Wellness Check

I put my hotdog into the bucket, because I want to see my daughter again. Her name’s Rachel and she’s fallen down the well. Also again.

She’s always doing this to me.

The first time was when I taught her to play chess, many sweet lifetimes ago. She was a ruby-cheeked cherub perpetually surprised at the beauty of life, and even though her mom feared she’d find the game boring, Rachel’s eyes widened with marvel at the armies arrayed on the board. But she thought it wasn’t a toy – something to be looked at and never touched. When I told her it was a game, and that she would get to play, she gasped and clapped her hands, and hugged me. You might not suppose a five-year old can bear hug the air out of a grown man, but you better believe my little Rachel can do anything she sets her mind to.

So, I taught her the game. And perhaps unfortunately, I also taught her about loss. The tide of her young life had so far just been receding, ever revealing more of the treasures buried under the sea. But tides eventually come in. Hers was building to a giant wave of disappointment.

“Checkmate,” I said, my white knight cornering her king. And the wave swept her off her feet.

She spared us her terrible twos and saved them all up for psychotic fives. She grabbed my knight with a shriek, tossed the chessboard onto the ground, smashed a plate, and bolted out of the house – screaming all the while. And not watching where she ran, she fell down the municipal well.

Oh, she was terrified, the poor dear! And so was I. The whole town gathered and the news crews set up shop, all as my poor little muffin’s sobs echoed up the well walls. We lowered the bucket and told her to get on – that we’d pull her up – but she was just too scared. Then it struck me.

My little Rachel had always liked hotdogs. Specifically, we’re talking Ol’ Smokin’ Jim’s foot-long beef brats, on a fresh-baked Chesterholme Bakery’s hoagie roll, dressed in a sea of Pipp’s sauerkraut with accents of Pipp’s pickled jalapeños, drenched in Walford’s Classic honey dijon, and all smothered in Jensen Farms’ original red cheddar. Shredded, naturally.

She’d always liked hotdogs, ever since her fourth birthday was a hotdog birthday, and I figured if anything would get her out of the well it would be her favourite food. I placed a loaded dog in the bucket, sent it down, and up she came. Everyone cheered and we made the front page.

And thankfully we knew what to do the next time she fell down the well, which was six weeks later because she snuck out of her room after bedtime and caught sight of a horror movie. And then again when she didn’t want to go to kindergarten, and then again when she didn’t want to leave kindergarten.

She kept falling down the well and I got to thinking, it wasn’t an accident. It’s just how she coped when things didn’t go her way. I gotta tell you, some of those years were tough on us, me and the wife fighting, but I guess that’s true of any parents. And really, while the well was annoying it could have been much worse. She never broke another plate and we had a sure-fire way to get her to calm down and come back up.

The thing is, it’s fine to jump in a well if little Jenny Arlington didn’t invite you to her slumber party, or if you couldn’t go on the planetarium field trip because you definitely didn’t tell us about it and so of course we didn’t sign the permission slip, or if you can’t go to the concert of that annoying band you love because of chicken pox – that’s all fine. We all get stressed out, even kids.

What’s less fine is to continue jumping into the well as an adult.

“Why don’t you come on up, honey?”

A funnel of profanities erupts from the well, and I’m glad the news people grew bored of our family issues long ago.

“For Pete’s sake!” I shout. “You have a degree in microbiology!” This really isn’t the way for a well-adjusted person to behave. I hate to admit it – in fact, this gives me cold sweats at night – but sometimes I wish Rachel was better. Not that she got better, like she were recovering from some illness (though it sure does feel like it sometimes) but that she was better. A better her.

She responds with bitter silence.

Fine. Whatever. The hotdog will get her out. It always has, it always will. I know because Dad knows best, and I’m Dad. I adjust the hotdog on its ceremonial paper plate and centre it in the bucket. It’s photogenic, in case she wants to snap a picture of it before she comes up.

I don’t even know why she’s down there this time. What does she have to be upset about? She even beat me at chess just last week, for the first time in her life. She played a great game too, I’m proud to admit, even if Tanya probably coached her.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Maybe I do know why she’s upset. I guess I just don’t get it.

What’s so sad about losing a roommate? Life goes on. It’s not at all the same as losing a cat.

