Half Open

“Audrey, sweetie. I am so sorry. But your father is dead.” 

Surprised? No. “Surprised” isn’t the right word for how I’d felt when my mom told me the news. Deep down, I’d always known that all that drinking and driving would eventually catch up to him. “Shocked.” “Shocked” is a better way to put it. My mind went from white to gray, and for the past week, the gray in my head and the black in my heart have been blending and separating, blending and separating.

Things unraveled gradually between me and my father. It was the classic case of Dad going out for a pack of cigarettes and never coming back. Except it had been a blond woman half his age instead of a pack of cigarettes, and he did come back from time to time to visit me. Each visit was the same. We would stare at each other for a minute or two then ask each other a few general questions that revolved around weather and health before wrapping up everything with our goodbyes. 

Visits faded into holidays. Holidays shrank into phone calls. Phone calls were reduced to texts. We probably hadn’t texted for months by the time I ran into him at the grocery store a few years ago. He was browsing for alcohol, of course. We skipped the staring-at-each-other part and went straight to general questions before saying our goodbyes. I barely managed to hide my surprise when he chased me down in the parking lot a few minutes later to hand me a wilting, purple orchid. 

“Housewarming gift,” he had told me. 

I’m twenty-seven now. Which means it’s already been three years since that day at the grocery store. Three years since I last saw my father. And now, I’ll never see him again. I tear my mind away from my memories as I pull into the cemetery parking lot. A breeze shuffles through the leaves and branches as I step out of my car. Everything is green and bright. 

After a deep sigh, I ask myself, “You ready?”

I’m not questioning if I’m ready to say my final farewells. I’m questioning whether or not I’m ready to see the family member who paid for this plot. The sister who remained loyal to her younger brother when he left me and my mom. The woman who blamed my mom for everything, even though it was my father who broke our family. I’m asking myself if I’m ready to see my aunt. 

I’m not, of course, but I start walking toward the people assembled around the plot anyway. I scour each face to try and pick out my aunt as I draw nearer. I was a teenager the last time I saw her, and my imagination sketches dozens of portraits of what she might look like now. Guilt grates against my conscience as my eyes merely skim across my father’s closed casket then continue searching for her. I think back to the night she and I had our falling out.

The two of us were curled up on the couch with our mugs of tea, munching on the cookies she’d brought over as we watched our favorite show. I confessed in a whisper that I hated my dad, and to my shock, she scolded me. We’d been so close for so long. I had never expected my honesty to anger her, and I couldn’t believe she’d hold my bitterness against me. I responded with something along the lines of “but that’s not fair,” and the conversation spiraled into an argument. She yelled that I was a dumb kid who should be more grateful to have the father that I had, that he could do no wrong, that the divorce was my mother’s fault because she had failed to be a good wife. 

Those words wiped away all the words I still wish I could have yelled back at her. So, instead of saying something to defend my mom or myself, I marched off into my room and slammed the door in her face. I still remember how the door rattled against my back as she pounded her fist against it and shouted at me to open up. She stormed off then returned a few minutes later to ask me to open up again. When I didn’t, she pleaded. And when that didn’t work, she went away and never came back. 

My mom explained later on that my aunt had practically raised my father after their parents had died. Poor and young, she had sacrificed everything she could for him because he was the one shining light in her life in the wake of the darkness that death had left behind. Still, even after my mom explained everything and asked me to show some compassion, I didn’t reach out to my aunt. Instead, I told myself again and again that there was nothing else to say and that if she wanted to talk to me, she would reach out first. Then I took all our good memories and locked them away in a place that was cold and dark and deep, hoping they would die. 

The group standing around the plot parts, and that’s when I finally see her. I’m taken aback by how much she’s aged. There’s so much white in her hair now. Her cheeks sag slightly, and there are deep grooves that, for some reason, I thought impossible for her face. 

Our eyes connect for a lightning bolt of a moment. 

I look away, and so does she. I’m glad she doesn’t look at me again as I go through the motions and thank whoever gives me condolences. When the service starts, I find myself standing near the casket. People begin to sniff then cry and moan. It’s an awful sound, the sound of mourning. It fills my ears, claws down into my chest, and grips my heart. 

