Page 72 of Collateral Damage
“I do plan to take next Friday off of work,” I say. “I hope you understand why I won’t be in a state to work that day or have our weekly meeting.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less. We’ll touch base in two weeks.”
“Is there anything else?” I scoot my chair away from the desk, readying myself to leave.
“There is one last thing.”
My legs shake as I sit back down. I want to get the hell out of this office. This conversation is taking way too long, and I’m practically crawling out of my skin.
“The hiring committee has officially recommended me for Laurence’s open CEO position. They’ll be taking this recommendation to the board early next week. I would appreciate it if you put in a good word with your siblings and mother. I know your family’s vote is very important to the board in this matter.”
As it should be; it’s our name on the doors of this building.
“Of course,” I assure him, but as I head to my office, I’m not sure how I feel about Vale being CEO. Do I really want to sit through more micromanaging conversations with him?
As much as I can see him taking on the position permanently, I have to admit… I don’t want it to be him.
Maybe that’s not his fault. Maybe it’s grief talking, andanyonein that role would rub me the wrong way. It’s so damn hard to accept that my dad will never be in this office again.
Thirty-Two
Sybil
Present - Age 27
People have told me all sorts of things about grief over the years. They’ve said helpful things and not-so helpful things, beautiful lines about loving and hearts, and bullshit antidotes about fate and better places. Everyone is entitled to their own definition of grief, but here is mine.
Grief is a shadow.
It’s always there. In the darkness, it’s everything. In the light, it’s still there, but it’s sometimes small and sometimes large. The brightest things in life can make that shadow more pronounced, like when I’m having the best day, and it suddenly hits me I’ll never get to experience a day like this again with the people I’ve lost. How dare I be happy and laugh when Dad will never do that again?
Then the shadow recedes, and I almost forget it’s there.
It’s not only the people who are dead that I’ve had to grieve, but also some of the living.
And it’s the soft landing I naïvely thought would be there, but instead a hard foundation full of cracks, and when I crashed, I also crumbled.
I grieve the innocent, carefree girl I once was, but I’ve picked myself up and I’m okay with the woman I am now. I’m finally someone who leads her own life, even if that means accepting that I can’t control everything, especially death.
I went to therapy yesterday, and it helped a little. One more baby step toward healing. One more layer off the never-ending proverbial onion, so to speak.
I still woke up crying this morning.
Today is the one-year anniversary of my dad’s death, so it’s no surprise I’m hurting. Since I’m not working, I’m going to do whatever I feel like doing.
By lunch I’m ready to escape the loft, so I get out, sinking into myself while I eat a hummus plate alone at my favorite neighborhood lunch spot.
After that, I head toward The Paris Theatre, another one of my favorite New York City spots. It’s an old landmark that plays foreign and independent films, with the occasional classic thrown in. It’s small and dark and quiet, with a nice anonymous atmosphere for a Friday afternoon.
I’ll watch whatever the next film is. I don’t even care what’s playing.
I buy my ticket and head in for a screening of the 1991 queer filmMy Own Private Idahostarring River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves. I’ve never seen it before, and as I watch the story unfold, I’m not so sure this was the best decision.
The movie is incredibly sad, and tears stream down my face before the credits even roll.
This is a story about a gay sex worker searching for belonging and home. Spoiler alert, he doesn’t find it. Spoiler alert, the lastscene is him unconscious in the street, being picked up by a faceless driver.
Holy shit, what was I thinking?
