(Scratch that: Papa loved Gretchen.)
I lose it when I walk into my room and see that someone has placed Crime and Punishment atop my clean laundry pile on my bed. The book’s spine is useless now, and its front cover bends awkwardly back, the top left corner ripped. It is exactly how I left it last week, when I set it down for the night, when Papa died.
I feel like screaming, but when I open my mouth, no sound escapes. My silent cry becomes me. I grab the book, but I don’t know what to do with it because my head feels like it’s splitting and my heart no longer exists inside my chest. Before I can stop myself, I chuck the book across the room, where it smashes against my mirror. One edge of the glass cracks in a web where it was hit, and the book thumps to the floor, unharmed.
I try screaming again, but all that escapes is a whimper, barely audible. My chest is about to explode. I lose feeling in my legs for a single moment, but it’s just enough for my knees to buckle. I don’t fight it; I slide to the floor, curling into myself.
Gretchen’s hand is on my shoulder seconds later. She says something soothing to me, fingers drifting through my hair. I don’t relax—I can’t—but her presence is solid and warm.
“Bee,” she whispers.
I catch enough breath to gasp, “Don’t say it’s okay. Don’t tell me it’s okay.”
She buries her head in my shoulder, arms twining around my shoulders, across my chest, clasping on the other side. “It’s not okay, Bee, I’d never say that. But you know what? One day, it will be okay again. It will.”
And I cry again because I can’t imagine an okay world where my father doesn’t exist.
That night, I leave Gretchen in my bed once she’s asleep and climb into my parents’ (mom’s) mostly empty king-size. Her pillow is soaked with tears, and her cheeks are pale from not eating, not sleeping. She takes up a single corner, too short to fit the length. Rolled onto her side, it’s like she could disappear if she wanted to. I tuck myself beneath her blanket, and her eyes crack open.
“Bee?” she whispers, yawning.
“Hi,” I whisper back. My voice cracks. “I can’t sleep…”
She reaches out and cradles my head against her chest as soon as she sees my tears. “Neither can I.”
“I don’t know how he can just…not be here.” I wipe my face free of tears, but more fall and replace them.
She only shudders, as if trying to contain herself around me. (I don’t know how to tell her she can cry.)
“I don’t know what to do with that book. That damn book.” She knows what I mean. The urge to scream or run or rip something in two comes back. I hold her tighter. “I can never get rid of it, but I don’t ever want to see it again.”
She shakes her head; her tears wet my forehead. “Put it away for now. It’s okay if you don’t want to see it.”
A voice interrupts at the last word, causing us both to jump. “Bee,” Millie whines quietly. “I wanted to sleep with Mommy.”
My mom scoots us both over and pats the spot on her other side. “Come here, M&M.”
My sister jumps into the bed, shaking it considerably, and rests her head on my mom’s other shoulder, looking across at me. “Don’t be a hog,” she says to me.
I try to laugh, but it comes out as a half-sob. “You sleep in here every night.”
“So?” she says—and bursts into tears.
“Seriously?” Astrid asks, entering the room.
We all give pathetic laughs that don’t sound much like us, but at least we’re laughing. “Get in, Ass-trid,” I say, moving closer to Mama.
Astrid makes herself comfortable spooning me, although she scrunches up her nose in distaste. “I want to be next to Mom.”
I wiggle. “Everyone wants to sleep by Mom, but we got here first.”
My mom actually laughs this time—now that’s what she sounds like when she’s happy. Then she kisses my forehead, and Millie’s, and reaches across to kiss Astrid’s. “I love my girls,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “We can switch around tomorrow night so Astrid can have a turn.”
I curl up, bending my knees so our legs entwine, and close my eyes. I like that there’s a tomorrow night. I know I’ll be here, searching for comfort, finding it sandwiched between sisters and mother.
After that night, I feel like I can’t stop crying, not even just for two minutes to brush my teeth or take a shower. The crying doesn’t budge for a good forty-eight hours. It takes over my life. The only solace is at night, when Gretchen is sleeping, and I run to my mom’s bedroom, trying to be the first to get a spot next to her.
The rest of the time is madness. I can’t do anything or touch anything or look at anything without seeing Papa, somehow. I keep finding old things of his in the house, receipts and discarded hats, a single shoe missing its pair (stuffed under the couch). Today, Day Five After the Funeral, I find a t-shirt of Papa’s that I forgot I’d borrowed, stacked with all my clean clothes on my bed.
It’s only three in the afternoon, but since Astrid is on Mom-duty and Millicent is on watering-plants-duty, I have nothing on the agenda. (Gretchen mentioned she was heading out; I don’t remember where because I was crying when she told me.) I strip out of my clothes and throw the shirt on; it comes just to my thighs and is two sizes too big—just comfortable enough for bed. Forsaking everything, I kick my pile of clothes to the ground and curl up under the covers, hugging one of my pillows to my chest.
Gretchen finds me like this an hour later, standing over the bed with a concerned expression. “What’s going on?” she murmurs.
I give her a look. How am I supposed to say, again, that I’ve been sobbing? That I’ve reverse-aged like Benjamin Button and can only function in the fetal position? That my chances of survival seem slim? I’m starting to sound like a broken record.
