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  Praise for Morgan Parker’s Stories

  Sick Day

  “An Unforgettable Reading Experience”

  ~ Kelsey, Kelsey’s Korner Blog

  “Once again Morgan has written a masterpiece that has lodged itself in my soul.”

  ~ Patricia, Room With Books

  “Break Your Heart Beautiful!”

  ~ Rock Out With Your Book Out

  “Another Hit From Parker”

  ~ Jamie, One More Chapter

  “Amazing. Emotional. Heartfelt.”

  ~ Luka, Reading Amore

  Hope

  “Another Hit For Morgan Parker!”

  ~ Daina, The Book Gurus

  “His Best Work!”

  ~ The Book Bar

  “… a well developed ‘smart’, witty and beautiful story.”

  ~ D, Flirty and Dirty Book Blog

  “Beautifully Written, Straight to the Heart!”

  ~ Helen, All Booked Out

  Non Friction

  “A Funny and Real Story”

  ~ Verna, Verna Loves Books

  “A Funny and Realistic Book About Life and Divorce and all the Fun Stuff in Between! Great Read!”

  ~ Book Worms

  “A Real, Loveable and Laughable Read!”

  ~ Book Flirts by Jess

  “Brilliant!”

  ~ Suleika, All About books

  “Ok, I'm just gonna go ahead and say it...That. Was. Brilliant!”

  ~ Jenn, Bookworm Betties

  Textual Encounters Series

  “If you're looking for a crazy awesome unique read, grab this now!”

  ~ Crazy Daisy, Crazy Daisy Book Whore

  “I tell you the more books I read by Author Morgan Parker, the more of a fan I become! In my opinion this man is nothing short of a genius…”

  ~ Nat’s Book Nook

  Follow Morgan Parker on Facebook

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, conversations, circumstances and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any and all references to real products, objects, locations, events, locations and people are meant to lend the reader a sense of authenticity but are used fictitiously.

  With the exception of quoted text used in a published review, no part of this work can reproduced without the written permission of QuoteStork Media, Inc..

  Surviving Goodbye

  a novel by:

  Morgan Parker

  © 2014 QuoteStork Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  I learned the truth about Elena amidst a symphony of beeps, ticks, and the deep breath-like sounds coming from the equipment next to my wife’s hospital bed.

  Karen hadn’t opened her eyes in days, and the medical staff had insisted that she would have to ride into the weekend on the tails of a miracle. Otherwise it might be best to bring Elena, our daughter—her daughter—to say her final goodbyes.

  Given my lack of faith in miracles, I called Elena’s high school this morning and told them she would not be there today. No, her mother hadn’t “passed.” No, she hadn’t been conscious in almost a week. After answering the administrator’s—Alice? Allie? Alexa?—thoughtful questions and thanking her for the thoughts and prayers, I crept into Lena’s bedroom down the hall. Still with its pink walls and princess curtains, which I knew annoyed her, but with her mother being terminally ill she had let up with the bitching and moaning.

  “Lena, sweetie, you’re coming with me today,” I told her, sitting next to her on the pink canopy bed.

  There were no miracles in the forecast anytime soon.

  “Huh, why?” she asked, burying her head under the pillows.

  “To say goodbye.”

  I allowed those words to hover in the room, watched her shoulders begin to quake underneath the sheets, and then rubbed her back in a slow, circular motion, the way she liked when she was a lot younger. It seemed to work, too; her quaking calmed.

  But then she asked me to go away, leave her alone. I kept rubbing her back instead and whispered to her that it would be okay, she would be okay, her mother would be okay.

  “She needs to go home,” I choked out, and those words had the same effect as turning on a faucet. The tears poured down my face in a steady flow, dripping from my chin and soaking into Lena’s princess comforter. As much as my daughter might miss her mother, losing the love of my life to this sudden and horrible disease hurt me a hell of a lot more. I would never love again. Never. I belonged to Karen, every little piece of me, and once she died, my capacity to love would die right along with her. I had been telling her as much every day since we heard her prognosis.

  Lena and I eventually composed ourselves enough to get through our respective showers, brush our teeth, and choke down some coffee. I promised a Keurig once things settled down, but until then it would be the shit that dripped out of the Mr. Coffee, with small grinds in the bottom of the cup. Then we headed out to the big Chrysler in our driveway. As I settled into the driver’s seat, I realized this would be our final ride to Seasons Hospice in Madison Heights, the last home Karen would know in her abbreviated life.

  My daughter sat quietly in the passenger seat and stared out the window while I drove. At sixteen, Elena didn’t exactly hate her father, but she didn’t love me as far as her arms could reach, either. So her silence during the twenty minute ride to the Seasons didn’t surprise me. Still I thought she might want to talk a little more about her mother’s impending death. The counselors had suggested talking. Openly. Frequently. Stepping outside our comfort zones and expressing the things we wanted to bury deep down.

