The Optimist's Guide to Letting Go

by Amy E. Reichert

  “That looks like fun,” Connor said. “I don’t think my parents have ever let me be that dirty. Let alone them, too.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice croaked. She moved around him to open the fridge, careful not to touch him. With such an awful thought in her head, she didn’t want it to rub off on him. “That was a good day.”

  She pulled out a can of whipped cream to top the cocoa, adding a towering swirl.

  “You really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” He stood next to her as she added a drizzle of caramel she had left over from the brownies.

  May wasn’t prepared to be funny or clever, never having been alone in her kitchen with a cute boy before, or alone with one anywhere, really. Sure, they were always friendly in class or passing in the hall, or if they were at the same party with other friends, but they didn’t really socialize. Or, to be more accurate, she didn’t really socialize. She was sure he always had plans on the weekend or during school breaks, not like her, who’d become a fourteen-year-old hermit.

  The concept of small talk eluded her, so she went for simply answering his question.

  “I like to make stuff in the kitchen. Homemade is always better. Besides, it’s sort of fun.”

  “My parents never let me eat this much sugar.”

  May shrugged. “The only perk of living here—all the sugar you want.”

  Connor chuckled, then took a sip of his hot cocoa as she started to make a cup for herself.

  The longer the silence stretched, the harder May thought to think of something to fill the silence. The more she tried, though, the blanker her mind became. Connor rocked on his feet and rubbed his hands together, then took another sip. The timer dinged on the microwave, letting May know her milk was warm.

  “Oh, I forgot to get your brownie.” She stopped mixing her hot chocolate and pulled a plate from the cupboard.

  “While you’re doing that, how about I finish the hot chocolate for you? Team effort.”

  “Add three spoons of the powder, then the marshmallows and whipped cream.”

  Each with their own task, the awkward silence between them evaporated, and soon they sat at the table with the snacks. Ghost-shaped marshmallows bobbed in their hot chocolate, left over from Halloween. Connor pulled his brownie apart, letting the gooey caramel string out.

  “This looks amazing.” He took a bite. “It tastes even better. You’re a great cook.”

  May looked down at her food. She’d never thought of herself as great at anything. “Baker.” Connor looked confused. Why did she correct him? He’d think she was bossy. But now she had to finish the thought. “Baking is more precise, like science, my dad used to say.”

  She sipped her hot cocoa.

  “You make great hot cocoa, too.”

  “You, too.” She held up her mug. “I’m following you when the zombie apocalypse starts.”

  They finished their snacks and put their dishes by the sink. Now what? Why did he even text her? What if this was some joke? Like one of those movies where the cute boy makes a bet he can get the loser girl to fall for him? Her butterflies died just thinking about it, and now that the thought was there, she couldn’t let it go.

  “So . . . why are you here?” The words flew out before she could rethink them. She had to know.

  Connor rubbed his hands on his jeans. “Besides the food?”

  Was he avoiding the question? His joke made it seem like he wasn’t taking her seriously.

  “Yes. Besides the food. It doesn’t make any sense. You have plenty of friends. Why did you text me? Are you making fun of me?”

  He put his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. Isn’t looking down one of the signs of a liar? Oh God, was he going to lie? Then he looked right at her, his eyes so big, one blue and one brown, both honest.

  “No. Do you really think I would do that to anyone, let alone you?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I . . .” His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat. “Remember how we used to play Harry Potter in fourth grade?”

  “Hannah always made me be Professor McGonagall, and you would volunteer for Professor Flitwick so I would have someone to hang out with.” May smiled at the memory. “That was nice.”

  “Well, I was watching the last movie last night, where McGonagall enchants the castle to fight. It made me think of you.” He shrugged. “I like you. I have for a long time. But you stopped hanging out with anyone after your . . .” His voice halted, and he pointed to the picture on the fridge. She understood why he didn’t want to say it. People always thought not mentioning her dad’s death would make it easier. But it didn’t. It wasn’t just an elephant in the room, it was an entire herd. Even a blind person can’t ignore a herd of elephants, and she wasn’t blind.

