by Monroe, Max
I look into my sister’s still-worried gaze, and I inhale a deep, rickety breath into my lungs. And once I get myself together, once I can breathe and talk at the same time, I tell her everything.
I tell her about Ansel. I tell her how I first tracked him down at the gallery.
I tell her how I’ve been spending time with him. I tell her that we made love.
I tell her how he makes me feel. That I’m so drawn to him.
That I’m falling for him.
And then I tell her about Matt.
How he came home early, and I ended things. That I admitted to cheating, and that he, understandably, reacted angrily.
I’m about to tell her about the other painting I found in Ansel’s studio when she sucks me back into the topic before it.
Matt.
“That sanctimonious bastard!” she yells, jumping up from the couch and pacing.
“Lily?” I question, wiping a lingering tear from my face as I flash to emotionally sober. That’s usually all it takes to snap me out of it—someone else going crazy.
“I can’t believe him!”
“He wasn’t that bad, Lil.” She shakes her head like a lunatic. “Seriously,” I emphasize.
Suddenly, she drops to the couch next to me and takes my hand in hers. “Okay. Okay,” she pep-talks herself. “Just tell her.”
“Just tell me what?”
“Indy…Matt…the rat bastard…has absolutely no high hill to stand on. He cheated on you too.”
“What?” I whisper, searching my sister’s eyes. “How…when?” I shake my head. “You knew?”
Lily nods guiltily and squeezes my hands to keep me from pulling them away.
“A while ago, seven or so months, I think…”
“This happened seven months ago?” My eyes pop wide open. “What the fuck, Lil?”
And she’s just telling me this now?
“I know. God, I know how it seems, Indy. But…” She pauses and grips my hands tighter. “As far as I know, it only happened once. I saw them in Chinatown together. He swore up and down it was the biggest mistake of his life and that he regretted it. I don’t know, Indy, I really believed him, so I didn’t tell you.”
I’m shaking head to toe, and I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to feel. Lily keeps talking to try to soothe it.
“I felt like I had finally gotten my sister back,” she whispers, and tears well in her eyes. “You seemed happy for the first time since… I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“Since Adam,” I finish for her, and she nods.
“I see now that you weren’t happy…” She pauses and her voice shakes. “That you haven’t been happy. God, I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you.”
I shake my head because that’s all I can do. I should be mad at her. Incredibly pissed, even. I should feel betrayed that she didn’t tell me the truth.
I felt like I had finally gotten my sister back. Her words repeat inside of my mind over and over again, and once the initial shock wears off, it’s impossible for me to be mad at her.
And I don’t feel betrayed. I mostly just understand.
Before Matt, I was a bit of a mess. Actually, I was a real fucking mess. A shell of myself. I barely spent time with my family, and doing simple tasks like taking a shower and going to work felt like the world’s biggest feats. And just before I started dating Matt, I made a point to change my miserable, hermit ways. I didn’t want to be the sad girl who was letting her life pass her by.
Beneath all the wreckage, I wanted to find myself again.
So, eventually, I started to open myself up to my family, my friends, life.
I started going out and doing things. Drinks with friends. Family dinners. Outings with Lil.
By the time I was in a relationship with Matt, I was at least trying to be me again. I was trying not to be so isolated. I was simply trying. And I think it’s safe to say my sister misconstrued Matt as being the reason for the positive change.
Of course, she should have told me the truth. But deep down, I know her fear was what held back the truth.
Fear that I would crawl back into my pathetic shell again.
Fear that I’d go right back to the sad, mostly absentee sister.
“You should go visit him,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Adam, I mean. Matt can go fuck himself.”
I laugh despite the fucking mess that is my life right now, and Lily smiles her sweetest smile through the apologetic emotion that still rests beneath her eyelids.
“You need to get some sort of closure,” she adds on a soft whisper, and I know she’s right.
Before I can move on to Ansel, to any of the things I want from him—with him—or to the painting I saw in his studio, I have to go back.
To the day that changed me forever.
Indy
The soles of my boots sink into the snow-covered ground and leave a path of my footsteps behind me. It’s cold, frigid, even, but I hardly notice as I walk across the grounds of the cemetery.
Just beyond the big oak tree and past the tragic section of gravestones in memoriam of an entire family with the last name Conroy, I stop at my intended destination.
In Memory of Adam Thomas Lane.
His gravestone is as white as the crystalline snow. It stands here, before me, with its youthful glow, strong, erect, and ready to last a hundred years. Yet I’ll never see Adam’s golden skin, his tall frame, or his brown eyes. I’ll never see him behind the lens of his camera or flashing that handsome smile.
There’s such cruel irony in that.
I reach out with a gloved hand to touch the marble and run my fingers over the engraved black lettering, but quickly, I remove the glove. My bare fingers blanch in the wintry wind, but I don’t care.
Somehow, the feel of the stone on my skin brings me some peace. It’s beautiful, polished and smooth. It was the most expensive option in the catalogue, and Adam’s mom and I chose it without hesitation. He will never see it, of course; he will never know, but we will. I will.