  So I started with: “Your mother’s a brilliant woman, Lena,” I admitted quietly. “She had big plans and dreams for all of us.”

  Lena stayed quiet until we hit a red light. “Was dying one of them?” Her tone seemed accusatory, typical teenager venom lacing those words.

  “You know, I never asked for her to die either,” I said, snapping back at her despite the guilt ripping through my heart.

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  Someone behind us beeped the horn when the light turned green. I eased forward, checking the intersecting roads to make sure the traffic had stopped. Since my wife had gotten sick, I caught myself suspicious of life’s fragile nature, worried that Fate would come for Lena or me next.

  “When I was small,” Lena said, still facing her window, “Mom told me that love is to humans what sunlight is to flowers. Without that sunlight, the flowers die.”

  I smiled, remembering that conversation. We had been walking through the Detroit Zoo, Lena just five years old. It had been hot, not even a mild breeze for relief from the raunchy humidity, not a cloud to offer a minute of shelter from that deafening sun. And even when we could find the silence of a shaded corner, it meant nothing. It just allowed us to stop and let the sweat drip down our spines and faces. It had been during one of those quiet breaks that Elena declared that she hated the summer, wanted it to go away because it was too hot and her little legs were aching. To her, she was dying. That day, my wife had explained the importance of the sun to all living creatures, not just the flowers.


  So I didn’t correct Lena now in the car; I was happy to have her speaking, testing the limits of her comfort zone.

  “Do you think,” she started as we reached the next red, “maybe we didn’t love Mom enough?”

  I adjusted the rearview mirror, the telescopic steering wheel; buying time. The question spooked me for two reasons—the first being that I existed exclusively for her mother, and the second being that a long time ago, I had questioned whether I could truly spend my life with Karen. That uncertainty—which was really unfamiliarity with just how much I loved her because I never knew love like that existed—had led me to stray prior to our engagement. Yes, regular old me had dated two women for all of six weeks during my final year of college, until I realized I couldn’t split my heart. I had to choose the one who fit more perfectly.

  “If we loved her more, maybe she wouldn’t have gotten sick. And maybe she would’ve beat this.” Lena’s voice cracked as she wrestled with the guilt she was placing on her little shoulders.

  I reached across the console and squeezed her leg, gently. “First off, too much sun will kill any plant.”

  Next to me, Lena let out a long breath, like she was either relieved at just how truthful my statement was, or disappointed that her dying mother had lied to her so long ago.

  “Secondly, love doesn’t have a vote when it comes to how long we live. There’s always some bigger plan, Lena. Your mother is part of that plan.”

  We didn’t have any time left in our commute to discuss Lena’s worries. Parking in my regular spot at the farthest corner of the lot without resorting to the street, Lena and I walked into the Seasons Hospice, aware of the stares from the staff. They knew; they saw us and likely shared the same thought—look at those two, with their fingernails clinging to a hope that doesn’t exist.

  In Karen’s room, the slightly overweight nurse approached us with a smile. But her eyes told a different story; those eyes had life in them.

  “She’s doing well today,” the nurse confided in a whisper as she placed a hand on mine. “But this is fairly common. I have to warn you, in my non-medical opinion, that your time with her is probably limited, Elliot. Use that time wisely.”

  As the nurse left, I glanced over at Lena, but she had abandoned me. I looked around, a little alarmed by her sudden disappearance, then found her next to her mother’s bed, her eyes gleaming with tears, her face flushed with emotion. And then she smiled and released an awkward little chuckle at a whisper delivered privately, exclusively for her.

  Seeing Karen awake had an energizing effect. No matter how frail and withered she appeared, even at this distance, her slow movement stripped the nurse’s warning of any credibility. I wanted, hoped for more from Karen’s disease-beaten body.

  I watched Lena exchange quiet words with her mother, the tears pouring down her face as she nodded, made some kind of unknown promises, and then shook her head, feigning seriousness. I wondered if I would ever learn about their conversation, if Lena would share those private words with me.

  I never thought about it again, though. When Lena glanced over at me and smiled encouragingly, I nodded for her to continue, to take her time, but she simply shook her head. She leaned over the rail, hugged my wife with one of the fiercest embraces I had ever seen, kissed her, and then walked away, her hand brushing against my shoulder as she stepped past me.

  My turn.

  Deep breath.

  This woman had meant everything to me since we first met in college. Our friendship had been fueled by a passion that had never died, never eased like everyone else’s had and would. And as my hand slid into hers, all those memories barreled toward me. Our first kiss on the Detroit River, our last kiss three weeks ago before we fell asleep for the night and the pain knocked Karen into something of a coma overnight.

  “Elliot,” she breathed, her clammy hand tugging me so gently it was nearly unnoticeable compared to her slender cheeks and sunken eyes; they had been healthy and vibrant not that long ago.

  I wondered if Lena had noticed her mother’s subtle tug, but when I looked up to find her, she had left the room.

  “Elliot,” she repeated. “I love you.”

