila playing soccer on the lawn.
“Can I join?” I ask with the biggest smile on my face attempting to hide how much I might start tearing up.
“Of course you can, Lod,” Lila says.
“It will make you happy” Leola says as she passes me the ball.
We pass back and forth. The guests start getting out of the house to watch us play. I finally get to see some genuine happy smiles and laughs as my sisters and I kick the ball around and make some funny misses and hilarious saves. My dad’s old teammates from college and from his professional career, some of my cousins, and Zaine join us in a ball passing circle. We pass the ball. Each person at his or her turn, takes the ball, does a little soccer trick and passes it. I show off my best skills, all of the ones dad taught me. I get applause from everyone and ‘oh nice’ from those who recognize some of dad’s signature moves.
At the end of a half hour play, people start heading back in the house and some start leaving. The girls, mom and I stand at the door to thank those leaving. Leola and Lila don’t stay long at the door; they get back to playing with their cousins and friends. The soccer match definitely gave them way more energy; they might be difficult to put to bed tonight if that energy doesn’t expire soon.
The soccer show down was a great touch to the whole event. It made the rest of this day less sorrowful and especially less awkward. People are leaving with genuine smiles on their faces as if they just witnessed Dad out there playing with his children. As if they witnessed another round of greatness from the great man Dad was and forever will be. A sight, mom had become too familiar with as she always watched us play and acted like the referee. She would score us according to our performance and would always tell the girls and me that we were the best and she would repeat ‘you are great’ to my father at least five times and kiss him after each game.
Those are the memories I cherish the most. I would love to spend my time thinking about those memories and my nights dreaming them. Since I’m sure to never re-live them now that dad is gone.
“Thank you,” I say to Aunty Bridgette, Aunty Sally, and Uncle Tom who are leaving with my sleepy cousins in their arms.
All the thank you and thank you very much have left my mouth a little dehydrated. And that’s without counting the fatigue of the soccer show down.
“I think you guys are ready for bed” Grandma Glo says as she closes the door behind mom. Grandma Glo’s real name is Gloria, she’s mom’s stepmother. Mom lost her mother at birth and when her father remarried, Grandma Gloria loved mom like her own before making mom the happiest big sister of two boys and three girls.
“That includes you too, Veera.” Grandma Ria says as she puts her arm around mom.
Grandma Ria’s real name is Gloria, she’s dad’s mother. Both grandmas in the family have the name Gloria. At first it was hard finding a way to call them separately when in the same room. Then when I was four years old, I decided to call mom’s mother Glo and dad’s mother Ria. When I was asked why, I told them that they both deserved their names and that I could split the name so each of them would get three letters and still sound cool. Since then, those have become their names.
Both grandmothers have been very close to mom for the past twelve years, especially during the seven years of my father’s absence. For both of them this is another tragedy that breaks their hearts and requires them to be there for mom, even more than before.
“Don’t worry about cleaning up, you have to rest, we’ll take care of everything, ”Christian says as he kisses mom on the cheek and picks up the plates of food in the living room. Cindy walks to her sister, kisses her on the cheek.
“We got you guys,” she says. Cindy and Cristian, mom’s twin baby siblings, head to the kitchen to clean up. I see Uncle Mike and Aunty Defie come down the stairs.
“They’re all asleep. All six of them” Uncle Mike sighs.
“You did it” mom says giving
a laughing sigh of relief. I can’t help but give the same sigh of relief knowing that all those six children are off their exciting adrenaline and in bed.
“You both need to rest” Uncle Mike says as he hugs us both.
“Let’s do a group hug,” he adds laughing. Grandma Ria and Glo and their husbands join in the hug.
“Cristian, there’s a group hug happening, want to join?” Cindy screams. Cristian storms out of the kitchen to join the group hug. The awesome thing about our family group hug is that it is not the first time. We have had group hugs before because we are just that kind of family. Or maybe because Uncle Mike is always the instigator of our group hugs. In one of our private sessions he told me that families that are willing to simply touch each other, are more likely to be in peace than families that do not consider touch as vital part of family cohesion. I don’t know how he got that or how accurate he is about that; but then again, Aunty Defie and him are the psychologists and counselors in the family, they would know more about families and people.
We stay locked in each other’s’ arms, silent for the next forty seconds. During the hug, I try to think of a few bad things Dad ever did to us. I want any reason to be angry at him for leaving us. But all I can think of is how much this family is going to miss having him in these hugs. It is as if those bad memories have been erased from my head. They are being replaced by the presence of the wonderful family taking me in its arms.
I thought that the house was back to being empty, missing one important piece, but I realize that the rest of the family is here, making sure that we know that even though one of us might be missing, we are still standing strong together.
“It was such a blessing to have the same people who helped my father come home, be there for me when he passed away. They were instrumental in helping me cope with the void my father’s death had left in my life.” I say.
“It is always good to have people like that in life. They remind you that death is not the end of everything.” Dieudonné explains me.
“Yes indeed, it’s not.” I agree.