“Hey,” she says, and kicks off her shoes so she can climb into bed with me. Her hair falls over my shoulder as she wraps her arms around my middle. “Want to do something fun?”
I give her another look, accompanied by an atrociously loud sniffle.
“Look, it’s going to be hard. I know you,” she says. “You like your comfort zone and don’t want to step out when things get hard. But when it’s easy, sure—heck, you’ll plan an entire wedding!”
I groan, throwing my pillow over my face. Her words sting because they’re true. I’m sorry, Levi, that I didn’t keep you when I had you.
I’m waiting for you. It’s only been five days since he said those words.
I shake my head beneath the pillow.
Gretchen keeps going, despite my miniature tantrum. “Right now it’s hard, life sucks, and despite it all, you and I are going to do something that doesn’t consist of wearing pajamas and eating popcorn. Just this once, Bee. Just today.”
I have been eating a lot of popcorn lately. (And I’m pretty sure I’ve gained a few pounds.) I throw the pillow to the end of the bed and sit up abruptly. “Know what?” I demand. “You’re right and it pisses me off.”
Gretchen looks relatively unimpressed. “That’s good, I suppose.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” I say, enraged, as I hug my knees to my chest.
“Fight back.” Gretchen tugs me closer, so my head rests on her shoulder. “I say we write on the walls.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, like you always wanted to do. Write out your favorite lyrics or something.”
I glance at the wall at the head of my bed, empty except for a small map of the world. I’d been meaning to hang up more pictures, maybe buy some art, but now that all seems stupid.
I’m going to write on my walls.
I lean across Gretchen to open my nightstand drawer, where I have a pile of pens and pencils and sharpies. I grab a sharpie and move to my knees, popping the lid off and poising the
tip against the wall. I already know what song I’m going to choose. “Gretchen, will you look up the lyrics to ‘Michicant’?”
She laughs, incredulously. “You mean the one by Bon Iver? As in, that band you hate?”
“I…I don’t…” I huff. “Ugh. What other Bon Iver is there?”
“I’m just surprised, is all.” And then…it dawns. “Ohhhh. I see what’s going on here.”
I glare at her. “Shh, Gretchen. Don’t push that button, Jay Gatsby.”
“You meant the Levi button?” She roars with laughter as I lob a pillow at her head. “Ready?” she asks, pulling out her phone and holding it up in surrender.
Oh, am I ever. With a nod, she begins to read, and I begin to write.
Chapter 50
It’s with a dull ache that I start to see the world again.
It’s not exactly a pretty place, but it’s better than the hell I’ve been in. I see my mother crying ten times a day (I hold her for at least five of those), but I also hear my sisters rapping songs from Hamilton at the top of their lungs, and when Tom leaves for work in the evening there’s a bit of a smile back in his eyes. I even relieve Gretchen of her job: grocery shopping. (Apparently, that’s where she’s been going every day.)
I’m happy with the song on my wall, except now I think of Levi every time I see it. (As if I’m not already thinking of him every other second that I’m not thinking of Papa.) I don’t talk about him out loud, though, as if somehow opening my mouth and saying his name will jinx every ounce of courage I’ve gained in the last several days.
I don’t want to relapse.
Of course, I can’t avoid him at all when he calls me—calls me!—on Day Eleven After the Funeral. I stare at my phone in agony, so tempted to answer, but I know I can’t. I know it’s not right.
Gretchen grabs it off the table. “Bernice, answer this phone right now.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m not ready.”
“Why not?” she demands, finger hovering over the button.
“I’ve cried too many times today.”
As soon as the phone stops ringing I take it from her. His voicemail alert comes through an eternity later, but hearing his voice is entirely worth the wait.
“Hey.” He takes a deep breath in. It sounds shaky. “I know we’re not supposed to be talking right now, but I can’t help myself. Do you need anything? How’s your family? I’m a mess over here, Bee.” He groans, and there’s a shuffling noise. I think I hear Missy complaining in the background. “I know you have Gretchen and I know you need time. I promise I’m not being pushy. Or, erm, I’m trying not to be pushy. I miss you every day, okay? But we don’t even have to see each other—just let me know if you want me to drop something off or help with your sisters or…anything. Okay. I love you.”
He hangs up.
I put the phone on the table, my mouth stretched wide with a smile. Gretchen listens to the message next, lips quirked. Oh, I’m so done for.
She clears her throat once before nodding solemnly. “That Boy deserves a medal.”
I groan, still smiling, and bury my head in my hands.
“But seriously, Bee, when are you going to get him back?”
“When I stop crying all the time?”
“Hmm. You’re not crying right now, though.” Gretchen stands, paces back and forth twice, then raises her finger. “Think about it like this: Do you need me?”
I roll my eyes.
She gasps. “Just…answer the question!”
“Yes, yes, okay! I need you.”
“So, the reality is…I’m not always going to be here. Not physically, anyway. And he is. He’s going to be here forever because let’s face it, he’s not going to let you get away. He loves you, Bee.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m not ready.” I am, however, tempted to listen to the voicemail again. (And a thousand more times into eternity.)
