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Tori Adachi
Professor Stapleton
First Year Seminar
October 24, 2012
For Emma, Forever Ago
The journey up to my fifth floor art class was always treacherous, probably because
it came right after lunch and I despise all forms of exercise, particularly stairs. This
Thursday, the walk to Studio Art seemed even more taxing: I was cold, cranky, exhausted,
and the bell would be ringing at any moment now. Taking the stairs two at a time in hopes
of beating the bell, I arrived at my class just in time, panting and red in the face, but
nevertheless, on time. I looked up, still breathing heavily, to see my guidance counselor
standing at the large wooden doorway.
“Hey, Mr. Neberz! What’s up?” I said, in between gasps of air. I really should workout
more.
Expecting his usual grin and friendly reply, I was taken aback when he responded
with, “Tori, your mom just called me. She’s coming to pick you up from school now. Grab
your stuff and wait in my office with me.”
Immediately, the color drained from my face and I felt my knees turn to rubber.
Thoughts raced through my mind at a million miles a second, but I couldn’t bring myself to
think of the worst, hoping that if I didn’t think it, it wouldn’t be true.
I picked up my backpack and slowly walked down to his office, my classmates
watching me with curious looks on their faces, wondering what was going on. Sitting in his
office, Mr. Neberz tried to make small talk with me about college and my gymnastics team,
but every time I attempted to speak, I’d stutter and my words were barely audible. I asked
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if he knew why my mom had called, but he said that he had no clue. Great. A surprise. I hate
surprises and I had a feeling that this would not be a pleasant surprise. Tapping my feet
and fiddling with the zippers on my backpack, I stared out the window for what seemed
like a few millenniums, until I finally saw my mom come power walking up the hill and into
school, wearing her Tweety Bird and Sylvester t-shirt. Oh god, she is so embarrassing.
When she arrived in the guidance office, something wasn’t right. My mother is the
type of person that loves to talk to anybody about anything for excruciatingly long amounts
of time, but today was different. She opened the door, murmured a quick “hello” and told
me that we needed to go home. Now. I quietly gathered my things without a question and
walked out of the building with her. Once we were out of the building, my mom must have
noticed how nervous I looked; I felt like I was on the verge of puking.
“Man, that security guard sure is a bitch, isn’t she?” my mom softly joked, trying to
lighten the mood. I smiled, but didn’t say anything in return- my mouth was too dry and I
just couldn’t form coherent sentences.
When we got into our car, my mom shut the door, grabbed my hand, and said,
“We’re going home so you can say goodbye to Dad one last time.”
No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. This was not happening now. I’m only 17, my dad isn’t
supposed to die yet. I’m not ready for this. I wanted to scream or cry or something, but
nothing would happen. I sat there in stunned silence, images flashing through my mind of
all the times I’ve spent with him. Of me sitting in the window, waving goodbye as he left for
work until his car disappeared off in the distance. Of us playing baseball after dinner. Of me
excitedly jumping on his bed every weekend morning so he could draw picture with me. Of
him painting my face every Halloween. Of me running up and hugging him after a swim
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meet. Of us making pancakes every Sunday morning. Who was I supposed to do this with
now?
Growing up, I had always been “Daddy’s Girl”. My mom and I would often get into
arguments and the occasional physical fight about some petty matter. My dad would listen
to our argument, reclined in his favorite leather armchair after work in the family room.
Pepsi in one hand, remote in the other flipping back and forth from the White Sox to the
Food Network with his feet on the coffee table, Adidas sneakers on the ground, my dad
would call out, “Sally, don’t be so mean to her. Sheeeesh, just calm down! How about I make
you a margarita? Another gin and tonic?” and shake his head and smile at me.
When we arrived in my garage, I hesitantly walked into the laundry room, still not
fully believing that my dad would be gone forever. He was alive when I left for school this
morning and now he’s dead? The hospice nurse that had been at my house for the past few
days quietly greeted me, I could hear the pity oozing out of her voice. My mom grabbed for
my hand as we walked up the stairs together, but I yanked mine away. I wanted to do this
alone. The door slowly creaked open to the bedroom. I stood outside preparing myself for
what I was going to see.