My father’s casket is white and gleams in the sunlight. Giant flower arrangements stand on either side. A flat bouquet sprawls across the lid. I barely knew the man, but I feel like he would have laughed and shaken his head if he’d known that he’d be surrounded by something as girly as flowers during his own funeral. He was a beer-drinking, women-loving man with a capital “M.” He probably would have wanted beer kegs stationed around his casket instead of flowers. At least the flowers are blue and white. I know he liked blue and white. I know that much about him. 

I’m surprised when I start trembling. When the sobs come, I hold them down so that I convulse and gasp instead. The preacher goes on and on about things that don’t matter, things that weren’t even true. And before I know it, the casket is being lowered into the ground. Flowers are tossed into the deep, gaping hole and hit the lid with loud thuds that frighten me. 

My father is dead. My good-for-nothing father is really dead. He’s in a white casket in the ground. He gave me a purple orchid at the grocery store. 

“Audrey?”

I jump because I recognize her voice. My heart starts pounding so hard it seems bent on escaping from my chest and running away from the reunion I’ve been avoiding for over a decade. I flex my hands a few times before steering myself to turn around. 

“Hey, Aunt Audrey.” 

Before our argument, our name had been just one of many bonds we had shared. Now, it’s our only connection. Her mouth quivers into a smile. More tears run down her cheeks.

“Oh, Audrey,” she manages to say. 

She stretches out a shaking hand to pull me into a hug. I flinch and take a step back. Her whole face spasms with a pain that has nothing to do with the funeral. 

“I-I’m glad you came today,” she says, withdrawing her hand. 

I stare at her through swollen eyes and sniff. She exhales then forces a smile. When I don’t smile back, she turns around then pauses as if she wants to say something. Then she nods to herself and walks away. I thank a few more people before I make my way back to my car. I feel her eyes flickering back and forth between me and the people still giving her their condolences. 

I keep wiping my nose and my cheeks as I drive back home. There’s a dull pressure sitting on my chest, and the pain in my head feels directly connected to the pain in my eyes. I’m relieved to step back into the comfort and solitude of my apartment. I toss my purse aside, change into my pajamas, and fling myself onto my bed. 

I wake up hours later, curled up and cold. The room feels deeper in the dark that has fallen. Images of my father’s casket and my aunt’s tearful smile float through the grogginess clouding my mind. I hear the wailing and the flowers hitting the lid. 

A question slowly rises out of the drowsiness that wanes and the consciousness that sharpens. It’s a question that must have planted itself in my head and grown while I’d slept. I gather a fistful of blanket then tighten my hold as I ask myself the question. 

Should I have done more to connect with my father when I’d had the chance? 

No. It was him. Him! He cheated on my mom, even though all she ever did was love him and take care of him. He never tried to be a good husband. He never tried to be a good father, never said anything all those times he visited. He always forgot to call back. I used to sit on my bed, hugging my pillow as I waited for hours for his call. 

An image of my father’s white casket drifts back into the view of my mind’s eye. I hear his friends mourning under the bright blue sky. I think of the purple orchid. I see the pain in my aunt’s smile as she tries to talk to me for the first time in years. The question starts needling me again, the question of whether or not I should’ve done more to connect with my father while he was still alive. I try to pull the question out of my head. I try to focus on all the pain my father never tried to heal, all the mistakes, the negligence. 

But I can’t pull it out. The question only digs deeper, penetrating my denial and reaching into my heart. There, in a small place that’s dark yet soft, a part of me whispers that I could have tried harder. 

I could have tried harder. I know I could have tried so much harder. Even if he hadn’t tried, I was still his daughter. Even if he hadn’t tried, I could have tried. I should have tried! Would it have been so hard for me to drive to his apartment and visit just once? Or to give him something nice for his birthday, even if it was just a card? If I had texted more, called more, or said something first, would things have turned out differently? Would there have been a fighting chance that he would have died years later instead of a week ago? If I’d just forgiven him sooner, would this pain be any more bearable?

And Aunt Audrey. What about Aunt Audrey?

I think back to the night of our argument, how the door rattled against my back, how she yelled all sorts of things about my mom. I think of how I had never expected to be mourning my father this early in life. If I’m honest with myself, I hadn’t expected to mourn him at all. 

Yet, here I am.

