Whisker Hugs

I was at my friend’s house the night it happened. It was a typical Friday night for your average eight year old. My friend, Casey, and I had turned her somewhat plain, messy playroom into a fortress fit for a queen. Our mini couches, barely staying up on their sides, were towering brick walls. I was no longer in my “hipster” baggy patched jeans, Nike Airs, and a flower printed tee shirt. Instead, I wore a glowing, beautiful Cinderella dress. The two new queens, Casey and I, took a stroll around the fort when… BAM! I jumped on top of our castle and our massive fort was now nothing more than assorted clumps of pillows and couches and that’s how I had liked it. Would my brothers really approve of that Cinderella nonsense? I thought not.

The seeds of a pillow fight developed, when suddenly the doorbell rang and my name was called; Dad had come to get me. My heart sunk. My fingers that had been squeezing the air from the pillow seemed to loosen their grip; all the youthful strength left my hands. Checking the clock I saw I still had another hour or so. What the heck was my dad doing here so early?

“Betsy!” my name was called for a second time. Exchanging a sorrowful glance with my friend I slowly turned around and headed down the stairs. My feet thumping, thumping, thumping, harder and harder each step I took. Seeing my Dad in the kitchen, I had to bite my tongue. I said thank you to the mother and pointedly walked straight past Dad without any acknowledgement.

Reluctantly, I got into the car and did my very best to be completely unpleasant for my Dad. The car turned into a dungeon. I was the prisoner and my Dad the heartless gatekeeper. Through all my pouts and angry stares, Dad’s face remained focused on the road. It felt as if he didn’t even notice my presence. I hadn’t seen this side of him up until then. My dad isn’t like the other dads, I thought to myself. My dad is always gone- he works in Los Angeles. He came home every weekend and sometimes during the week. Without fail he always had so many questions and was so upbeat- I loved that. Half of me wanted him to ask more questions right then, but the other half kept up my brutal, cruel face, secretly wanting to give him a great big hug; I hated it when Dad looked sad.

Eventually we made it home. Our five-minute drive had felt like fifty. So irritated by what had happened, I stumbled out of the car, and shot to the door, which was opened and closed in what seemed to be the same motion. Skipping every other, I ran up the stairs, my arms pumping hard. Back and forth, back and forth, they went. As I got closer and closer to my parents’ room I got more and more fired up. “Wait ‘til Mom hears about this,” I said to myself. I couldn’t wait to let out my pent up anger.

I walked up to the door thinking only of me and the instant I opened it my heart and mind were receptive to other people’s thoughts and feelings. I ripped open the door to voice my opinion in loud tones only to jerk to a stop; all the things I wanted so badly to convey to my mom had been erased from my mind and I completely lost my ability to speak. I tore the door open but stopped before I entered their room. I just stood at the doorway and let my eyes wander around the room. Not only was my mom in her room, but so was one of my brothers. They were both on the bed, pouring out a sea of tears. I made a feeble attempt to say something but when I opened my mouth nothing came out. Thoughts were ricocheting around my brain as if my mind was nothing but bouncing balls, none of which I could interpret.  Looking for some explanation, I turned around to find my dad standing behind me. Although I had walked up to the door hating my dad, when I opened it, I ironically realized he was the only one I could look to for support. His face stone cold, but his eyes empty, sad, sorry. I watched as a single tear slowly descended from one of his red, watering eyes. I was terrified. What was going on and why wasn’t anyone telling me? Compulsively, my lower lip started to quiver and almost instantly my eyes were spurting fountains of tears. My hand still clenching the doorknob, my body started to shake.

My mom motioned me toward her, she acted as if someone had ripped out her heart and sewn her back together; her words barely managing to come out; I felt so confused; the two people who gave me the most support and safety in my life were complete basket cases; I didn’t know how to be strong when for the first time in my life, they couldn’t be my strength, and told me the two single words that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Gramp died.

In my head I knew what this meant, but I couldn’t wrap my heart around it, so to speak. I had learned about death, or rather knew the definition but I had never experienced it up close. On some level I understood that death was forever, but at that moment, in my mind, I just knew that Grampy wasn’t going to be gone forever. It was impossible. I clung to the idea that I would somehow see him next time we visited… of course.

My family and I, along with other immediate family of my mom’s and some close friends went up to New Hampshire for my Gramp’s funeral. We arrived at their house and I walked excitedly up the stairs, across the porch, and waited anxiously by the front door, ready to receive my whisker hug. My Gramp gave the best hugs. When he would pick me up I felt like I was the only person in the whole world that he was thinking about or loving for at least that moment.

My Gramma opened the door. Where was Gramp?

And that’s when it hit me. That was the moment when I really truly understood what had happened; Gramp was gone and he wasn’t coming back. For the longest time I struggled with the fact that my Gramp died, but this was the first time I really felt the ache in my heart. I would never again get a whisker hug. We wouldn’t go sledding or work in his workshop together ever again.

I closed my eyes hard shut like they were doors slamming and I locked them with a key and then retrieved his memory. I studied every wrinkle on his face, every fold of his sweater, every pitch in his voice, the way he paused in the middle of his sentences, the manner in which he said my name, and the way he hugged. I meticulously looked over in my mind the way he would wait beside the door, the way I would run up and jump into his arms and how he would pick me up off my feet, squeeze me tightly, kiss me on the cheek, and rub his gray, rough, six o’clock shadow against my plump, young cheek. How I would squirm in his arms as he finished nudging my cheek with his whiskers. I studied the way I felt love, warmth, safety, and happiness as he held me close in his arms and held that feeling in my mind for as long as I could to ensure that it would never fade in my memory.