How to Be Happy (In Spite of Yourself)

DAY 1:

“The landlord said we only have seven days to get Dad’s stuff out,” I told them after I hung up the phone. “Then he’s going to change the locks and send it all to the auction house.”

“He can’t do that!” Becky protested from her seat at the kitchen table.

The middle-aged woman’s hang-dog expression was not due to the dismal news I had just imparted. Nor did it have anything to do with the fucked up situation we were navigating at the moment. Becky always looked as though she was about to burst into tears while pleading for mercy from some unknown assailant.

“What about the lease?” She asked.

My dad’s brother, Charles—Becky’s husband—and I exchanged confused glances.

“What about it?” I said.

“You know, Allie, if your name is on the lease, then technically the landlord can’t kick your dad out of here.”

Another thing about Becky—she thought she was a hell of a lot smarter than she actually was.

“My name’s not on the lease,” I informed her. “And even if it was, it wouldn’t matter. Dad is going to be sent away for a long time, and I can’t afford the rent on a four bedroom house in the suburbs. Not to mention, the heat and other utilities. We’re going to have to do the best we can to clean this place out and keep the essential things. Pictures, and stuff like that. We can try to sell the furniture that won’t fit into the storage locker. Then we’ll just have to donate the rest of his crap to—”

“Where’s the lease?” Becky demanded.

I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “I have no idea.”

“Well, that has to be our first priority,” she insisted. “I’m going to go search his office. We need to find that document!”

DAY 2:

The lease was still missing.

Becky kept pestering me about it, and she seemed to be annoyed that I had no interest in looking for it. She refused to listen when I told her that my name was definitely not on it and that I didn’t want to keep this place. I couldn’t afford it, and besides, it was full of too many bad memories now.

I was pretty sure she still believed Dad was going to come back.

He wasn’t.

Not for a really long time, at least.

DAY 3:

I walked into the kitchen with the intention of packing up the dishes and silverware, but stopped short just inside the doorway. My dad loved to cook, and it felt like his spirit somehow still lingered in this room. Like a shadow, a fleeting movement over by the stove, the faint trace of cigar smoke that still clung to the walls and furniture.

Above the kitchen table hung a large cardboard poster with the headline How to be Happy in Spite of Yourself! Below the title, was a list of things you could do to elevate your mood, with subheadings like Enjoy Swell Sounds, Smell Swell Smells, and Appreciate Cheap Thrills, among others. Most of the suggestions were cute and kitschy, such as, Get a haircut. It will look good in two weeks. For some unfathomable reason, seeing that poster brought the sharp sting of tears to my eyes.

I turned my back on it and began hurriedly pulling glasses out of the cabinet above the sink. I stopped almost immediately. Then I crossed the room, collapsed in the chair beneath the cheery cardboard poster, and buried my face in my hands.

It was all too much, suddenly. Too many memories flooded over me.

They were like tidal waves—no, more like tsunamis—crushing me under their weight.

I used to live here. This used to be my home. The coked-up man who got taken away in handcuffs last week used to be my father. It was all too surreal. I felt like I had been sucked into a bad episode of The Twilight Zone.

Where’s Rod Serling?

Upstairs buying a quarter.

“Hey, Allie.”

I hurriedly swiped my fingers over my tear-streaked face and looked up. It was my uncle, Charles—the only member of the family who had offered to help pack up Dad’s things. He had been here every day since my dad got arrested.

“Yeah?”

“Becky wants you to come upstairs. The top drawer of the filing cabinet is locked, and she can’t get it open. She said she’s pretty sure the lease is in there.”

DAY 4:

“For the millionth time, Becky, my name is not on the fucking lease!”

Her watery blue eyes grew big and round and looked as though they were about to pop out of her head. “Why are you being such a bitch, Allie? It’s like you don’t even want to do anything to help your father.”

My mouth fell open in shock. I closed it with a snap, narrowed my eyes, and glared at her. “I don’t want to do anything to help him?” I echoed, incredulous. “I’m the one spending ten hours a day over here, trying to salvage what’s left of his life. Maybe instead of wasting time looking for something that will be no help whatsoever, you could get off your ass, pack some boxes, and drive them to the storage locker. There are only three days left before we have to have everything out of here.”