I roll onto my back then stare at the long slice of light stretching out from the gap between the door and the wall, highlighting the ceiling. I carefully unlock the place where I’d put away the memories of my aunt. I’d loved these memories so much that I had failed to throw them out even in my anger. I’m not surprised to see that none of the details have tarnished.

My favorite memory is of a summer day when she’d taken me to the local fair. There were strange contraptions, giant stuffed animals, goldfish for the winning, candy apples, funnel cakes that gave us stomach aches. My aunt threw up after one of the rides then laughed even harder than I did. 

As we trudged back to her car, grimy and happy, she surprised me with a fistful of pink salt water taffy. A few toppled onto the ground as she placed all the pieces in my hands. I knew she wanted me to keep everything for myself, but I still saved a few pieces to give back to her the next time we met. Her eyes had widened slightly when I had thrust the pieces into her hand, and a smile had spread across her face. Later, she surprised me with a large bag of candy. They were coffee-flavored. 

And that was how the tradition had been born. She would give me a bag of candy, I would save a few pieces and give them back the next time we met, then she would give me another bag before we parted. At one point, we stopped saying goodbye entirely. She’d just give me the candy, we’d smile at each other, and that was that. She was one of my favorite people on the planet, but now….

Is it too weird now? Is it too late to reach out? To try and rebuild what was broken? Sure, we had a bad falling out. But do I really want the next time I see my aunt to be the day she’s lowered into the ground in a casket too? My aunt, who laughed with me and spoiled me throughout so many summers? Will the regret weighing down on me now weigh even heavier on that day? 

When I call my mom and ask what she thinks, she’s quiet for a few seconds before saying, “I think you should reach out. She loves you, Audrey, and you know that I’ve always wanted you to reconcile with her. I don’t know how much she’s changed over the years, but try to be patient with her even if you find out she hasn’t changed. It’s the right thing to do.” 

In the days that follow, I pick my phone up then set it down then pick it up again only to throw it on the couch. I do this at least a thousand times before I finally text her. When I do, she texts back so quickly it’s like she’s been waiting for me this entire time. 

The date of our meeting arrives all too soon. I consider turning around as I pull up to the cafe. What will I do if she brings up my father? She’s bound to bring him up at some point. When she does, will everything we manage to rebuild come crashing down again? No, no. I’m being a pansy. It’s too early to worry about that. Nothing will break down or hold up or do anything at all if my aunt and I don't rebuild something first, and there’ll be no rebuilding of any kind unless I walk through that door. 

I step inside the cafe and breathe in the smell of coffee and bread. I freeze up as I spot my aunt. For one wild moment, I think she’s angry with me. But then her whole face lights up so brightly that, for a second, I forget all about my nerves and even our falling out. She sticks her hand high up into the air and waves like she’s trying to get my attention in a crowded mall instead of a small cafe. She’s dressed in a loose, white tee-shirt and black skinny jeans. It’s an outfit I’d expect from someone much younger, but it still suits her. 

“Audrey!” she says. 

We hug using gentle patting motions on the back then stand back and smile at each other before laughing and sitting down. We take turns glancing at each other before she tells me to order whatever I want because she’ll be paying. She shakes her head at my protests. Even after all these years, she still wants to spoil me. We sip our coffee and comment a little too loudly on how good it is. We ease ourselves into a chat after a few remarks about the cafe’s decor.

As we talk, I’m struck by how … the same … she is. Things have changed, sure. Huge career shifts, trips around the world, lovers that didn’t work out, food that she used to hate but likes now, and of course, her aging face, her weaker body. 

But the core of her is still exactly the same. 

I smile even as the sadness hits me. It’s not that I’m unhappy. I am happy. I’m here, catching up with the aunt I thought I’d never talk to again. But I’m also sad because seeing the core which hasn’t changed creates a stark contrast for all that has. Our falling out suddenly seems like so long ago, and all the time that’s passed since then and now makes the past seem small and trivial. I wish I had reached out sooner.

An hour flies by. When we rise to leave, our cheeks are red from laughing. We hug again, this time with all of our arms and with our chests touching. She thanks me for meeting up. I almost let it end there, but I’m still excited from all the conversation, I’m happy to be with my aunt, and I’m proud that I did the right thing instead of pansying out. I pull out a bag of pink salt water taffy from my purse and give it to her. She stares at the bag then at me. 

