Page 87 of No Funny Business

Nick continues, “So that’s all I wanted to say. That and you have a really sweet ride.” He pats the top of my dad’s urn and looks up at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, sniffing back a sob. “Thank you for saying all that.” Nick acknowledges my gratitude with a nod then leaves me to express myself alone.

I run my hand along the black-painted wooden console he made when I was a kid. The semigloss finish feels missed on my palm, and I loop my finger around the oversized cup holders—specially made for his beloved Big Gulps. I trace the fabric of the dusty vinyl seats, scratching against the grain with that funny zip-zip sound. Gazing over the circular gauges on the dash, the knobs, and the cassette player brings me back. I find the keys in the metal glove compartment, right where I left them. The Jeep won’t run, I know that, but if I can’t take a drive with my dad, I can at least fake it.

I turn the ignition. There’s no life left except for the faint radio static coming through the speakers. “Whoa,” I breathe out. The engine may have kicked the bucket but somehow the battery’s still kickin’. I grip the skinny, leather-wrapped steering wheel and look out across the way at a row of closed garages, picturing a stretch of open road on a sunny afternoon. No different from the one I drove earlier. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say first. Why is it easy talking to a crowd of strangers and impossible talking to my invisible dad? Makes no sense.

So I just open my mouth and say the first thing I can think of. “Hey, Dad... I thought I’d know what to say when I got here but this is harder than I thought. I hate that you’re gone... and I hate that I’ve stayed away so long.” I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “Why did you leave me that picture? And why didn’t you tell me about The Hoot? I have so many questions that I’ll never get the answers to. Maybe you were too proud or maybe you lacked the courage.” I hold my breath, wondering which is true. Or if neither is.

“You and I are so much alike in so many ways, but I’m not too proud to say that I am afraid of what you said. I’m afraid that I might not be able to take care of myself with stand-up. I am afraid.” My voice cracks and I take a breath. “But I also really want to try. I didn’t have the courage to tell you that before but I do now. And since you’re in an urn, you really can’t argue with me—so that’s new.

“When it was just the two of us, you found the strength to take care of me. You figured it out. It must’ve been hard. Maybe the hardest thing you ever had to do. This might be the hardest thing I ever do too but I’ll figure it out. Because I have to. I think you can understand that. Please understand I’m not trying to be ornery. I just want to be true to me.”

I shut my eyes, soft tears trickling down my face and fogging my glasses. For the first time since the funeral, I let myself feel all the things I couldn’t before—the grief, the loneliness, the ache for more time, but also a deep sense of appreciation for this moment. Alone in the Jeep. With my dad.

The static on the radio begins to clear away like clouds after rain. A faint, electrifying guitar riff sings to me and my heart stops. Is it? I turn the knob to help it along until it’s sharp. “Whooooa, sweet child o’ mine.” I look at the passenger seat, half expecting my dad to be sitting there grinning. And even though I can’t see him, he’s around—in a song, in a joke, or in the Jeep. Artie’s right. Dad loves me no matter what.