I swear, Becky looked as though she wanted to hit me.

“You didn’t even try to bail him out of jail,” she accused. “What the hell kind of a daughter are you, anyway?”

She spun around and stalked out of the living room before I had a chance to answer. I debated going after her to continue the argument, but what would be the use?

Three days, I thought. Then I’ll never have to deal with any of this shit again.

DAY 5:

“He was my best friend!”

Becky sobbed into her glass of wine, her skinny frame dwarfed by the overstuffed armchair. Crouched on the floor a few feet away, I tossed books and knick-knacks into a plastic container. Charles had gone to drop off a load of furniture at the storage locker, leaving me alone with the drunken mess in my dad’s favorite chair.

“I guess it’s true that you never know a good thing until it’s gone,” she lamented, her words slightly slurred. “This is all that bitch Darla’s fault. I warned him not to date a girl in her twenties, but he was having a midlife crisis and wouldn’t listen. All those young girls want is money and drugs, I told him. He insisted she was in love with him. Can you imagine? Why do men think with their dicks?”

Drunk Becky was annoying, but at least she had stopped her infernal search for the lease. Until she sobered up, at least.

“Your dad never did drugs before he met Darla. Sure, he drank. Everybody did. He wasn’t an alcoholic like your mom accused him of being, either, Allie. I mean, I never thought so. He just liked to party and have a good time, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

There was plenty wrong with that, but I didn’t feel like getting into another argument with her. In the weeks before my dad’s arrest, whenever I came over to the house to do laundry, there seemed to be an unspoken rule that everyone had to pretend to care about the welfare and coked-up status of my dad. Although, it was hard to believe that anyone but me actually did care—least of all, his live-in girlfriend, Darla.

He looked like shit—up for three days at a time, dark veins popping out on his bald head, bags under his eyes, and more than ten pounds underweight. What upset me the most was the fact that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

This is what he wants to do, I would think to try to make myself feel better. Why should I care? He never tells me what to do. It may be that he doesn’t give a damn about me enough anymore to care what I do, but that’s not the issue.

No, the issue was that my dad was addicted to cocaine. And not only was he addicted—he was selling it as well, to feed his habit. Anyone could see that it was only a matter of time before something tragic happened. I’m ashamed to admit that there were moments when I wished he would just overdose and get it over with, because it hurt too much to watch him slowly deteriorate.

I was jolted from my disturbing thoughts when Becky stood up and stumbled into the kitchen to pour herself another glass of wine.

“Where the fuck is that leash, Allie?” She yelled over her shoulder on the way in. “We hafta find that goddamn leash!”

DAY 6:

“The storage locker is full,” Charles informed me. “We don’t have anywhere to go with the rest of the stuff.”

I glanced around the living room, my brain automatically counting the stacks of boxes and cataloging what was left of the furniture. Dad’s favorite chair was still perched at an angle beside the front door. The thought of leaving it behind made my heart squeeze with longing.

“Can we at least fit his chair in somehow?” I asked.

Charles shook his head. His wiry salt-and-pepper hair stuck up at odd angles. His beard looked unkempt, and the wrinkles seemed more pronounced beneath his eyes.

Packing up what’s left of my dad’s life has taken a toll on all of us, I thought wearily. One more day, and it will all be over.

“Not unless we get rid of something else. I know you’re not her biggest fan, but Darla offered to keep some of your dad’s things in her parents’ basement. Just until you can figure out what to do with it.”

“Absolutely not!” Becky’s vitriolic shout entered the living room before she did. “I don’t want that little homewrecker getting her hands on any of his stuff. That bitch is done.”

“Well, they’re still dating, so…” Charles shrugged. “She went to visit him the other day.”

“I don’t care!” Becky’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She looked hang-dog tired and hung-over, as she turned on me. “Allie, we need to find that lease. If your name is on it, the landlord will have no choice. He will have to let you stay in the house.”