He looked so peaceful laying there in bed, mouth closed and hands folded over his
chest. I kept waiting for him to sit up, smile and crack a joke, then reach for the television
remote, but he never moved.
“Well, the cancer finally won,” my mom murmured into my ear as she entered the
bedroom, tears streaming down her face. The hospice nurse stuck her head in the doorway
and said that Deacon Ron, a man from the Catholic Church in our town, was here to say a
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final prayer, which I found a little odd because we’re not a religious family. I didn’t want
some strange man barging in on my life during such a private moment.
Deacon Ron was the opposite of everything I imagined. Instead of some crotchety,
old churchman ready to force Jesus into my life, he was kind, friendly, understanding, and
something about him instantly made me trust him. I knew he was the right person for this
job. He had us all join hands and say a prayer for my dad. The second he finished, my dog
ran into the room, jumped on the bed, curled up between my dad’s legs for the last time,
and let out a small whimper.
I knew I couldn’t be here anymore. I didn’t want to remember my dad like this: pale,
skinny, and dead. That just wasn’t the dad that I knew-he was alive, laughing, and always
optimistic. I took one last look at him, grabbed my iPod, and walked out the front door.
Shoving the headphones into my ears, I pressed play and started to walk. I didn’t know
where I was going; I just knew I had to get out. The soft, soothing sounds of Bon Iver’s
album, For Emma, Forever Ago flooded into my ears as the harsh wind nipped at my face.
I had been wandering for half an hour and ended up at a forest. I had cried for so
long that tears would no longer come out. Exhausted and emotionally drained, I sat on a
mossy, damp log as Justin Vernon gently serenaded me. The quiet, rhythmic guitar
strumming, warm, swaying horns, and crooning vocals comforted me in ways that no
human ever could.
So apropos saw death on a sunny snow. For every life…forego the parable.
My dad had been sick since the middle of my freshman year. He smoked too much,
worked too much, didn’t eat well, and just didn’t take care of his body in general. Work at
his graphic design firm always came first and everything else came second. He suffered
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through two years of chemo treatments and the doctors finally said that the cancer
dissapeared. But two days before my senior year started, he had a heart attack. The cancer
was back, and this time it was Stage 4. We thought we were going to lose him that night.
There were so many flashing lights in front of my house, so many sounds, so many people:
furniture bumping, men shouting, my mom screaming, our front door constantly being
opened and slammed shut, my dog howling and crying. Even over a year later, it’s painful
for me to think of those times. I spent most of the days lying on the grass in my backyard
refusing to speak to anyone but my dog.
Only three of my friends knew that my dad was sick. My mom and I told no one
besides our immediate family. I didn’t want to be known as “That Girl Whose Dad Has
Cancer”. The only time I would ever speak about it was at the weekly therapy appointments
my mom forced me to go to, bribing me with a meal at a fast food restaurant afterwards.
“So Tori, are you ready to talk about it today?” Susan, my therapist, would sweetly
prod.
“No. I’m fine.” I would quietly reply while methodically folding and unfolding the
tissue I was holding, staring at the carpet.
“Really, sweetie? I think you need to talk about this. Your daddy is very sick and
your mommy is very worried about you. Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Every therapy session was the same. I thought that if I didn’t talk about my dad,
everything would go back to being normal, back to how it was before high school, back to
how it was before the cancer. But I would go home and my dad was still sick and I was still
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depressed. I had all these emotions bottled up, emotions that had been stewing inside me
for the past four years, and I had finally let them out.
Sitting there listening to Bon Iver and collecting my thoughts made me realize that I
couldn’t wallow in my misery forever. Life will go on. In a way, I was relieved that my dad
didn’t have to suffer any more. Near the end, he was almost unrecognizable. His burly, tan
arms from years of sports were thinned and pale, similar to a Holocaust victim. He wasn’t
the same person that I grew up with.
Although this will probably be one of the hardest times of my life and my dad won’t
be there for me when I go to college, need advice on an art project, graduate, get married,
and have kids, I’ll still have all the wonderful memories from the seventeen years that we
were together. With that, I wiped my eyes one last time, stretched, and started the journey
back home to where I belonged.
Seek the light. Running home.