“Thank you, Audrey. How very thoughtful.”

We meet up again a month later. This time, I’m only a little nervous. I open up a bit more about my life and even brag about a big promotion I recently received. She’s ecstatic and orders a large, full-size cake on the spot to celebrate. She insists on paying for it, of course. An hour later, when we’re about to leave, she smiles and pulls out a bag of candy twice as big as the one I’d given her. It’s filled with big, marble-like pieces that are solid colors and glisten in the light. Once I’m back at home, I set aside several pieces to give back to her. I empty the rest into a glass jar and place it on the coffee table where it’s easy to see. I suck on a green piece that tastes like summer watermelon. 

With each new meeting, I open up more and more, and my aunt studies the parts of my life she’s missed like they’re countless precious stones with countless different facets. 

“Give it a year or two,” she says one day. “You’ll end up meeting the right person and probably have kids of your own.” Her eyes mist over with memories I can’t see. Then she says, “Your father would have been a wonderful grandfather. Who knows? Maybe the grandchildren would have been a bridge between you two.” 

I take a long sip of coffee then set down my cup. I demand more stories about her love life. She laughs. As she chatters on, I feel the adrenaline rush that can only come from dodging a bullet. 

More months, more meetings, more bullets. Comments about how much my father loved me, wistful wishing that he could be here with us right now at this cafe, stories of how he used to play with me when I was a kid. I jump and roll and run away from each bullet, but they fly toward me in greater numbers and greater speeds.

“You were so lucky to have him as your father.”

I spit my coffee all over the table in a fantastic, projectile display of brown. My eyes water as I cough. I accidentally knock over the rest of my coffee. My aunt hurries away and rushes back with a stack of napkins that she uses to wipe up everything. I don’t know why that comment hit such a shrill chord within me. It’s not that different from the other comments I’ve had to dodge until now. But there’s just something about this one that makes me gag. My aunt throws away the wet lump of napkins then sits back down. 

She hesitates then asks, “Can we talk about your dad?”

I clear my throat one more time. I accept that this is the bullet, the bullet I won’t be able to dodge. 

“I’d rather not,” I say, even though I know she’ll press on regardless.

And sure enough, she inhales and asks, “Why?”

It’s like I’m a teenager again, and all I can hear is my aunt shouting that I’m a dumb kid who has no right to be angry with my father and that my mother should have done more for their marriage. For years, I hated myself for simply slamming the door and staying quiet. I imagined over and over again what I should have said instead. But I prove myself to be a coward again as I repeat the same mistake in this very moment and stay dead silent.

“Audrey,” my aunt says. “Audrey, your father was a good man. You’re old enough now to understand that adults go through things they can’t control.”

She keeps talking, but all her words are muffled in the deep waves of emotion that churn and rise and crash within me. Why is she still saying these things about my father? How can she have the heart when she knows I disagree? Why is she risking our relationship again over a man who isn’t worth it, a father who failed his daughter, a brother who never showed his sister the gratitude she deserves? 

I remember how my mom asked me to try and be patient with my aunt. But the only thing I try to do is push the memory away. Patience is the last thing my aunt deserves right now. But my mom’s gentle words stand still in silent protest. 

I glance at my half-eaten croissant and the coffee I spilled, both of which my aunt paid for. I think of how all mothers, biological and surrogate alike, will always love their children no matter what. That’s how my mom loves me, after all. I remind myself that my father was always more of a son than a brother to my aunt.

But that doesn’t mean I can agree with her about my father. She’ll never let go of that perfect image of him that she idolizes, and she won’t stop fighting me until I bow down to that image too. And because I’ll never bow down, there will always be something locked and closed between us. But maybe this time, maybe after all these years, if I try to explain….

“Aunt Audrey,” I say, interrupting her. “Aunt Audrey.”

Her words stumble to a halt. She’s breathing hard from speaking so passionately.

“I’m never going to … agree with you.”

She sits back only a little, but suddenly, it’s like she’s standing at the opposite end of a tunnel. But still, my hope pushes me forward. 

