by Ingrid Michaelson
AVA
Someone comes into my room and at first, I think it’s Dillon. I grab a pillow, ready to throw it at him so he gets lost. I love him, but he isn’t allowed to just walk into my room. When I see it’s my dad, a smile forms. I’m trying not to think about River and the fact that he’s leaving, but it’s damn near impossible.
“Ah! This is one of my favorites.” He moves his head in time to the beat of an old Nirvana song, making his way over to where I sit on my window seat. He’s wearing his favorite ripped jeans and black-and-white Converse high-tops. “Care if I take a seat, Aves?”
“Anytime, Daddy-O,” I say, patting the cushioned window seat. “What’s up?”
My dad and I are friends first, father and daughter second. At least that’s how I’ve always looked at it. My mom has always done the disciplining. My dad, on the other hand, would sneak me bowls of ice cream whenever she banished me to my room, and he always took me to McDonald’s on Sunday mornings for a breakfast sandwich when she was too busy with Dillon to notice I needed attention, too.
“Your mother and I were going to do this together…” his voice trails off and my stomach spins. What could they need to do together? “But I told her I wanted to talk to you on my own. I kinda want this to be like one of our normal weekend chats, you know?”
I interrupt him with, “Dad, you’re kind of scaring me, so if you could just jump to the point here…”
He smiles his signature ‘everything is fine’ smile. “I’ve been feeling kind of off for a while. I can’t really describe it, but I just haven’t felt like myself.” He pauses and scratches at his chin, rubbing the tiny hairs that have sprouted since the last time he shaved. “I went to the doc, which was so lame—you know I never go to the doctor.”
And he really doesn’t go to the doctor, unless he’s so sick he can hardly move.
“Well, she ran some tests and it turns out I’ve got a little issue.” I can tell he’s stalling, not wanting to hit me with whatever news he has. I watch as his body tenses, as the small veins in his neck bulge, and he sucks in a deep breath. “The doctor thinks I have cancer, kid.” He smiles again and I’m…why is he smiling?
“Look, it’s no big thing,” he says. “It’s prostate cancer and the survival rate is in my favor. It’s something we’re going to nip in the bud and then get back to life as we know it, as soon as we can.” He’s trying to make me feel better, but hearing the words ‘survival rate’ feels like a punch to the gut.
It’s as if the entire room shifts onto its side. I hear his voice but it’s a distant echo, far away but still surrounding me. For a moment, I think I might pass out, but when he reaches out and touches my knee, I snap back. “Dad. I can’t. I don’t—”
“Aves, you don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know. I don’t want this to be some big secret I keep from you or Dillon. Your mom and I decided we wanted you two to know about everything, so every step of this journey, you’ll be walking it with me.”
One, single, solitary tear rolls down his flushed cheeks and he quickly bats it away. “Shit, kid. I don’t know why I’m getting all emotional.”
He sniffs, and I pull him toward me and bear hug him as tight as I can, like he might disappear at any second. His frame is much larger than mine, his arms pure muscle, stomach flat and hard. I breathe him in, his cologne the same as when I was a child.
He always smells like winter, even in the dead of summer. Firewood and cedar and evergreen. A mixture I’ve always loved.
All at once, I lose it. “I don’t want you to die, Dad,” I sob against him as my world spins out of control. All I can see are caskets and funeral flowers and tears.
How is my dad sick? I barely remember him ever even having a cold or at least, letting it affect him. He’s healthy. He isn’t sick.
He pulls back from me, grasping me softly by the shoulders and shaking me just a little. “Hey.” His face is hopeful and lighter than when I pulled him in for the hug. “No one is dying. I’m right here, Aves. We’ve got too many concerts to go to. Too many songs to be heard. An aisle to walk down. You know, all the good stuff.”
“Dad!” I groan, chuckling but not understanding how a laugh could even escape my lips when my father’s just told me he has cancer. But this is what his specialty is—making people feel happy, even in the worst of times.
I know if I ever lose him, I’ll never be the same. So, I refuse to think it’s even a possibility. Because I can’t lose both River and my dad. I know I’d never come back from it.
Track Twelve: Slow Dancing in a Burning Room
by John Mayer
AVA
River has one arm draped over the steering wheel of his Mustang, the other on my thigh, caressing me with his thumb, back and forth, back and forth, to the beat of Blitzkrieg Bop.
He finds it easier not to talk about the fact that he’s leaving tomorrow, but I can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s ruining our last hours—our last moments—together.
“You’ll be okay, Aves.” He glances at me and winks. Normally my nickname is reserved for my dad, but I like the sound of it from his lips.
“Yeah,” I respond, not looking at him, because I know if I look into his eyes, I will fucking lose it. I feel him slipping away while he’s still sitting next to me.
I don’t tell him about my dad. I don’t even want to say it out loud, to make it real. I’ve somehow gone from having two incredible men in my life—consistently—to possibly losing both of them.
He just nods, eyes forward, refusing to look at me. Then, all of a sudden, River makes a U-turn and starts driving in the direction we just came from. He’s speeding fast, and I ask him what the hell he’s doing.
“I’m taking you home. This is fucking stupid and I’m fucking stupid. I should have never started this with you.” His words hit me like a freight train, and I turn from him to the window and stare out, willing myself not to cry.
We drive the miles back to my house and he parks. I immediately grab the handle and yank on it, but he pulls me in toward him. His face is red and blotchy, like he’s been crying, silently.
“Fuck. I’m sorry, Ava. I didn’t mean it how it sounded, I’m just upset. I don’t regret that we’ve spent our time together this summer. I regret that I’m hurting you right now and being a selfish prick.” His jaw tightens as he looks quickly to me, and then away again.
I instantly feel bad, although I’ve thought it too. For weeks I’ve been internally struggling with him leaving. The pain of finally finding someone who gets me, and having him ripped away for the sake of his dreams, really hits me now. My chest is heavy, and I suddenly realize that heartbreak is real. It’s an actual thing, and I’m feeling it. My lungs feel like they’re about to explode with the weight of everything I’m saying and everything I’m holding back. “How are you a selfish prick?” I choke out.