I bend down to read the lettering at eye level.
Loving fiancé, son, grandson, nephew, and friend.
My heart clenches, and I run my whole hand over the stone.
Died January 31st.
The day that changed my life forever.
For the longest time, I used to come to this cemetery, to Adam’s grave, when I felt like my foundation would crumble if I didn’t speak to him again, like an unsteady Jenga tower with someone tugging at a crucial brick.
I would spend hours upon hours here, just talking to him. I know it sounds ridiculous, but somehow, for the first year, this slice of stone steadied me enough that I could go back to my life, go back to trying to move on.
As time went on, my visits became less frequent.
Until they became pretty much nonexistent.
I don’t know why I stopped coming here, but I think I’d reached a point where I was simply trying to live my life. It wasn’t that I was forgetting Adam, I could never forget him, but I just didn’t need to come here to remember him, to talk to him.
“I still miss you,” I whisper into the frigid breeze. “I still think about you, and I often wonder what life would be like if you were still around, if you were still here.”
Rationally, I know I’m just talking to bones. But inside my heart, I hope Adam can hear me. I hope God is carrying my voice to the heavens so Adam knows I’m thinking of him.
“Four years is a long time, but simultaneously, it feels like no time at all. I’m sorry it’s been a while since I’ve come to see you. But, just know, you’re always in my heart. No matter what.”
I stare across the vast rows of gravestones before finally moving my gaze back to his.
“I feel bad I haven’t responded to your mom. She’s reached out to me so many times, yet I haven’t answered her,” I whisper, and a soft sigh leaves my lungs and billows into the air in a white puff. “Sometimes, it’s just easier not to think about
you, you know? Sometimes it’s just easier to be distracted by my everyday life and not think about the wonderful memories of you that hurt my heart. But I promise, I’ll call her. I’ll go see her.”
A bird crows in the distance, and I look up toward the sky to see it flying from the big oak tree and across the cemetery. I follow his path until he’s just a blip in the sky, a tiny black dot my eyes can hardly see.
“I’m still at Great Elm,” I whisper and look back at Adam’s name. “I’m still teaching music, but I’m not…” I pause and realize just how sad it is that I can’t even admit the truth—that I’m still not playing the violin. That the day Adam died was the last day it was in my hands.
And when I open my mouth to tell him something else, I can’t get those words out either.
God, my life is a fucking mess right now.
I’m a fucking mess right now.
Instead of saying all of the things racing through my mind, I find myself rambling inside my own head.
I’ve met someone, Adam. I’ve met someone, and he’s an artist like you, a painter, actually, and his paintings remind me of the silly photographs you used to take of me.
Do you remember when we got the heart tattoos and you forced me into taking that ridiculous picture to commemorate it? As if a tattoo wasn’t commemoration enough.
Well, one of the paintings…it looks exactly like that photograph, and I don’t understand why.
He seems to understand everything I’m feeling and thinking just by looking into my eyes.
It terrifies me. He terrifies me.
I inhale a deep breath and run one gloved hand across the top of his gravestone.
Who I am when I’m with him terrifies me. I cheated, Adam. Had an actual affair.
I shake my head in the cool wind.
I went against everything I thought I stood for. But I didn’t feel like there was an option. It felt inevitable. Like some kind of otherworldly force was pulling me toward Ansel, and I was powerless to fight it.
And the worst part of all? The hardest part to admit to myself? I don’t want to take it back. Not for a million years.
I don’t regret what I did. And if I could do it all over again, I would. Because the way Ansel makes me feel, the way he made me feel when he was making love to me, it was…it was everything.
I never thought I’d fall in love again, Adam, but…
The frigid wind taps at my bones and my ungloved fingers burn, and I realize, unless I want to go back home with fewer limbs, I need to start heading back to the car sooner rather than later.
With my hand on Adam’s gravestone, I shut my eyes for a long moment, taking in cold breaths of air, until I find the strength to say goodbye.
“Forever sweet dreams and until we meet again,” I whisper and stand to my feet. I blow him a kiss and turn on my heels to trudge back through the grass-covered snow.
When I reach the Zipcar I rented to come out here for the day, I slip inside and click the engine on. Cold air blows out from the vents, and I turn up the thermostat and rub my palms together.
Shit. It’s cold.
I don’t know how long I was out there, but my body feels like a thick block of ice, trying to thaw itself out.
While I wait for the engine to warm up enough to head back home, my phone vibrates inside my purse, and I grab it to check the screen. A text.
Ansel: How was the music lesson yesterday? Did you make it there and home okay?
I shut my eyes and swallow back the fresh tears threatening to flow from my lids.
This is the second text he’s sent me since I left his house yesterday, and I know I need to respond. It would be completely cruel if I didn’t respond.
Before I can second-guess myself, I open the message box, type out a simple response, and hit send.
Me: I did and it was good.
