Piston by Andi Rhodes
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s nice to be taken care of instead of being the one to take care of others for a change.
Holland
Two weeks later…
Grief is fickle.
Grief is as complicated as it is simple.
Grief is bullshit.
As a child, I was too young to process my mother’s death, to go through the stages of grief in ways I could understand. And as I got older, her death was always just there. A chapter in my story. Now, at twenty-seven, I’m facing another chapter that I wish I could unwrite. But that’s not how life goes.
Life and death.
Two sides to the same coin. You can’t have one without the other.
Unfortunately.
“Hun, where do you want this box?”
I glance up from the photo album in my lap and see Margo standing in the doorway. Piston, along with several of the brothers and ol’ ladies are helping me move today. I can’t stay in my father’s home. He left me everything but it’s too painful. Both of my parents died in this place. It’s time for me to do what I’ve wanted to do for a long time: get my own place, my own home.
“Is there a black ‘X’ on it?”
Margo shakes her head. “Nope, a green one.”
“Then it goes in the moving truck to be taken to the rental house.”
Margo disappears around the corner. I listen to the voices in the hallway, the not-so-silent whispers and worry. They all want to know if I’m okay, why I refused to move in with Piston, how I turned out ‘so normal for a rich bitch’. If that weren’t just how they talked, I’d take it personally. But they mean no harm.
I chose to handle my father’s bedroom myself. Fender and Riker had tried to come in and get the furniture out of the way for me, but I’d screamed at them to get out. I’m not ready yet.
Today is moving day, Holland. You better get ready, and fast.
I toss the photo album into the box in front of me and tape it shut. I grab the green marker off the floor and draw a giant ‘X’ across the lid. Photo albums are definitely coming with me.
I crawl toward the closet to dig for more things to sort through. I spend the next hour or so stuffing a trash bag with papers that no longer matter now that my father is dead. When the floor is clear, I lie back on the floor and stretch.
Footsteps sound in the room and I twist to see Piston walking toward me.
“How’s it going in here?” he asks as he kneels down.
“It’s good. I just need to get the clothes out of the closet and then the furniture can be moved out.”
“Okay.” He runs his fingers through my hair. “Take your time, Holland. We’re not in any rush.”
“Thank you for that.” I smile at him, albeit sadly. “I need to get it done, though. I’m not ready, but I think it’s kinda like a band-aid. I just have to rip it off, ya know?”
“I do know.” Piston stands up. “Want me to help with the clothes?”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
Piston stretches out a hand to help me up, and when I crash into his chest, he holds me for a minute. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Holding me. Making sure I don’t crash and burn.
The night my father died, my life changed forever. And surprisingly, it wasn’t all bad.
Because the moment Piston’s arms went around me to hold me up, I knew I was way past falling in love with him. And the last two weeks have only solidified that. He’s been by my side every single day and on the rare occasions he can’t be, someone is there in his place. It’s nice to be taken care of instead of being the one to take care of others for a change.
Piston and I start taking clothes out of the closet and as I’m stuffing my armful into yet another box—this one with a black ‘X’ so it can be donated—I hear hangers being shifted behind me.
“Hey, did you know about this?”
I drop what clothes are left in my arms and turn to see what Piston is talking about. On the back wall of the closet is a safe. It appears to be built into the wall, and based on the gold leaf monogram, I’m guessing my father had it custom made.
“No.” I kneel down to run my fingers over the steel door, tracing the monogram. “Daddy had a safe in his study but we already cleaned that out.”
“Well,” Piston rocks back on his heels. “I guess we should figure out how to get this sucker open.”
I stare at the dial and try to conjure up the combination. How the hell am I supposed to know what it is?
“Try his birthday,” Piston suggests, making me realize I voiced my question out loud.
I turn the knob to input my father’s birthday and it does nothing. Next I try my mother’s birthday and when that fails, I try my own.
The safe door pops open and I beam a smile over my shoulder at Piston. “Got it.”
