A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  “A postcard would be nice,” I say, taking her hand and tugging her close.

  47.

  It takes me an hour or so before I have the guts to open the sketchbook. It’s like I had to convince myself that she was really gone. That she’d left and that I may never see her again. I know that sounds dramatic, but I’m not stupid. People change after they leave home. Other things and other people take spots in their lives that you thought were meant for you. I’ll probably spend the next year preparing myself for that truth, too.

  I prop myself up on my bed and run my hand over the thick cover. Paloma has doodled all over the front in dark ink. I remember seeing this book so many damn times while she’d waited in line at the museum. So many times I’d wanted to take a good look at it, and see if it told me anything about her. I was so hungry for every detail. I close my eyes and see her standing in the line, waiting to check her coat. I want to remember her like that, always.

  I flip open the cover, and inside is her delicate writing.

  Oliver,

  The first night that you walked me home, I thought you were going to tell me about stars. Instead, you offered me your coat. That was so much more romantic. That’s when I knew you were different than anyone I’d ever met.

  You gave me that postcard that night, and it sparked something in me. I started writing these cards that night. Maybe I wrote them to you—for you—or maybe they were for myself. Either way, I want you to have them now.

  I know now that some things are too raw, cut too deep, and have the power to change everything once they’re spoken out loud. You told me your truth, here is all of mine.

  Yours.

  P

  Inside the book there is a stack of postcards. From the dates on them, they start—they start the night of the party. The first one is from the night I walked her home:

  There’s one that says:

  It makes me think of the stone she gave me at prom. How I’ll never forget her or that night.

  There’s another that says:

  I close my eyes and think about the way her eyes would always light up when I smiled at her. God, knowing Paloma has changed my entire world. And I think I changed hers, too. We both wanted to be better. We both learned to be.

  I flip through the cards slowly, feeling every single word. Some rip through me. Some make me laugh. Some make me miss her so much that I clutch at my stomach, feeling ill.

  Like the one that says:

  I stare at her drawings—some are of flowers, of different parts of the museum—even one of Colm and me laughing behind the coat check counter. I look at them all night until my eyes burn and I can’t hold them open any longer.

  And then I close the book.

  Saying goodbye to Paloma.

  Putting our secrets away.

  Epilogue

  I saw a flyer for Skankin Xenophobes on my way to work today. I’d stopped into 7-11 to grab a soda and it was taped on the window. They’re playing the Showcase Theatre, which is a huge deal—for them. I thought I would feel more jealousy that the band has really taken off in the weeks since prom and graduation, but I don’t. Maybe because I’m too focused on my own shit, or maybe because I just realized what’s important.

  And it wasn’t friends who dropped me the first time they thought I’d screwed up.

  “I can’t believe today is your last shift, Oliver Wu,” Colm says.

  “Don’t get all sappy on me, Colm,” I say. “That’s not your bag. You’ll just ruin the good thing we have going.”

  “I wonder if you’ll have a beard the next time I see you.” Colm stares dreamily up at the ceiling, like he’s imagining me coming home from college with facial hair that would rival his.

  “I doubt it,” I say. “My parents would probably cut off my tuition if I did.”

  “They let you get away with that disgusting man bun,” he says, flicking the back of my hair. “Just promise me that next time I see you, you’ll have one of the twenty-eight haircuts Kim Jung-un approved for dapper North Korean guys like you.”

  “Hey, Colm, what’s the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?” I ask.

  He rolls his eyes, but I see him trying to hold back a smile. “Go ahead, Daniel-San.”

  “One less drunk,” I say, happy about how hard he’s attempting to hold back his laugh.

  “All right,” Colm says, forcing a serious look. “Quit dicking around. Go grab the lost and found and then get out of here.”

  I should feel happy to be leaving this place. It’s been easy to walk away from most everything else that reminds me of the last few months. But leaving the museum, leaving Colm, leaving the quiet memories of Paloma waiting in line chokes me up a little as I walk away from the coat check counter.

  It’s been weeks since she’d left my house, maybe for good. And I’ve tried to make peace with it. I needed to move on from what happened in my own way, and this was her way of letting go of it, too.

  It’s just shitty that in her version, she had to leave me behind.

  Still, like everything else in this place, my memories of her are preserved. And I know that I’ll forever see her in my mind as the girl in line, tugging on her skirt, chomping on breath mints, and making me smile.

  “There’s never anything there, and I hate bothering Ms. Maggie.”

  “Hey, I’m the boss, Wu,” Colm says, combing through his beard with his fingertips. “Maggie loves seeing your sweet little face.”

