We Were Beautiful

by Heather Hepler

  “I know,” I say, thinking of the accident. How it’s almost like a stop-action film in my head.

  “I remember my mom bent over me, then over Cooper. Next, police. The neighbors must have called. After that, an ambulance. They checked me. Told my mom I was okay. But they took Cooper with them.”

  I remember when they took Rachel from me. I remember wondering if I’d ever see her again.

  “The medics asked our mom if she wanted to ride along, but she said she wanted to stay with me. I thought she was afraid of leaving me alone with Phil.” Sarah shakes her head, her mouth a thin line. “She wanted to stay and talk to the police. Phil said Cooper just went crazy, started attacking him. He even said Cooper hurt me. I was so out of it—” Sarah starts to cry.

  “And you were scared,” I say.

  She nods, but tears are still running down her cheeks. “I don’t know if the police believed them. They said they’d wanted to question Phil further after they talked to Cooper. Told him and my mom not to leave town or even leave the apartment.” Sarah gets quiet. “I was so scared that I sat on Cooper’s bed, waiting.” She swallows hard, but then looks at me. “I could hear my mom and Phil talking, hear drawers being opened and closed, then an argument. Just their voices, not words.

  “Soon, Phil came in.” Sarah closes her eyes. “He said if I told the police the truth about what happened, he’d kill Cooper.” She takes a shuddering breath. “I believed him. Then he left.” She looks at me. “They both left.”

  Sarah leans her head back on the chair and looks out the window. “At first I thought they were just out. I chained the door, thinking I could keep them out, but as the day wore on and then it was night and then day again, I started thinking they weren’t coming back. The police came to ask me more questions, but I was afraid to tell them anything. Afraid that Phil would come back. Afraid he meant what he said about killing Cooper. I kept thinking our mom would come back, but she didn’t.”

  “And Cooper was in the hospital,” I say.

  Sarah nods. “They wouldn’t let me see him at first, but the social worker they assigned us got them to let me visit.” She closes her eyes. “It was bad. His arm was in a cast and they had to wire his jaw. But the whole time he kept asking how I was. Asking if I was okay. He kept apologizing for leaving me alone.” She shakes her head. “His arm was broken, and his face was a mess of stitches, but he was more worried about the bump on my head and the bruise on my cheek. Cooper blamed himself.”

  I give Sarah a meaningful look. I understand blame.

  She stares at me for a long moment, and like her brother, I can almost feel her looking inside of me. “I think that’s why he wouldn’t let them fix his mouth. I think he believes he deserves to be that way for leaving me.” She takes a deep breath. “Cooper didn’t let anyone in for a long time. No one. He went to group with me at first because I asked him to. But he wouldn’t talk about it. Then one day he just decided to. First in group, and then with other people. He started helping them too.”

  I wonder if that’s what he was doing with me: helping me. Part of me is grateful that he cared, but I don’t want to be his charity or his good deed. I want to be his friend and maybe more than his friend.

  “But then you arrived.” Sarah smiles at me. “Mia, with you it’s different. He’s not only talking about things. He’s starting to really feel things again.” She leans forward and taps the photo in my hand. “That’s what got lost two years ago. Not Cooper’s lip or our mother. Them.” I nod and look at the photo. Cooper’s smile. His eyes and Sarah’s face. So open.

  “He trusts you, Mia,” Sarah says.

  I shake my head. “He shouldn’t.” I think of all the times I could have told him about me. About Rachel. About my face. About my mom and my dad and my life.

  “He does,” Sarah says. I look up at her. “And I do too.” She smiles at me. “So, don’t break his heart.”

  She stands and picks up her bag. I try to hand the photo back to her, but she shakes her head.

  “You keep it,” she says.

  She starts toward the door, and I follow. She opens the door, steps out into the hall, and begins to walk down to the elevator. I follow, and wait with her while the car comes and the doors open. Sarah hugs me and steps into the elevator, but she puts her hand against the door to stop it from closing.

