By Yuvi Zalkow
This Story Won Second Prize in Our Contest
Learn More About Our Contest Here
I was only twenty-five and didn’t understand grief. How it twisted its way into life.
My dad was visiting me in Portland for a week. Mom had called the week before and said, “Your father is being a nudnick. I’m sending him to you.” They lived in Atlanta. I could hear in the background my father yelling, “I’m not a fucking package.”
I had no idea what to do with him. His sister, Adela, had died three months earlier, and he was getting more depressed as time wore on. We went to the Japanese Garden. He looked out at the goldfish and said, “They look so damn content.” We went to Powell’s Books. I knew he was trying to write a story about his parents, immigrants from Poland, and thought he might want to pick up some novels to help inspire him. He only bought one novel, Herzog, about a crazy nudnick of a man going through a breakdown.
I tried to find something to talk about: fishing, pickles, insects, parents. Anything. The conversations shut down before they could get going.
All the while, he scribbled in his notebook. This black notebook smaller than the palm of his hand. When I asked what was in the notebook, he said, “Just some bullshit.”
One habit we picked up is that we’d order martinis every day for lunch at the pub near my apartment. He didn’t open up as he got drunk, but he got more relaxed, maybe like those contented goldfish. If I asked him what he was thinking, he’d say something melodramatic like, “The pointlessness of life.”
On his last night, I convinced him to go with me to a nearby teahouse.
“I don’t want to pay eight dollars for a fucking tea,” he said.
“It’s our last night,” I said.
“Last night,” he repeated like it meant something else.
~
The tables were too small, and the music wasn’t really music but more like the sound of water and wind. There were watercolor paintings of waterfalls. The place made me want to pee.
The waiter was this tall skinny blond guy who didn’t quite fit with the Japanese motif. But he still seemed to know his Japanese teas well enough to give me a look of disdain when I ordered chamomile. My dad ordered something called gunpowder.
Our teas came out quickly. The waiter told my dad to take the tea infuser out of the mug after two minutes and didn’t give me any instructions. And then he disappeared into the back.
My dad kept staring into his tea.
“It’s been nice spending time with you,” I tried.
“Nice,” he said into his tea.
“Didn’t the guy say that you should take out the tea after two minutes?”
“What does that kid know?”
I reminded myself that he was only here for a short time, that he was family.
When he opened his notebook and scribbled something, I tried to peek. His handwriting was for shit, but I could see a list of questions on the page. One thing said, “Why did Papa cry when he talked about the Yankees?” Another said, “Who was the girl in his wallet?” He’d been working on a story of his father for a year, and maybe this was a list of questions he needed to answer to finish his story.
“How’s the story of Papa going?”
“It’s not going,” he said.
“Are you still taking notes? Is it interesting?”
He was about to say something nasty, and so I said, “I also like to make lists. I guess I got that from you.”
He looked up at me. “I’m stuck,” he said.
It was the first real thing he’d said all week. Everything else seemed like a line from a soap opera character. But this was something authentic. I didn’t want to lose it.
Even though I knew my dad didn’t like advice, I was young enough and arrogant enough to think that I could teach him something. I’d taken a few creative writing classes and published a few stories. So I spouted off things like, “What does your character want? What is it that you need to say?”
“No,” he yelled before I could finish my lecture. “You don’t understand. I can’t answer these questions.” He banged the wet spoon on the page, and it made me nervous that tea was getting on his notebook. I reached out and touched his wrist to stop him from his gesture. The skin on his wrist was thick, and almost feverishly hot.
“Dad,” I said. “If you look inside yourself, I bet you’ll find answers.”
I let go of him. His breathing got slower. I felt pretty proud of myself.
“God damnit,” he said. It was a whisper this time. It felt even worse than him yelling. He spun the notebook my way so that I could read it. “Read the goddamn title.”
I didn’t follow his instructions. I read four pages of questions. A great list of questions about my grandfather. He died when I was ten, and I only remember bits and pieces of his silliness and his obsession with the Yankees and how his ties were crooked. I missed him.
Then I looked at the title: “Questions to ask Adela.” The date on the page was a month before she died.
“This isn’t a story,” he said, his voice so weak that I could barely hear him. “These things aren’t inside of me. They’re gone forever.”
“Oh,” I whispered.
My father started tearing up. I’d never seen him cry. It was messy, and when he wiped the tears, it just made them multiply.
My father’s hand was on the notebook, covering up the page, with his fingers trembling. And even though I now knew what was written there, I kept trying to look between his fingers. Like I could somehow see something that I had missed.
A moving and terribly “real” story. I felt his tears and anguish and your frustration. Perfect.
Thank you for the kind words, Rita!
Wonderful story and a great reminder that we should ask our parents and grandparents the questions we have always been meaning to ask them right now, because we don’t know how long we can ask them.