  “Only because the alternative is your ugly mug.”

  “That may be true, but this mug is in charge, so get out of here. Besides, you never know what treasures you’ll find in there.”

  “Freak,” I mutter under my breath as I walk toward the gift shop.

  Maggie is behind the glass display, closing out her register.

  “Hey, Ms. Maggie,” I say.

  She looks up and smiles. “Oliver, dear, I heard that tonight is your last night here with us.”

  “Whoa,” I say, holding my palms up. “I’m just going to hang with the hippies up north, I’m not dying.”

  Maggie laughs, and the wrinkles around her eyes crease even more with her wide smile. I realize now how much I’m going to miss every part of this place.

  Colm and his jokes; Maggie and her kindness; the memories of Paloma here, dancing in the dark costume wing, and holding her hand while we’d stared up at the ceiling.

  “I guess you’re here for the misplaced,” Maggie says.

  “That’d be great.”

  Maggie turns and walks to the back office while I stand in the gift shop alone.

  In the corner is the rack of postcards with the same pitiful signage as when Paloma and I stood there together.

  I turn away from them, not because I feel anything bad, but because I just feel too much.

  Instead, I focus my attention on the display case. There are a few new things, and a white petal pendant catches my eye.

  Maggie returns with the lost and found box and says, “Just a couple things today.” She slides the shallow tray across the glass display toward me.

  “Thanks so much.”

  “We’re going to miss you around here, Oliver.”

  I look up and Maggie is smiling, but it’s the same smile my mom gives me when she talks about me leaving for Berkeley. The sad one that makes me feel like a dick for wanting to move away. To move on.

  “I’m going to miss you too, Ms. Maggie.”

  “Good luck to you, up there,” she says. “You know my husband went to Berkeley.”

  “Oh yeah? I didn’t know that.”

  She’s smiling proudly, and it crushes me.

  “Anything else?” she asks.

  “Actually, yeah.” I point into the display. “Can I take a look at that pendant?’

  Maggie unlocks the case and pulls out the delicate white and yellow flower pin.

  “It’s called Dark Gardens,” Maggie says. “It’s designed by Alexis Bittar. Inspired by Grey Gardens.”


  I run my thumb over the clear blue center stone and think of my mom.

  “It’s subtle,” Maggie says, and I nod in agreement. “But with a punk rock edge.”

  I crack a smile and chuckle. “Did you just say ‘punk rock edge,’ Ms. Maggie?”

  “I did,” she nods. “I learned a few things while living up near Berkeley, Oliver.”

  I hope I will, too.

  “I want to get this,” I say, handing the pendant back over to her. “For my mom.”

  Maggie rings up the flower that costs more than a week’s pay but will make my mom smile after I’m gone and the house is semi-quiet. That makes it all worth it.

  She wraps it up in tissue paper and gives me a gift bag, then hugs me goodbye.

  I clutch the bag and the tray of lost and found valuables on my walk back to the coat check, when something catches my eye.

  There’s a postcard in the tray.

  A postcard with a glossy photo of the David.

  I slow my pace; trying not to drop everything I’m holding.

  The front reads: Ciao da Firenze!

  I stop midway through the lobby and lean into a massive marble pillar, and set the gift bag and lost and found tray next to me on a ledge.

  My hands shake a little, but this time it’s from excitement, not fear. I don’t wonder if I’ll ever see the famous statue—I wonder when I will.

  This postcard feels like it’s from the future I’m finally ready for.

  I pluck the card from the box and suck in a quick breath before flipping it over.

  It’s every laugh, and smile, touch, heartache, and hope when I turn it over and see the familiar handwriting on the back:

  1 in 6 males are victims of sexual assault.

  You can learn more, offer support, or donate to help survivors by visiting: https://1in6.org/

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not exist in its current form without the heart, thoughtful feedback, and tough love of Christa Desir. Thank you from my guts for your wisdom and guidance, and for letting me obsess on the journey to publication.

  Thank you to my agent, Jane Dystel, who tirelessly advocated for this book. Having you in my corner means the world to me.

  Love and thanks to my best, Liz Reinhardt. Thank you for always lending an ear, a shoulder, making a fresh batch of guac, or pouring me another bowl of wine.

  Massive thank yous go out to my squad: Jolene Perry, Nyrae Dawn, and Autumn Doughton-Stanton. Your endless support and understanding keeps me going. All the love to you.

  Special thanks to Madison Seidler, Cassie Mae at CookieLynn Publishing Services, and Allie Martin at MakeReady Designs for helping me pull it all together. Your professionalism is tops. xx