I pull out all the contents: two small boxes, a photo album, and an envelope with my name on it. I scan through the photo album and see my parent’s relationship and my childhood in picture form. I want to sit here and look at the pictures forever, but I set it aside to save time. I can look at them later.
Next I open one of the boxes. Inside are several jewelry boxes and upon further inspection, it becomes clear that they are all pieces that belonged to my mother. I add that box to the photo album and open the second box.
I set the lid to the side and as soon as I see what my father used this box for, tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision.
“What is it?” Piston asks as he sits next to me.
“It’s…” I take a deep breath to calm my shaky voice and start removing paper after paper, picture after picture. “It’s my entire career.”
Piston scans through some of the newspaper clippings. “This is impressive.”
“Thanks, but…”
“But what?”
I shake my head, trying to make sense of my disjointed thoughts.
“I always thought he was disappointed in my career.” I lean my head on Piston’s shoulder. “But now… I don’t know what to make of this.”
“I think it’s pretty clear that he was proud of you. He may not have always said it or—”
“He never said it,” I say through gritted teeth. “Don’t get me wrong, I know my father loved me, but after my mom died it was like he saw right through me sometimes, ya know? Like he didn’t see me even when I was standing right in front of him because he was constantly searching for something else.”
“I’m not going to pretend I understand your dad because I don’t. But I do understand grief and it sounds like he was grieving, in his own way. Don’t hold that against him. He wouldn’t want you to spend your life being angry or bitter.”
I swipe the tears off my cheeks. “You’re right. I know that. And he wasn’t a bad father. He was… he was Langston Tibideaux and faults and all, I loved him.”
“And that’s how it’s supposed to be. There’s nothing wrong with that. Love should be unconditional.”
I lift my eyes to his face. “How the hell did you get so smart?” I tease.
Piston shrugs. “It’s a gift.”
I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles from my throat, or the snort that bursts from me. I elbow Piston in the ribs and sit up to reach for the only remaining item from the safe: the envelope with my name on it.
“Are you gonna read it?”
“I don’t know if I want to,” I answer honestly.
“You want to.” Piston nudges me and then rises to his feet. “I’ll give you some space.”
He leaves me alone on the bedroom floor and it takes me several minutes to work up the courage to open the envelope. I pull out the pieces of paper inside and shuffle through them quickly. My heart cracks when I see that whatever is written on the pages is written in both my mother and father’s handwriting.
I flip back to the first page and start reading.
My darling daughter,
If you’re reading this, then I know the cancer took me from you. I also know that you’ve grown to be an amazing young woman. You were always such a wonderful child and I cherished every second I got to have with you. Your father did too… never doubt that.
Darling, know that I am always with you. Every decision you make, every success and failure, every relationship… I’m there. You may not be able to see me but I’m there. I wish I could hug you, dry your tears, see your smile.
I wipe my eyes and sniffle. I feel like I was robbed of so much when my mother died. I never got to talk to her about boys or my hopes and dreams. I never got to call her with good news or when I was having a bad day. So many ‘never’s.
Now for the tough stuff. Your father is a wonderful man. When I first laid eyes on him, I was done. He was so handsome and charming. I loved him with my whole heart and that never changed. But he changed. The longer I was confined to a bed, the sicker I got, the more sullen he became. Knowing him like I do, I doubt that changed any over the years. I tried to make him promise that he would remarry, that he would let himself be happy. He refused but I can only hope that he eventually found his way into the light. If he didn’t, darling, don’t hold it against him. He loves you more than anything, that I’m certain of.
My head falls back and I stare at the ceiling through my tears. He never did. He wasn’t a miserable man but he wasn’t ever totally happy either.
One last thing I want to tell you, one piece of advice from a mother to her daughter, from one woman to another. Here goes: Life is scary, but it’s also full of so much joy. Don’t ever close your heart to the joy. You’ll be taught that there’s right and wrong, black and white, left, right, up and down. But there’s also gray. A lot of gray.