Gretchen sighs. “You need him. You need him like you need me, and your family, and those smelly boys you’re friends with. He makes you laugh, Bee—he makes you smile when you’re the saddest you’ve ever been. That says something—no, I lied, that says everything. And he needs you, just as badly. He’s probably wandering around aimlessly because you’re not by his side.”
I cringe. “Are you a walking-talking romance novel?” (Elle would be proud.)
“No, shush, I’m just being honest.” She tsks, and asks again, “When will you go back to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before you give me all the reasons why you can’t, let me say this: You’re not allowed to feel guilty about being with Levi because of your dad.”
“No, that’s not it,” I say truthfully. “Not anymore.”
“Then what it is? He loves you, you love him, I’m leaving in three days.” She smiles. “The list of reasons why you should jump on this—ASAP—is a mile long.”
“I know it is. It just…has to be at the right moment.” I spread my hands. “And I still don’t know how to tell him. What to tell him.”
“That’s simple. Tell him he’s a replacement for your bestest friend in the whole world and he’d better do a good job.”
I have to laugh at this.
She smiles. “You can also tell him the truth, you know.”
A part of me sinks and my mouth quivers. “That’s it, though. I don’t know what the truth is yet.”
“Is it coming together?”
I shrug. “Slowly.”
“Then that’s all you can ask for.” She smacks my arm, shaking us both out of the moment. “Now who’s going to show me around San Diego while I’m here? Don’t make me call a cab—”
I smack her arm and reach for my purse. “Shut up and get in my car.”
Gretchen laughs. “There she is.”
I say goodbye to Gretchen three days later on the sidewalk of the airport, my flip flops and tank top not enough warmth in the surprising gust of cold wind coming off the bay. There are a few clouds, too, indicating rain. (At least, that’s what the weatherman hopes.)
I shuffle the bottom of my shoes on the ground while I wait for her to gather her purse and suitcase from her side of the car. I start to cry when she turns toward me and her eyes are already brimming with tears and ohmyGodwhy. I remember this now, like I remembered it last time, and the time before that. It’s not the same—texts, phone calls, Skype. Eventually, though, I’m going to forget that it’s better in person. I’ll forget for the sake of my sanity, so I can pretend like it’s okay that we live so far away.
“I think you’re crap,” she whispers as she hugs me.
“I think you’re the crappiest,” I reply.
“That’s not how this works, Bernice.”
“Yes, it is.” I squeeze her tighter. “And stop using my full name.”
“Get used to it, will you? Levi’s going to think it’s sooooo sexy when you tell him.”
“Shh, oh my God, Gretchen,” I hiss.
“What?” Her laugh shakes our hug. “He won’t be able to resist its charm.” Then she pretends to be Levi, standing on her tiptoes over me, deepening her voice an octave and saying, “Come hither, Bernice. Hubba hubba!”
I poke her side, eliciting a shriek. I’m laughing harder than I have since before Papa died. “That’s the dumbest and most un-Levi-like thing I’ve ever heard.” Then I hug her again, to make up for the hug I won’t get when I wake up the next morning. “Have a safe flight, okay?”
“I won’t die, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
I laugh, but it’s also a sob. “See you someday, freak.”
She grabs onto her bags, hoisting her purse over her shoulder, and says, “I think you’re the most crappiest person of all time, ever.” Directing her best smile at me over her shoulder, Gret
chen disappears into the airport.
I let her win. This time.
The drive home is long, but it isn’t lonely. Gretchen calls me while she waits in the security line, effectively proving that we are suckers for each other.
“Indestructible suckers,” she protests when I tell her this, and that makes me laugh again.
“Infinite suckers,” I say.
But when I pull into my driveway, we’re quick to say goodbye. Not just because her line has gotten shorter, but because there’s an unfamiliar car in my driveway. I gather my things and head for the door, only to find my brother and Keagan and Elle in the doorway.
Elle whirls around the second she hears me coming up the stairs and throws her arms around my neck. “Beeeee!” she shouts. “You’ve been away from the office so much lately and we miss you!”
I close my eyes and hug her tight. She must not know we broke up, I think, and curse Levi for being such an angel. “I’m sorry…”
“Oh, don’t be. Levi told us what happened. Gosh, Bee.” She shakes her head, squeezing my arm. “I’m so sorry. Your dad must have been amazing, the way everyone talks about him…”
“Thanks. We’re…coping.”
She nods. “I’m so glad Tom could come tonight. We invited you but he said you were busy.”
I smile. “What did you do?”
“Just went to a movie, us and Levi. It was Keagan’s treat.” She nods her head to the right, toward Keagan.
Keagan, who is looking at me right this second. Keagan, who is not smiling, who does not look amused, whose jaw is tight like he’s trying not to say something. But then the moment passes and he shakes Tom’s hand like nothing’s wrong. “See you later,” he says, and stalks off down the path.
I glare at Tom. “What was that all about?”
He shrugs. “What was what?”
I know he knows what I’m talking about. “Keagan looked like he was mad at me. He didn’t even say hi.” This is so not like Keagan. And Elle can only shrug, as confused as I am.
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