Page 87 of Love at a Funeral and Other Awkward Conversations

Tell the people you love that you love them.

So far, I’ve crossed off number four, but it’s only the second week of the new year. For someone who doesn’t usually follow through with a plan, I’m doing pretty well, particularly since I’m about to cross off number one.

Arguably, the toughest one.

With my laptop open on the train, I take my mind off the nerves I have about seeing my dad by working on the book.

I’d started journaling daily at the suggestion of Maryanne. I tried to argue I already have my posts, but she insisted I needed to document my day-to-day life as a way of observing growth. At first, it felt kind of immature, like a little girl writing in her diary. But after a few days, I ended up looking forward to it. It’s become a form of meditation, to inventory my day, digest it, and then let it go.

The thoughts that most often shaped my days weren’t about my brother or family. They were mostly about missing Vince. Or sometimes about Dale, the guy who works next to me, who is the actual worst. Him and his sunflower-seed crunching and constant sniffling. Get a tissue, Dale!

Looking back over the last few weeks, I found a story of struggle and progress. Along with my social media posts, I wrote an outline for a book. It’s part memoir, part advice column, and hopefully something people could commiserate with or find humor in. I’m almost like a real adult, all because my brother died. Or, maybe, in spite of. I’ll never know, but I am grateful the roller coaster has slowed down for now, and even more grateful that Raymond St. George rode with me for part of the way.

I work through a few notes a critique partner gave me in the time it takes to get to Penn Station, and I load everything up in my purse. The memory of the last time I was here is still fresh in my mind, even though it seems like ages ago. So much has changed in so little time. For a while there, my life was frozen, but recently, my days are moving like dog years. Playing catch up, maybe.

It’s cold, and I wrap my scarf almost all the way up to my eyes to guard against the wind whipping between the skyscrapers. I scurry up the ten or so blocks, passing the Empire State Building on the way, and it reminds me of the one time I went to my father’s office for Take Your Kid to Work Day. I was ten and spent most of the day with his secretary, but after he finished, he took me up to the top of the Empire State Building and then bought me an ice cream cone. Besides the fact that he’s top management of a global accounting firm, I don’t know much more about what exactly he does.

When I arrive at the tall, silver building on Lexington, I hope I’m not turned away. I didn’t call ahead or make an appointment because I don’t want to give him the opportunity to make an excuse, but the man at the front desk barely takes his eyes off the video on his phone as he signals me on after I sign in.

It’s the middle of the day, and the elevator is blessedly empty, allowing me time to silently freak out. I wiggle my hands before wiping them on my pants. I’m sweating, and I remove my hat, coat, scarf, and gloves, holding them all on my arm, which doesn’t make me sweat any less. When the elevator doors open again, I trip and drop everything on the floor.

“Whoops, sorry,” I say when someone steps around me as I pick up my gloves and hat.

“Cassandra? What are you doing here?”

I wing myself upright, thrown off my mental game. I practiced what I wanted to say to my father, in the tone I wanted to say it in, but he takes me by surprise now, and I let out a startled, “Hi.”

Dad’s arched eyebrows and flapping chin tell me he’s dumbfounded too. “Why? What…? Why are you here?”

I get myself together, stand taller, and answer, “I came to talk to you.”

He lifts his arm to peek at his watch. “It’s two in the afternoon on a Thursday. You need to talk now?”

I shrug. “No better time than the present.”

He rolls his eyes at me but doesn’t move. The elevator doors can’t close with us at this impasse. “You know this is where I work, right? You can’t simply come here whenever you please.”

I don’t apologize or move. I’m not going to. I came here to talk to him, and I will.

After a short standoff, he relents with a sigh. “Fine,” he grunts, checking his watch again. “I have a meeting in ten.”

He spins on his heel, out of the elevator and down the hall. His strides are so long, I have to hurry to match his steps until he stops at the end of the hall to open a door with his name next to it: Stephen St. George, Director, Analytics.

I tap on the sign. “Fancy.”

He ignores me and sits down in the black leather chair behind his desk, reclining slightly, his hands folded across his stomach, a power pose.

It’s been months since I’ve seen him, and not much has changed, except maybe a few gray hairs. His suit is cleanly pressed, and he doesn’t smell like alcohol…yet. It makes me want to take a stab at him. “Divorce looks good on you.”

His chair creaks as he sits up. “You came here to poke the bear?”

I huff. “It hasn’t worked with you so far.”

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