And there’s nothing wrong with gray. The gray is where you’ll find yourself, find what makes your heart and soul happy.
Find the gray, darling, and hold onto it with both hands because there’s no time to let it go. Tomorrow is never promised. Make the most of whatever life brings your way and dive into the gray.
I love you, Holland. So much my heart could burst from it.
Love, Mommy
I set my mother’s portion of the letter aside. My breath shudders and my head begins to throb. Reading my mother’s words, her advice… I don’t know how she knew that I’d need to hear it but finding this letter couldn’t have come at a more perfect time.
Piston is my gray.
We make no sense together. My world is very black and white, right and wrong. His, on the other hand, is anything but. And together, we’re the perfect shade of gray.
I lift the paper to read my father’s words.
Holland,
If you’re reading this, know that I’ve found the light (yes, I read your mother’s words) and I found it in heaven with your mother.
I know I haven’t always been the best father. I’ve been demanding, overprotective, and at times, cold and distant. I’m sorry for that. You deserved so much better than what I gave you.
But pumpkin, your mother is right.
I drop my hand into my lap, unable to continue after seeing the nickname he had for me when I was a little girl. The one he used without fail… until my mother died. Tears stream down my face, unchecked, and a sob erupts from the deepest part of me.
I expel all my anger, all the years I thought I wasn’t good enough. I cry because I wish my father would have told me all of this before he died. I cry because I loved him, because I miss him, because life as I knew it is over.
Strong arms come around me. “Shhh,” Piston croons as he rests his cheek on my head. He sits and pulls me back against him. “Let it out.”
Piston holds me, rocks me as I sob. He rides the wave of grief with me. Complicated, fickle grief.
As my sobs slow, he places a hand over mine, over the one holding the letter. “Do you want me to read the rest for you?”
I nod and let go of the paper. Piston takes a deep breath and reads. He starts at the beginning, and I anxiously wait for him to get to the point I was at.
Piston pauses to clear his throat and then continues.
“It’s not because I didn’t love you. Quite the opposite. I loved you so much and had no idea what to do with all of it. That’s on me, pumpkin. Not you. Never you. You’ve become such an incredible woman. It’s been my greatest joy in life to watch you grow, to watch you take life by the horns and never let go. You’re fearless and I wish I had a fraction of your courage. As odd as it sounds, when I got sick, I was happy. It meant that you’d be coming home, that I’d get to spend more time with you. But that’s not what happened. You physically came home, but there was a part of you that was left behind. You were angry. And rightfully so. When I heard you talking to Piston, when I heard you put your pain into words, it broke my heart. I’m sorry I ever made you feel less than the perfect human you are. But as I write this letter, my heart is holding onto the good. I’ve lived a good life. Yes, I’ve made mistakes, ones I can never correct. But don’t let my mistakes make you bitter. Another thing your mother is right about. Life is too short. Tomorrow isn’t promised. Piston is a good man, pumpkin. Listen to your mother and find the gray. Although, I think you’ve already found it. Hold onto it. Savor it. Because it can be gone in a flash. Love, Daddy.”
Piston drops the letter on top of my mothers and squeezes me tight. I dig my fingers into his arms and hold on.
“What is he talking about? What’s the ‘gray’?”
“It’s something my mother said in her letter. You can read it if you want.”
He does just that. I scoot forward and turn around so I can face him, watch his expression as he reads my mother’s words. My lips tip into a smile when I see his moving as he reads silently to himself. I know the instant he figures out what ‘the gray’ is because his head pops up and he locks eyes with me.
“I’m your gray?” he asks.
I nod.
“Okay.” He sets the letter down and lifts my hand into his. “But just to clarify, that’s a good thing, right?”
“Yeah, it is.”
I chew on my bottom lip as I try to come up with the words to explain it to him. The only words that come to me are just like grief. They’re fickle. They’re complicated and simple. And, as crazy as it may be, they’re true.
“I love you, Piston.”
His face lights up and he grins. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you too.”