  “I love you right back,” I said, leaning in and kissing her motionless lips. She tasted like death, and I sensed the approaching end.

  “You need to find someone,” she told me. “Once I’m gone.”

  I shook my head, my eyes burning up with tears. “No. I don’t.” We had talked about this already, at some length, and I didn’t want to spend our last dozen or so words arguing about it.

  I waited for her to let it go, but we engaged in a staring contest so intense that I swore our standoff would make Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader’s notorious battle look like a child’s ballet recital.

  “My heart belongs to you, my Love,” I confessed. “Nobody else. I can’t even think about...” I felt the tears dripping down my face. “I can’t love. Ever again.”

  More of that staring as a few tears dripped out the corners of her eyes, rolled past her temples, and soaked into her pillow. I wiped them away, kissed her forehead.

  “I’ll be okay,” I promised, whispering. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll survive. I’m strong.” I gave a sideways nod toward the hospital room’s door. “But watch over Lena. Our baby.”

  My wife blinked back her tears, which seemed to be coming in greater volumes now. I leaned forward and kissed her forehead, her eyes, the bridge of her nose. She felt cold to me.

  “Elliot,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. Don’t be. You loved me like nobody ever has or will. You’re my soul mate.”

  Silence. And then she shook her head, no. “Please, forgive me,” she heaved a deep breath and came across as confused. “You deserved better. Let me finish,” she added before I could interrupt her, and it was the firmest her voice had been in our entire relationship. “You deserved a daughter.”

  Was she delusional? I have a daughter! Was that what the nurse had been talking about earlier when she warned me to use our time wisely?

  I kissed Karen’s forehead. She was tired. I kissed her lips. She wasn’t making any sense. I kissed her, brushed her hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ears. “Go to sleep, Karen. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  “Listen,” she said with the same firmness as before. “Listen. Listen, listen, listen.”

  I nodded and raised my free hand. Okay, I’m listening.

  “Lena... She’s not...” She closed her eyes, pushing out a steady stream of tears. “She’s not yours, Elliot.” The tears rolled down the sides of her face, and when she opened her eyes, I saw that the firmness in her voice had spread to her soul. It was cold. This sudden ferocity surprised me, but it kept the nurse’s warning at the forefront of my mind.

  “Karen... what are you saying?” my voice broke.

  “I’m sorry.” The life started to wring from her face, but her eyes spoke only the truth. “Ask Jamie. My letter. And please. Please, forgive me.” She squeezed my hand, a tight and crushing squeeze that contradicted the image of the weak and dying woman I was bent over. It felt like the worst kind of betrayal. “I’m sorry,” she said, “that you loved me more.”

  “Karen... why?”

  “You deserve more,” she said, her voice fading to less than a whisper.

  Before I could say anything else, her body went limp and her eyes rolled back. It felt like a scene out of a tragic movie where someone important dies at the precise moment when they are supposed to. But the beeping machines, the monitors and the rise and fall of Karen’s chest confirmed that she hadn’t died. She had simply passed out, too tired and worn out from the drugs pumping into her body through those intravenous tubes.

  I stumbled back from the hospital bed and dropped into the nearest chair. Placing my elbows on my knees, I stared at nothing. And everything. I stared straight at all the lies that had somehow betrayed the foundation of my perfect marriage and wondered one question that I ne
ver, even in my wildest nightmares, thought I would ask: how could she? My wife, Karen, the woman I had loved for more than half of my life, a woman that meant more than everything.

  How could she do something like this to me?

  Chapter 1

  Hate consumed me. Of course it did. It came to me like a sandstorm in the desert, or like food poisoning. Over the course of the year or so following Karen’s death, I wavered between rage and depression, lost weight and focus, and felt like I was rotting inside. After learning that our daughter wasn’t mine (not by biological standards anyway), my hatred for the woman that had not only betrayed our matrimonial vows but lied to me about the daughter I had raised, had started as a blip on a radar, a mild tummy ache.

  But over the following months, I watched that storm approach, the ache spreading throughout my body. I didn’t want to hate her—she had given me the happiest times of my life. However, like that sandstorm, the hatred arrived with a heaving fury and now consumed so much of me.

  She had lied to me about Lena for sixteen years, hatred was fucking inevitable.

  But worse than that hate was the debilitating confusion.

  For the past year, it had been the confusion that perpetuated my ruin, kept me in bed, and forced me to question what was wrong with me.

  “Dad? Ugh.”

  I snapped out of my hate-laced daydream, pulled my attention from the depths of my coffee mug, and stared across the glass table at Lena in her school clothes, the prized Beats earphones around her neck.

  “I said your name a gazillion times, Dad, why don’t you ever listen to me?”

  I shrugged, reached for my breakfast and realized I didn’t have much of an appetite anymore. I pushed my plate forward, dismissing it, and afforded Lena my full attention as I tried to figure out what parts of her belonged to Karen, and which to her biological father. “What is it?”