Good Luck

I was twenty-one years old when my dad died.

It was sudden—unexpected—and it gutted me like a saber slicing through my liver. Mom cried—no, she sobbed—and I doubt those pained screams of horror, begging for the news to not be true, will ever leave my memory. My knees gave out and the asphalt bit into my skin, granting me scars that would never surmount to the scar left on my heart. The hiccupped heaves clawed their way out of my mother’s throat, her voice unidentifiable as each cry pierced my spirit—my very being—as if a javelin had been thrust into my lungs. He was just here—what went wrong?

“Good luck,” I told him as he walked out the door. My attention was on the video on my laptop, as I was excited to watch it without headphones. It was some random video game playthrough. The videos were always enjoyable, as the commentators took extra time to make them comical—even if the game’s basis was horror. I was going to be the only one in the house, so my investment in the conversation was minimal. The house was cold and crisp, kept at a healthy fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit on which my mother refused to budge.

‘Bundle up,’ she would say whilst wearing a heavy sweater, warm sweat pants, and fuzzy socks. Dad and I always engaged in a silent battle to see who could increase the temperature more without getting caught.

“It’s my first winter ride,” he said with excitement, looking at me with his bright blue eyes and a crooked, earnest smile. His glee was so visible it embodied his entire form. The way his feet pushed up and down restlessly, the way his hands clasped and unclasped together as he grinned at me: Dad had been looking forward to this ride for a long time.

He had asked me to go on the ride with him. Immediately, my lips pursed as I began to find any reason to say no. The video on my laptop was still waiting for my attention, demanding that I barely offer thought to the words my father was saying. I didn’t want to go on the ride. I wanted to sit on the couch and relax. My legs were sore from the workout the day before, but that was a pitiful excuse. I could have gone with him. I could have ridden my mother’s blue road bike and pushed through my pathetic, lazy weakness. Had I gone on the ride, we probably wouldn’t have made it past four miles without turning back. I was never good at bike riding.

“The ride will help,” he pushed hopefully, wanting me to go on this ride as if he knew that it would be my last chance to be with him. Perhaps we would have ridden to the local coffee shop just three miles away. We would have stopped, gotten coffee, talked about my perpetual single life that started the day I was born, and eventually come back home.

“I don’t want to,” I said, sardonic tones lacing my voice. I offered the same side smile that I’d picked up from him, watching as he rolled his eyes at my laziness. We both knew that my true issue—the cardinal sin that I had trouble conquering—was pure, undisturbed laziness. Dad had been turning his life around; he began riding bikes, eating healthy, working out every day. He was doing everything that I wished I had the willpower to do.

“I’m going to leave at twelve,” Dad told me expectantly as he sat down on the recliner in the living room I had been reclining in. He said it as if telling the time would influence me to go with him. I looked at my watch.

11:56am.

“That’s a good time for a ride,” I replied half-heartedly, glancing down at the video on my laptop that was still paused. I just want to relax, I thought to myself, inwardly sighing as the impatience began to settle in. Couldn’t he just leave so I could watch the video?

“Yea,” Dad said, a short silence quickly following his response. Neither of us quite knew what to say. After a moment, he spoke again. “Do you think, when I get back, we could work on your truck? Get it working, drive it around a bit, and see what issues it has?”

11:58am.

My interest was piqued. My truck had yet to be taken around, as I had been at school and was unable to work on it. Dad and I had always worked on cars together—we’d rebuilt a 1964 Chevy truck just a few years prior.

“Yea, that sounds really good,” I said with a grin, “We can make sure the engine is in check.”

Dad smile and nodded in confirmation. He took a glance at his phone, pursing his lips before humming. I looked at him as he sat forward, slowly standing up as his old knees cracked. While he was only fifty-four, he had brittle bones.

“I’m just going to go now,” he said, grinning at me as he walked to the back of the house to retrieve his bike. I nodded and hummed in response, looking down at my computer screen which had gone dark. I touched the mousepad, hoping to turn the device back on. The sound of my father’s steps reached my ears and my eyes looked up to see him opening the front door with his bike leaning against his thigh. When the door was open, I thought he would simple walk out wordlessly. However, he paused.

It was as if God had given me one last chance. One last moment to say my goodbyes.

Dad looked at me. “It’s my first winter ride.” I nodded my head. Finally, I would be able to watch my stupid video in peace.

12:00pm.

“Good luck,” were my last words. Not ‘I love you,’ not ‘be safe,’ not ‘I’ll miss you.’ There was no nostalgic goodbye that would offer comfort. There was no love or sincerity. There was no last words said just in case. He was going to come back, so I didn’t care for a serious or fully attentive response. I wanted him to lose weight like he wanted to—I wanted him to be happy. However, I was too lazy and too disinterested at that moment to show how much I truly wanted the best for him.

I barely glanced up. I barely looked at him. I barely had the chance to take in his living form one last time.

Good fucking luck.