  “I’ll see you on Saturday,” she says, smiling.

  With a gentle click, the doors slide shut, and Sarah is gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I walk back into the apartment and shut the door firmly behind me. The air tastes stale, like it’s been breathed in and out too many times. I walk to the window near Veronica’s chair and open it as far as it will go. I hang my head out, feeling the breeze threading between the buildings. It smells salty and it makes me think of Coney Island and then of the beach near our house in Maine.

  I pick up the album Veronica showed to Cooper and sit in the chair near the window. The first photo is of our house in Maine after a big snowstorm. A drift obscures most of the first floor. Then there’s one of my mother elbow deep in soapy water, surrounded by canning jars ready for pickles. I flip more pages. My dad hauling his traps. Rachel learning to ride a two-wheeler. Me blowing out birthday candles. There’s a bulge at the back of the album. I flip forward. A bundle of envelopes. I pull them apart. All of them are addressed to Veronica in my father’s sloping handwriting. Short notes fall from the envelopes.

  I hope you’re doing well. Hope to see you soon.-David.

  Thought you’d want to see Mia’s giant birthday cake.-David.

  Dozens of them, always from my father. I flip the pages again and see the photo of Rachel and me. I lay the picture Sarah gave me beside it and think about what she said—about things lost. Too many things to count.

  I hear the key in the lock, then the soft clink of Veronica’s purse as she places it on the table in the hall and the sounds of shoes on the wood floor. I quickly stuff the envelopes into the back of the album. I feel like I’ve been spying, but then, it’s my life in that album.

  “Hi,” I say as she rounds the corner. “I was just—” Veronica’s eyes move from mine to the album still in my hands, then back to my face.

  “I’m sorry.” I hurry to replace the album in the bookcase. In my haste, the envelopes fall free, scattering across the carpet. I try to gather them back together, but my fingers are clumsy and I keep dropping them. I hear Veronica walking toward me, then feel her hand on my shoulder.

  “Mia,” Veronica says, touching my shoulder. “It’s okay.” Her voice stills my hands. “Come on,” she says. “My old bones can’t take crouching on the floor like a wild animal.” I glance at her, surprised to see her smiling.

  She walks to the sofa and sits, nodding toward the other end of the couch. Neither of us says anything for a few moments. Veronica is looking past my shoulder, out the window behind me. I just stare at my hands, still clutching Sarah’s photo.

  “Thank you,” my grandmother says, finally.

  “For what?” I ask. It’s about the last thing I would have imagined her saying.

  “Before you came here, my life was neat and tidy. There were no elbows on my dinner table. No soup being slurped. No friends dropping in at the last minute for dinner.” I cringe a little. “My life was orderly and predictable and—empty.”

  “Then I got dumped on you,” I say.

  Veronica frowns at me. “Mia, I asked your father to bring you here. He was reluctant, but I insisted that what you both needed was a little space to breathe. Plus, I wanted you here.”

  The information about my father is news to me. “It didn’t seem like you wanted me,” I say, remembering those first days.

  Veronica sighs. “I’m not the best at . . .” She pauses then looks at me. “I want relationships, but I’m not that great at starting them or keeping them.”

  “You’re better than I am,” I say.

  She smiles. “I’ve wanted to meet my granddaught
ers ever since you were born.” The plural granddaughters hangs between us.

  I say what she won’t. “And because of me you’ll never meet Rachel,”

  “Mia, look at me.” I meet her eyes. “Rachel is dead, but you aren’t.” I open my mouth to say something, but she holds up her hand. “It’s harsh, but there it is.” Her face is kind but determined. “And,” she says, pausing before making her second point, “Rachel wouldn’t want you living as if you were.”

  She looks at me fiercely, as if daring me to disagree. I stare down at my hands. She’s right, of course.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” I say.