“I know you and Dad went through a lot together.” I rub my forehead as I grapple with a thousand different words. “But Aunt Audrey, I’m just not … I’m just not you. I know Dad had his good sides. And I do regret it, not having connected with him more, I really do. Because I’m his daughter. I loved him, and I still do. But I still can’t ever see him the way you want me to.” A plea wells up out of my pounding heart and into my voice as I say, “I was his daughter, and he cheated on my mom. He left us. He drank his life away.” 

Her expression has been wrinkling more and more the entire time I’ve been talking. Her mouth has flattened into a thin line. I suddenly feel the need to justify myself, even though I know I’m right. 

“He … you don’t know. He wasn’t there for my prom. I was lucky if he remembered my birthday. Even my college graduation. I sent him an invite three different times, and he still forgot to come. I really did love him, I swear. But I can’t see him as that person.”

I know what’s coming next even before she says it. I want it to stop, but there’s nothing I can do.

“Your mother needed to do better.”

“Aunt–”

“She needed to do better! If she had, your father wouldn’t have become an alcoholic. He wouldn’t have died the way he did. He needed extra care and attention, but your mother–”

“She was his wife, not his babysitter!”

“Then she shouldn’t have married a man who needed more attention than the average person. She needed to be a better wife. That was her job, Audrey. She failed you and your father.”

Something hardens in my heart then combusts and rises. I know it shows on my face because she finally shuts up. I start shaking because she can keep asking stupid things of me, but I can’t stand her taking shots at my mom any longer. The shaking makes it that much harder to push out the words, but I finally push them out. As I do, I feel old because for the first time in my life, my aunt looks afraid of me. 

“Dad didn’t need extra attention. What he needed–Aunt Audrey, what he needed was to get his shit together! And the only one who could’ve done that was Dad. He was the one who failed me. He failed himself.” The thought that I’m about to push it too far shoots through my mind, but I’ve said this much, and suddenly, I can speak so freely even though it’s the one time I wish I wouldn’t. “And even you. He failed you. He failed everyone he ever came across. It’s just the truth.”

It’s strange. I always thought that if I could just throw a piece of my mind at her, I would feel happier, lighter somehow. But the denial and acceptance I see warring within her eyes make me feel like I’ve forced her to watch as I cut away a part of myself and tossed it in the trash. I look away as tears drip down her cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. 

I look at my coffee cup, my croissant, the table, the window. When she stays silent past a full minute, I rise to leave. This was all a mistake. 

She grabs my hand. 

“Audrey, please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. She’s your mother. I understand.” She tries to smile. “Please, sit down. Here, I’ll buy you another coffee. It’s been so wonderful. You don’t know how much it means to me to be here with you like this. I know I’ve missed out on so much of your life. I should have been the one to reach out first. I always regretted it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but please don’t … don’t.”

She holds on to my hand as tears keep rolling down her face. I feel so awful that I almost apologize. I want to bury everything and say that it’s okay between us, that everything is fine, to forget what I just said. But even my aunt’s tears can’t erase everything that she and I have both said. Maybe she’ll stop herself from speaking her mind a few more times in the coming months. But my father, my mom, the divorce, all of it will come up again sooner or later. I’ll get upset and say something back, and we will, without a doubt, have another argument. The door between us will always be there. The summers filled with nothing but laughter, those summers are gone. 

But I still can’t stand the thought of a future in which I’m staring silently at my aunt’s casket. I can’t stand the thought of shaking off her hold on my hand right now and creating another chasm as I walk away without another word, another chance, a promise of a next time together. I can’t just let everything end again. I can’t lock away everything again.

Yes, the door is there, and the summers are gone, and whatever relationship we can salvage from here on out will always be a little broken. But maybe broken is better than nothing. Because I love my aunt, and even though the door is there between us, maybe it doesn’t have to stay locked, even if it can’t ever be wide open.

My aunt continues wiping away her tears as I press my fingertips against her hand. I know there’s no use talking anymore today, not while we’re both so emotional. But I’m okay with that because I’m going to reach out to her later. I’ll make sure that we still have a tomorrow.

“I’ll text you,” I tell her. “I promise. I’ll text you, but for now, I think it’ll do more harm than good if we don’t….” 

I end up sighing and patting her hand. She nods and tries to smile again as she lets go of me. I pause before I pull out a bag of candy from my purse. I set the bag down on the table and walk away.