Thanks, Robert. Yeah, it’s really true. I regret not dedicating more time talking with my grandparents when I could. And now trying to appreciate the people who I can hear stories from…
Very real and poignant story. Thank you.
Thanks, Rosemary!
Beautifully written. I could feel the father’s anguish that his link to the answers he sought was forever severed.
Thank you, Parker!
In tears. The grief is so real. Would you consider making this into a longer story where some of those questions get resolved?
Thanks for the kind words, Lois. Yeah, I have played around with variations on this story, but it kept coming back down to this short of window of time where the story seemed to work best… Might be something I try again soon though. Take care!
Good job. Very real.
Thanks, Trix!
I love how the line, “How it twisted its way into life.” It sets up the whole story.
Thanks so much, Aline! (Yeah, I fiddled around with that line a bunch before the final draft…😜)
A lovely, wonderfully understated tale that resonates. Well done.
Thanks, Gavin!
Great story, Yuvi. I love “…and when he wiped the tears it just made them multiply.”
Thanks so much, Jackie! (And… I learn so much from your insights…)
Broke my heart. Well done
Thanks so much for the kind words!
Dang. Making it short is even trickier. You nailed it, Yuvi.
Thank you, Betsy! (Yeah, the first draft was a lot longer… took a bit to tighten it up…) 😜
I understand his pain. I knew that could happen to me and so I interviewed my grandparents long before they passed away. I don’t know why that popped into my head, but luckily it did. They really enjoyed it and told so many stories. I can still see myself, sitting at their feet and writing stuff down.
So glad you had that opportunity (and the instinct) to do that, Norah… I regret not having some of those conversations with my grandparents when I had the chance…
Thank you, Yuvi. I identified with your story which was so “densely” written. The details of his anguish were palpable because of your thoughtful, skillful writing.
My favorite line, *The place made me want to pee.* This story is so well done. Each character so well illustrated with but a few words! *Your father is being a nudnik.* I haven’t heard that word since I was a child. He yells, *I am not a package!” Just brilliant! But, the ending *These things are not inside of me!* It made me wonder, do we all die feeling incomplete? This will be among my all time favorite stories.
Thanks for the kind words, Martin! Yeah, that ending has been rummaging around in my head for about 15 or more years before I could make a readable story from it…
Loved reading your story. You captured a lot of emotion with a brevity of words. Well done!
Thanks so much, Christine!
It’s a moving story. Grief does twist its way in. I can relate to both characters, see myself in each of them. I didn’t experience losing someone with unfinished business but I have family members who did. It’s tragic. I like how you were able to communicate what was missing without actually saying it. Well done.
Thank you, Peter. Glad you related to both characters, I hoped that they’d both be relatable….
Beautifully written story many can relate to. Worked well with flash, but it made me want to keep reading about the characters.
This is a touching story, with relatable characters, and it ended at just the right moment for maximum effect. Well done.
Glad you liked the ending… I fiddled around with the ending a bit… 😜 Thank you, Christine!
Losing the historians of our families is relatable. You walk the reader through the grief process from a seldom addressed perspective. Brilliant.
Thanks, Nicki… Yeah, the story had been going around in my head, but it took a while to nail down the perpsective…
Nice writing-the father is a vivid character, and the interplay between the two is well-scripted.
Thank you, Brian!
So moving.
Damn, I both envy and love your writing, Yuvi. You gut punched me. Beautifully done.
Thanks so much, Harold!!
The bit where the narrator reads the title of the father’s book made my breath catch in my throat like a good short story should. Superbly done, with so much feeling and texture.
Thank you, Kelly!
Oof, this one really hit me. As a child of parents who are/were pretty non-communicative, I can really empathise with the narrator. But I also found the character of the father very well drawn and sympathetic. Congrats!
Thanks for the kind words, Mads!
Re-reading the story, the first line makes everything crystalize. “I was 25 years old and didn’t understand grief” – what a perfectly innocuous first sentence that sets a tone and theme, and delivers by the end.
Phenomenal story in general, but an expert first line.
So beautifully written! I love the first line and the last line…I admire your skill there. The characters and their relationship are so relatable. Congratulations!
The story resonated with my own relationships with family. It’s so hard to find friendly ground with the most important people in our lives. Then, as if we’re not even trying (“I also like to make lists. I guess I got that from you”), the doors open to have conversations of substance. Well done!
Great story. Anyone grieving will feel for the character in this story and your heart will say a healing prayer. The story though short is worth it, astute and authentic. Totally rocks. Every dialogue hits differently. The two characters are stuck though she/he(the child) doesn’t know.
When I read a story, and I can see the movie in my mind’s eye as I read it, I know it’s good writing without analyzing it. Could definitely see this as a longer story. So glad you re-tackled this subject. Call me sordid, but I gravitate towards books on death and grief – subjects not discussed enough.