Ross

Upsurge. Noun. [up-surge]. A rapid or sudden rise or increase.

I sit on the couch, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, and study the white door with its peeling paint and sun warped windows. An envelope rests in my hands, addressed to World Service International. It's my acceptance letter.

I blame Riley for this irrepressible discontentment. I wasn't going to accept the internship--I was going to stay here and take care of the kids until some eventual day when Dad would be able to take care of them himself. Or they graduated high school, whichever came sooner. But I'm realizing I have to take control of my own life. I don't want Mason and Ivy and Sammy to grow up believing that my current lifestyle is all there is for them, that dreams never amount to anything, that they're destined to live on this island forever. I refuse to let them follow in my footsteps.

Only one obstacle remains between me and the global service internship: Dad. When he walks through the doors, I'll know whether this dream might actually come true or whether I need to finally lay it to rest and accept my fate.

As if on cue, the front door swings open and Dad enters. I drop the envelope on the couch and rub my sweaty palms on my cotton hoodie. Dad pulls his keys from the lock, turned away from me so I can't see his expression in the pale glow of the evening moon. He wears a faded button down with a few beer stains, haphazardly tucked into a pair of jeans. It doesn't look like much, but for Dad, this is putting forth some effort.

"So, how'd it go?" I ask, standing up.

Dad jumps, dropping the keys and then bending to pick them up. "What the--I didn't know you were there. What, lying in wait for me?"

"I just want to know how it went. Did you--was it good?"
Dad sighs and runs a hand through his hair, prematurely gray. "It was the first session, Ross, with me and a bunch of old people whose husbands and wives died from cancer. They're probably next."

I resist the urge to slap him. Doesn't he have any sympathy for other people who've gone through the same sort of pain? Why has this tragedy hardened instead of softened him? I don't understand.

"What'd you talk about?" I ask, grinding my teeth together to keep from lashing out at him.

He went to the grief therapy session. I have to at least give him credit for trying; maybe it'll make a difference. Maybe something will change. Dad groans, sitting back in the recliner chair across from me and staring up at the ceiling, stained by cigarette smoke. His fingers trace a tear in the leather on the arm of the couch.

"They talked about the stages of grief, like losing someone is something you can just get over."

"What stage are you in?" I ask.

I'm familiar with the stages; I researched everything I could find about grief psychology to try to help the kids and me and Dad cope with everything. The kids are as alright as they can be without a mother, but Dad has a long way to go.

Dad laughs humorlessly and grips the chair arm. "I don't know. I'm angry, I'm depressed, I'm in denial. I haven't accepted anything."

"Do you think you'll go back?" I ask, picking up the envelope and fiddling with it.

"I...I don't know, Ross. I know I should, but...they want us to think about what in our lives we want to change, and I realized I want to change everything. What I do with you kids, my job, my...my drinking."

I sit up straighter and watch him, my heart pounding a chest. He's not only admitting that there is a problem, but that he wants to change it. Maybe, after five brutal years, he'll finally attempt to change.

"You can, Dad. You can get help and you can get better."

"But what if it's too late for me, Ross? It's been five years. I should have--it shouldn't have taken this long. I've plateaued. This is it for me."

Emotion rises in my throat, choking me. I plead with him, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. "No, it's not too late, Dad. I swear to you. Please, you have to get better."

"Why? Why do I have to? I don't want to move on."

His words hit me with the force of a tsunami and I lean backwards, mouth hanging open. He doesn't want to move on. It's not that the grief is so overpowering that he can't move on; it's that he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to leave her in the past.

For the first time in years, a wave of sympathy crashes over me. He and Mom were high school sweethearts who got married as soon as they turned eighteen; they barely knew a life without each other until Mom died. Even after five years, he's still not ready to say goodbye. Unbidden, Riley's face appears in my mind's eye. Will I be ready to say goodbye to her when summer ends? Will I ever be ready?

"She's gone, Dad," I say, voice rusty with meaning.

Even though it's been five years, it still surprises me how powerful the permanency of Mom's absence is. I still sometimes expect to walk into the kitchen to find her with suds up to her elbows, her blonde hair in tangled waves around her ears and Enya playing from an old cassette tape. For Dad, however, I think she's a ghost that still walks the paths of his heart, coaxing him into depression.

"I know that." He sighs and studies the worn palms of his hands.

"You don't have to forget her, Dad, but you do have to accept it. And keep going to therapy."

Dad looks up at me suddenly, cocking his head and running a hand over his unshaven face. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

I look down at the envelope growing wrinkled in my grasp. I wasn't planning on telling him the truth, not yet, but the summer is halfway over and once I mail this envelope, my choice is made. There's no use in prolonging the inevitable. I suck in a deep breath and stand up, clutching the envelope in front of me. My chest tightens as the words rush to my lips.

"Dad, I'm...I'm leaving. At the end of the summer. I'm going on a nine month service internship, all around the world. I'll be back at the beginning of next summer, and I'm going to make sure there are people to help with Sammy and Mason and Ivy. I just...I have to. I have to go."

I exhale at the end of my speech and I can't keep from looking at Dad. Even though he hasn't been a father to me for five years, I still want him to approve. I don't want him to think that I'm abandoning our family. I have to leave. I need to.

"It took you long enough," he grumbles with a laugh. "I never thought you'd leave."

Again, my jaw drops. Dad's been expecting me to leave? He hasn't done anything with the kids and he's always let me take care of everything, so I thought--

"Seriously? I've been staying here because of you. Because you can't take care of yourself, much less three kids."

Dad rolls his eyes. "You've always wanted to leave. I know that. I'll keep going to these stupid therapy sessions is that makes you feel better, but you know the islanders will make sure we're all right while you're gone."

Dad's tone of voice indicates that he's been expecting my departure, like he's known that I was going to go before I even knew.

"How did you know I wanted to leave?" I ask, falling back into the couch.

"You're not exactly subtle. You talk about traveling all the time. Just send that letter already and get out of here," he says, gesturing towards the envelope.

"You're...you're serious? About me leaving and about therapy and everything?"

Dad narrows his flinty gray eyes at me. Since he hasn't been drinking, his gaze is sharp and his observation astute. This is the man who had a great job in business before everything fell apart.

"I don't want to be the way I am, Ross. I just don't want to leave her behind, either. Maybe this...this stupid therapy therapy thing will help me figure out how to find some balance."
"What about the kids?"

"You find people to watch them while I work, and maybe someone to check in on us once in awhile, and I'll do the rest."

I struggle to picture Dad doing all the household chores I do on a daily basis--washing the dishes, packing school lunches, cleaning the bathroom. But if I leave, when I leave, I have to trust that someone will take care of it. Maybe Dad won't ever change until I give him the opportunity. But he's willing, which is something he's never been before.

"I, uh--thanks."

"So send the letter already," Dad says, gesturing to the envelope in my hand. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

I grin at him and fly out the door, racing down the driveway to the crooked red mailbox next to the main street. I glance down at the envelop one time before I stick it in the mailbox and raise the red flag.

I'm leaving Long Beach Island. I'm going to see the world.