  Veronica sighs. “I think you start the same place I did with your mother. You say you’re sorry.” I look up at her. This is the first time she’s talked about what happened between her and my mom. All I have is my mother’s side of things. “From the moment your mother turned five and ran halfway across Central Park, forcing me to chase her, we battled. She was a free spirit, and I was determined that she follow my plans.” She shakes her head. “And I’m afraid the more I made rules, the more she broke them. And the more she broke them, the more rules I tried to enforce.” She smiles at me. “And then she met your father. And you girls came along. And I guess somewhere in the middle of that, I grew up. I learned that loving someone means loving them no matter what.” She sighs again. “But I guess there were just too many bad memories between us for her.”

  “But maybe that’s it,” I say. “Maybe there are too many bad memories.”

  “Maybe,” she says. She looks at me. “All you can do is say you’re sorry and then keep at it, working to make things right.”

  “But I can’t make everything right,” I say.

  Veronica shakes her head. “No, you can’t. I couldn’t either. Your mother couldn’t ever forgive me for being so horrible when they first got married, but your father could.” The pain on Veronica’s face is raw. “And so you do what you can. You keep moving forward, piecing things together. Some things can’t ever be fixed. Some things can.”

  She softly grins at me. “But the best things are the ones that, when they are put back together are even stronger than before.”

  I think about Rachel and my mom and my dad. I think about Cooper. Everything just feels too overwhelming.

  Veronica reaches out and places a hand on mine. “Just start with one thing.” She checks her watch, and her eyes go big. “And I know just the thing,” she says, already heading toward the kitchen. She returns, handing me a twenty. “I’ll get dinner going. You go find dessert.”

  I grab my bag and head for the door. “Get enough for three,” she says, making my heart bump.

  Cooper. Please let it be Cooper.

  I’m almost all the way out the door when I hear Veronica’s voice. “Mia! Nothing with avocados,” she calls after me, and I smile.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Little Bakeshop has too many cupcake flavors to decide on just three, so I buy half a dozen, including Gone Bananas, Orangearific, Moon and Stars, Walnuttiest, Chocolate Mooses, and OREO You Didn’t. I’m back out on the sidewalk with my pink box of goodness, hurrying back to the apartment, barely daring to admit what I hope.

  I cross the street and head to the park. Little pops of nervousness keep floating through my head as I oscillate between wanting and then not wanting to see Cooper. I step into the park and walk past two old men hunched over a chess board and a man wearing a Clash T-shirt creating giant bubbles with a bucket of bubble junk and a piece of cording.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and click open the photo. It’s of the bubble guy. And a thumb. I look up and see him. There on the other side of the sidewalk.

  My father.

  “Hi, Mia-bird,” he says, walking toward me. He rubs the back of his neck and looks at me. At me. “Guess you’re surprised to see me here,” he says.

  He has no idea.

  I just look at him. He seems out of place. Jeans and a plaid shirt and boots. His multitool is still tucked in his shirt pocket and he has his hunting knife strapped to his boot.

  “I wanted to see you,” my father says.

  “Really,” I say, surprised at the anger in that one word. Seeing me is the last thing he’s wanted to do in almost a year. He rubs the back of his neck again.

  “Why are you really here?” I ask. Seeing him is like seeing part of a dream I barely remember. My father takes a step toward me, making me pull back. He pauses.

  “Mia,” he says. His voice catches and he closes his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  Those are the words I should be saying to my father. He’s saying them to me.

  “About what?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything. “Because if you’re sorry about losing Rachel, I already know that.”

  “Of course I’m sorry that Rachel is gone. I think about her every day.” I lower my head and examine my feet. “But that’s not why I’m here. Mia . . .”

  I look up at him and find he’s still looking at me. Right at me. At my face.

  “It’s you I’m sorry about. I’m sorry about losing you.” His voice is so soft, I almost can’t hear him.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry that I lost you.”