  “After my dad died. Yeah, having fun wasn’t fun anymore.”

  He went back to rubbing his hands on his legs, like he was trying to tuck them in his pockets but kept missing. Could he really like her? Was he nervous? And why wasn’t she nervous anymore? She felt like she was watching the scene from above, knowing exactly what she needed to say—not worrying if it made him uncomfortable. Like a for-serious out-of-body experience.

  “Well, that sucks,” he said.

  “It really does.” Her skepticism evaporated with his honesty. “Thanks for saying it.”

  “So do you still think having fun isn’t fun anymore? Because maybe I could help with that?”

  His mouth curved into a half smile, absurdly cute and charming. Did he even know how adorable he was? Her calm disappeared back into a wave of nerves, making her skin twitchy and electric.

  “Sure?” Her voice went up in pitch as she spoke the word—turning it into a question. “We have an old Wii. It’s kind of dorky, but . . .”

  “Not dorky. I haven’t crushed anyone at bowling in a long time.”

  “Dream on. I’m the reigning Zoberski champion—I think I can take you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Lorraine woke up, her husband was still gone.

  A light flashed in her eyes, blinding her for a moment. She swatted the light away from her face and blinked until she could see the room. Regina sat in the chair near the bed, sorting papers into neat stacks—so like her.

  “Mrs. Price, . . . . . . awake?” Lorraine wasn’t catching all the words coming toward her—they sounded garbled, like the adult voices in a Charlie Brown special. Now that the light was gone, she could see the doctor above her. The doctor was youngish—but, then, everyone was youngish to her—with smooth black hair, porcelain white skin, and smudged glasses. How could she see anything through them? Lorraine tried to respond, but nothing came out. She tried again, this time making sounds, but nothing resembling words.

  “I see . . . Price. You . . . have . . . . . . speaking, but . . . start . . . on that. Let . . . finish my . . . exam and I’ll tell you what we know.”

  The doctor went back to shining lights in her eyes and asking her to move different body parts. When she couldn’t understand the instructions, the doctor would point to the body part she wanted to test. Her left hand moved all right, but her right arm barely flopped, despite the clear instructions she was sending it. After each request, the doctor would poke at her computer pad, then ask Lorraine to perform another action. Regina had stopped sorting and was watching with her ever-present notebook in her lap, a line dividing her forehead. As soon as she regained her speech, Lorraine would have to tell her to put some coconut oil on it or the line would become permanent.

  The room looked to be a regular hospital room, rather than a bustling emergency room, so whatever happened must have been bad enough to get her admitted. On the wide windowsill, a beautiful bouquet of stargazer lilies basked in the sun. She could smell their distinct scent from her bed—which is why they were one of her favorite flowers. She was impressed Regina remembered to bring them. Perhaps Victoria had reminded her. Out of the very corner of her eye, she could see that her room even had a decent view of the
snowy park next to the hospital.

  While she waited for her doctor to start talking, Regina came to stand by her bed.

  “Hey, Mom. You feeling okay?” Lorraine could only blink, but Regina seemed to think that meant yes because she kept talking. “Vic will be here any minute. She ran out to get some more flowers, since we know how much you like them.”

  How long had she been unconscious? She last remembered early afternoon and now the sun had set, so it must be well into the evening. Disconcerting, to say the least, this loss of time. She should be angry and frightened, but she was alive, and one daughter was here with the other on the way. At least they were being properly attentive. She smiled, then stopped. Was that a little drool escaping from her lip? Regina scrambled for a tissue to wipe it away, alarm on her face.

  “There, I got it.” Regina reached for Lorraine’s hand and squeezed. “You scared me. Us. I’m getting you one of those alarms for your neck when you go home—you know, the ‘Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ ones—because you are going home, Mother.” Regina smiled—always looking for the positive side, this one. When would she learn that optimism led only to disappointment?