We lost Mister Humphries last November, after he dedicated sixteen years to our family. That cat was the son I never had and I’m not ashamed to say I bawled my eyes out. We all did. The service was so beautiful. Now, listen, we’re not crazy cat people. When I say service I mean we had a day for just us, the family, where we sat around reminiscing about Mister Humphries and eating peanut butter ice cream. Well, the family and Tanya, because for some reason Rachel thought it appropriate to bring said roommate. I suppose Tanya did catsit him a couple times, so she wasn’t exactly a stranger.

Poor Rachel, with her puffy red eyes. She grew up with that cat and seeing her like that broke my heart again. It was a bitter, sweet day, and not a day I’m likely to ever forget. But do you know what didn’t happen? Rachel didn’t fall down the well because our beloved cat died.

So why now? Just because Tanya’s gone? I don’t get it.

Well, sure, I suppose they were friends. I suppose they’ve known each other since junior high. I suppose they’ve never spent more than a few days apart.

I suppose I’ve just never really liked Tanya. She seemed like a bad influence. Like when we showed her chess and I asked her if she understood the rules.

“Because it’s a complex game,” I said. “There’s no shame in asking for clarifications.”

“Oh, I think I get it,” she said, and she had this nasty chuckle like she’d seen so much of the world. “The white ones go first. They always go first.”

Rachel stopped playing with me after that, for years. I thought she dropped it altogether, but it turned out the two of them played it. Where did that leave me? I don’t mean to rag on my wife but she was more of a Go woman. I didn’t have anyone and I put my board away.

“I’m sending down your favourite,” I call down the well. “It’s a hotdog.”

An agonized sob echoes back up.

I sigh. The bucket rests on the edge of the well. Hesitation.

I should be happy, shouldn’t I? Tanya’s gone her own way, and things can return to the way they used to be. Back to normal. Losing a cat was terrible. Losing my daughter? Immeasurably worse. So I should be happy, right? But the shuddering little cries – my baby’s serrated distress – shred my heart.

Would she cry like this if I died? Would she even fall down the well?

And if she did, who would get her out?

Why does Tanya have such an effect on her? I know they spent a lot of time together. I know they shared some dreams, like that one summer where they wanted to be actors, just pretending their lives away. It was ridiculous, but I mostly kept that opinion to myself, because that’s what you do when your kids disappoint you. You keep it in and pray they find their way back.

They looked up a bunch of those artsy west coast schools and spent their evenings at all the amateur theatre nights. And they performed too. They took that trip up to Canada with all their friends and asked us to come too. We didn’t go, of course, because it all seemed so silly and I wouldn’t have known anyone anyway. And besides, they filmed the whole thing. Put on a show, an act, a real farce. Pretended a wedding into existence, and Rachel was the bride and Tanya was the groom, or the other way, or I don’t know. The whole thing was very silly. Not my cup of humour.

I never watched the tape.

And Rachel stopped visiting us for Christmas.

And so when I heard Tanya had gone, well, I dared hope things were back to how they used to be. I bought a twenty-four pack of Ol’ Smokin’ Jim’s foot-long beef brats. But my little Rachel had already fallen down the well again.

All because she lost a roommate.

I don’t like Tanya. I don’t get her. I never have and now, I don’t think I ever will. Maybe, if I’m honest, I didn’t try. Maybe I tuned out Rachel when she was singing her praises. Maybe an ugly part of me was gleeful when we heard the news about the accident, about how they got to the hospital too late.

Maybe that’s a regret that’s settled at the bottom of my heart, like a bucket overflowing with hotdogs.

Another one of Rachel’s hitched sobs echoes up the well and I shiver. My baby is crying and I can’t breathe.

I don’t get Tanya, but I get what she meant to Rachel. What she means. What she always will mean. I get it now, now that it’s too late. Or maybe I always did and I pretended it away. Prayed it away. Wished it away. Caveat emptor.

I set my bucket down beside the well. This hotdog’s going uneaten.

“Come on up, muffin,” I say, my voice trembling. “Let’s talk. We’ll go home, I’ll make you a nice tea, and you’ll tell me all about her. All about your room–… Your wi–” My voice catches. “All about your Tanya.”

When my daughter starts climbing I reach down a hand to help her out.