  “You didn’t lose me,” I say. “You knew where I was.” I frown at the giant bubble that floats behind him. “You just couldn’t bear to look at me.”

  “I’m looking now,” he says.

  “Are you?” I ask. I turn the ruined side of my face to him, but I don’t take my eyes off him. “Are you really looking? Do you see this?” I ask.

  I point to the ropey scar that almost looks like it’s just lying on my face instead of part of it. Anger boils up inside of me, pressing against the guilt and sadness. And I don’t know whether to scream or cry or pound my fists against the ground.

  My father just nods, but his eyes are wet. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I hope—” His voice breaks and he’s silent.

  “What do you hope?” I ask. All the things I hope for are impossible. Time machines and magical watches that let you flip back a whole year—they don’t exist. Nothing can fix what happened.

  “I hope someday you can forgive me,” he says. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his Carhartts.

  “I hope someday you can forgive me too,” I say, because I know both of those things are welded together.

  He reaches out and touches my cheek, and for once I don’t pull away. “Look at me,” he says. I do, but just for a moment. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  “I got my sister killed,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that falls into the category of Things You Need to Be Forgiven For.”

  “It was an accident,” my father says. I shake my head. Everyone says that, but I was driving. It was my fault.

  “If you need me to say it, I will,” he says. “I forgive you.” He pauses, making me look up. “I forgive Rachel too.”

  “What? It wasn’t her fault.” All I feel when I think of Rachel is pain. Like every memory I have of her is veiled in sadness and shame.

  “Rachel was drunk,” Dad says. He nods when he sees the surprise in my eyes. “She shouldn’t have taken you to that party. She was your big sister. She should have been looking out for you.”

  “You can’t—” I begin.

  “Yes, I can,” he says. “Everyone says you can’t talk bad about the dead, but no one seems to have a problem talking bad about the living.” He looks at me for a long moment, letting me know that he’s aware of the things people said about me after the accident.

  “I don’t want to live in the past anymore, Mia. Do you?” he asks.

  I shake my head. I don’t, but I don’t know how not to.

  “We’ll work on that together,” he says. He must see something in my eyes. “Please,” he says. “We’ll just take it slow.”

  “Slow would be good,” I say, because I know if I’m going to trust him again, it’s going to take a long time.


  “I’ve missed you, Mia-bird,” he says.

  “Me too,” I respond, because if nothing else, I know that much is true.

  I look past him toward the dog park, feeling the ache of missing in my heart that stretches beyond this moment. The ache that isn’t just about the past, but about the future too. It’s then that I see the people walking past. See them staring at my father.

  “What?” he asks, seeing the smile on my face. I shake my head and start laughing a little. I can’t help it because I’m looking at his Bean boots and his flannel shirt and his woven belt that has little pockets and clips all over it. And it all feels so familiar, but it’s all so out of place here. And then I’m full-out laughing, thinking about my father walking from Penn Station to my grandmother’s apartment, looking like he took a wrong turn somewhere at the Vermont border and ended up here.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Dad,” I say. And I am.

  “You sure?” he asks. “I told Veronica that I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me, but she said you did.”

  “Are you staying?” I ask.

  “For a few days,” he says. “We’ll talk about it, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. We stand there awkwardly for a few moments, neither of us willing to make the first step toward the other. Then he hugs me. I have to be careful not to drop the pink bakery box. We stand like that in the middle of the sidewalk, making people walk around us. Then his stomach growls. He pulls away, looking sheepish.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I’m starving.”

  I smile. My father is always hungry. Always. “Let’s go eat dinner,” I say, pulling back from him.

  We walk beside each other, keeping a safe distance. I know we both need time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Veronica acts like there’s nothing out of the ordinary when we walk in together.

  “Why don’t the two of you get cleaned up for dinner?” she says from the doorway. I show my father where the bathroom is, then I walk back to the kitchen and wash my hands at the sink. A moment later, my father comes around the corner. His cheeks are pink and his hair is damp.