“For the last fucking time—I. Don’t. Want. This. House.” I unleashed all my pent up anger and emotion on her. “I would rather give everything he owns to Darla than stay in this hellhole one second longer than I have to. My name is not on it, so shut the fuck up about the stupid lease!”

Becky’s pale blue eyes bugged out even more than normal. She took a step back and shook her head vehemently.

“You’re going to regret speaking to me that way,” she warned.

“Is that a threat?”

Charles held his arms out wide and stepped between us. “Fighting with each other will only make this situation worse,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “If Darla wants to help, then I think we ought to let her. I don’t much like her either, but we’re running out of options.”

Becky looked like she had tasted something sour. “I’m going to find that lease,” she vowed, stalking from the room. “I’m going to save your father’s home!”

I refrained from pointing out that since he was renting the house, it technically wasn’t his home. Yes, he had lived here for the past fifteen years. Yes, I spent the majority of my childhood in this place. But so what?

I was twenty-three years old now, and my father was gone. Everything had to come to an end sometime. I guess my dad should have thought about that before he decided to become a drug dealer.

DAY 7:

“I found it!”

Becky’s cry of victory carried down the stairs and filtered through the bathroom door, where I was gathering the remnants of razors and toiletries. My heart sank. I reached out and flicked the lock closed, wondering how long I would be able to hide before she found me.

“I can’t believe it. Who the hell keeps their lease inside a box of old Playboy magazines? Allie, where are you? You need to see this.”

A few minutes later, an insistent knock sounded on the bathroom door.

“Allie? Are you in there? I found the lease!”

I groaned inwardly, realizing I wouldn’t be able to stay in the bathroom forever. I glanced at my watch. We only had a couple more hours until we had to be out of here. It was almost over. Slowly, I went over and unlocked the door.

I opened it to find Becky standing in the hallway, looking smug and full of herself. She rattled three sheets of typewritten paper in my face, before handing them over to me.

Reluctantly, I took the papers from her and glanced down to read them. She had, indeed, found the document my dad had signed fifteen years ago. Stapled beneath it, was an addendum to the original rental agreement, dated less than a year ago.

My name had been added below his. Becky had been right all along.

Frowning, I glanced up to see her self-righteous I-told-you-so expression.

“Now you can call the landlord and tell him you’re staying.”

The oddest feeling came over me then. It was like I was floating above my body, watching myself, but not really in control of my actions. Still clutching the papers in my hand, I turned away and headed for the kitchen.

Becky followed after me, chattering excitedly, but nothing she said managed to penetrate the fog in my brain. I passed the kitchen table, then stopped and glanced over my shoulder. Charles had taken all the pictures off the walls, and the cheerful, bright yellow poster was leaning up against one of the chairs.

How to Be Happy in Spite of Yourself!

I stared at it for a long time, reading the different sections, feeling bleak and hopeless. I wasn’t sure I could ever be happy again, even if I managed to employ every single technique listed on the poster.

Then one, in particular, caught my eye. It was listed under the section entitled Smell Swell Smells.

Becky peered around my shoulder. “I have the landlord’s number in my phone. You want me to dial it for you?”

“Do whatever you want,” I said, knowing exactly how to get a small portion of my serenity back.

As Becky reached for the phone, I brushed by her and headed for the back door.

“It’s ringing," she called after me. "Allie, where are you going?”

I ignored her, stepped out into the backyard, and—still feeling as though I was floating above my own body—headed straight for the circular firepit. As I fished a lighter from the back pocket of my jeans, I was overcome with memories of simpler times—all of us sitting around the bonfire at night, sharing jokes and scary stories. It felt like a lifetime ago.

I dropped the lease and its addendum atop the half-charred stack of logs, leaned over, and flicked the lighter against the corners of the paper. Within seconds, bright orange flames consumed the documents, until all that was left was a pile of ashes.

A wood fire.

What a swell smell.

I was surprised to discover that—for the first time in a long time—I did feel happy.

In spite of myself.

THE END