There was no music lesson, but I just didn’t know what else to tell him when I left yesterday morning. Seeing the painting with the tattoo, my old tattoo, it was too much to bear, too much to process.
Ansel: Good. I’m glad. Everything else okay?
Me: Yep. I’m just a little busy running errands. Talk later?
More lies.
Ansel: Of course.
God, I hate that I’m lying to him.
And my reasoning is shit, I know that, but I can’t seem to do anything else but put some distance between us until I can wrap my mind around what I saw.
I just need a little more time. Just a little more time to understand why.
Before I put my phone to sleep, I catch sight of the name Sally in my text message inbox again, and maybe it’s because of the visit to Adam, but this time, I open up the text conversation.
Sally: Hey, sweetie. I’d love to see you. Call me soon.
Sally: Hi, Indy. Just wanted to let you know I thought of you today. Would love to hear from you.
And there are another four or so messages just like those.
Always kind, Adam’s mom has been reaching out to me with a consistent sweetness despite going unanswered by me.
She deserves better than this.
Before I second-guess it, before I can stop myself, I find her name in my contacts and hit call.
This is one promise that I need to keep.
Sally answers on the second ring.
“Indy,” she greets, and the way she says my name is equal parts heartwarming and painful. She is the sweetest, kindest soul. A woman who always puts everyone else’s needs before her own. A woman who loved her son more than anyone in the world, and somehow, even after she lost him, she still kept her thoughtful, unjaded heart.
“Hi, Sally.”
“Wow,” she says, and I can practically hear the smile in her voice. “It’s so good to hear from you.”
“I’m so sorry I haven’t reached out for a while.”
“That’s okay, sweetie,” she says in her familiar, motherly tone. “I know you’re busy, and I also know sometimes…it’s hard.”
“It is.” My voice quivers, and I have to swallow back the emotion that threatens to take up residence in my throat.
“Why don’t you come over to the house for a bit, Indy? I know Bill would love to see you, and I’d really like to give you something. Something Adam would want you to have.”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the impulse to pull away and force myself outside of numb comfort. I’ve been frozen there long enough. “I’d really like that.”
After I drop off my Zipcar at the pickup location near my apartment, I hop on the subway and take a ride across town to Adam’s parents’ house.
The instant I arrive—before I even ring the doorbell, actually—Sally steps out onto the small porch and wraps me up in her arms, pulling me inside and demanding I make myself at home.
Bill and Sally’s house is just as I remembered. Warm and cozy with a Southern Living vibe and enough quilts and hand-sewn inspirational quotes to give TED Talks a run for their money.
Adam hated those quotes. He cringed whenever he spotted a new one on the wall. But I think he’d be proud to know that between all the country rustic items of décor are more than a few of his architectural photographs that had been published in popular magazines across the country.
The thought of that, the thought of him, makes me smile.
Sally sets a fresh plate of oatmeal-raisin cookies onto the kitchen table, and Adam’s dad is the first to reach out and snag one in his hand.
“Bill,” she chastises her husband, and I grin. “You don’t have to be such a hooligan about it.”
He just chuckles and takes a big ol’ bite in spite of her.
Adam’s mom rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to me. “When I talked to your mom a few months ago, she said you were still at Great Elm and giving music lessons after school. That still going well for you?”
Ever since I stepped through the door, she’s kept up a steady stream of questions, asking me about anything and everything she can think of. I don’t
mind, though. If anything, it’s nice to see Adam’s parents again.
“It is,” I answer. “The kids are wild some days, but mostly, I enjoy it.”
“You teach all grades?” Bill asks through a mouthful of cookie, and his wife groans in annoyance at his lack of manners.
“I do.”
“That’s good, Indy. That’s really good.”
Bill, while a happy-go-lucky kind of guy, is generally a man of few words. It reminds me a lot of his son. Adam was never one to ramble on or carry on long conversations. It was like he never wanted to waste his words and saved them up like coins in a rainy-day jar.
“I’m really glad you stopped by today.” Sally reaches out and places her hand over mine. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too.”
“Just having you here brings back so many memories. So many good memories.”
A wistful smile consumes my face. “For me too.”
Her eyes glaze over with emotion. “It makes me feel like Adam is here, smiling down at us.”
I squeeze her hand. “Because he is.”
A quiet moment spreads throughout the kitchen, and we all let it linger, relishing in the happy and the melancholy and trying to bask in all of the good moments we shared together, we shared with Adam.
It makes me realize how far I’ve come. How much of my grief I’ve actually managed to work through. How much easier it is now to talk about Adam without feeling like my heart is breaking. How, while I miss him, I’m not consumed by it.
I probably still have a million miles to go, but at least I’ve gotten here. To this place.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Sally offers, and I shake my head.
“I’d love to, but I should probably be going soon.”
“Okay.” She nods, but I don’t miss the disappointment in her eyes. “But before you go, I want you to take the letter with you this time.”
The letter. She’s been trying to give it to me for the past year and a half, and every time, I say no.