  “Okay, Gina, Mrs. Price, it’s time to chat,” the doctor said, her face pleasant and smooth. She must use sunscreen. The doctor directed all of her words at Lorraine, which she appreciated. She could think, after all, even if she couldn’t talk. “You’ve had an ischemic stroke, which means that a clot blocked one of the blood vessels in your brain, cutting off the blood flow and affecting everything on the opposite side of the body. We’ll keep running tests, but it’s compromised your speech and all the movements on your right side—so it is most likely in the left hemisphere of your brain. Your eyes aren’t exceptionally dilated, so I expect your vision is okay, at least in your left eye. The ER injected you with a drug that breaks up clots, and we’ve got you on blood thinners as well. They are being administered via your IV. We’ve scheduled you for a CT scan, and we’re already running tests on your blood. We’ll proceed from there once we know more.”

  “Could she have another stroke?” Regina asked, her pen poised over her notepad.

  Good question, thought Lorraine.

  “It’s possible. Once an individual has had a stroke, they are more likely to have another.” The doctor looked Lorraine in the eyes. “The blood thinners and tPA should reduce the risk, but it is still much higher than that of an average person. The CT scan will give us a better idea if you need surgery to open up some arteries. You arrived at the hospital quickly, so that’s a plus. At your age, a mostly full recovery isn’t impossible. We’ll need to keep you for tests and discuss the best rehab strategy based on that.”

  “What about her speech? Will she get that back?”

  Lorraine tried to nod, but it felt more like she’d become a bobblehead doll on a roller coaster.

  “Stroke victims can recover most of their lost functionality with daily therapy. So the chances are good she’ll be able to communicate again. The key is patience, because it’s easy to become frustrated and depressed with slow progress and an inability to communicate. While she can’t tell us, she can probably understand what is happening, so feel free to talk with her as much as you’d like.”

  The doctor checked her chart and then her watch.

  “I need to get these orders in so the nurses can deliver you to radiology on time, Mrs. Price. I’ll be back to discuss the results when they are in. If you need anything, the nurses can help.”

  She slipped out of the room, leaving Lorraine alone with Regina. A nurse came into the room carrying a white Styrofoam cup of water and ice. In efficient movements, she held the cup to Lorraine’s lips, tidied her table, adjusted her IV, and checked her vitals while keeping up a steady stream of reassuring chatter.

  Regina moved her chair and table closer to the side of the bed as Victoria arrived, arms full of flowers. She looked lovely in slim dark jeans and a black cashmere turtleneck. If only Regina could pull herself together like Victoria, she would have found a new husband already. She was too young to be alone forever. Widows should be older and regal, like herself. Regina, Lorraine could see, wore much too baggy jeans, even though she was decidedly on the chunk. A slimmer cut would be much more flattering with her hips. And her hair tumbled out of a ponytail, leaving wispy strands that frizzed even in the winter. Would it be too much trouble to wear a splash of lipstick and mascara to come see your only mother in the hospital? Her doctor was a woman, yes, but there could be handsome doctors Regina’s age somewhere around.

  While Lorraine resolved to take her eldest jeans shopping as soon as she got out of the hospital, Regina updated Victoria on the doctor’s news, reading diligently from the careful notes she had scribbled in her notebook. Victoria, nodding, arranged the flowers so that Lorraine’s room suddenly resembled an overgrown flower shop, which she adored. As her daughters chattered about their children, and her, Lorraine caught only a handful of the words, but the familiar voices and faces eased her earlier fear of dying alone and lonely—like Floyd had.

  It had been fall. Lorraine had just returned home after setting up at the club for the Harvest Gala. After ten years of lobbying and sucking up to the Ladies Club chairwoman, Maxine Fuller, she finally was assigned a meaningful event. It had taken that long to recover socially from Regina’s outburst at the club’s bar where everyone, including Maxine, had witnessed her humiliation. That day had stung, seeing her daughter make the same mistakes she had made so many years ago. She had tried to teach her that marriage was about security and compromise and comfort. Passion and love would get her nowhere. But overcome that setback she did, and now she was in charge of what was shaping up to be the best Harvest Gala in years.

  She pulled off her Tory Burch flats, setting them on the bottom step. The house was quiet, but Floyd’s car was in the garage, so he must be working in his office. She should make sure he picked up his tuxedo at the cleaners. He had been disappointed that she hadn’t already retrieved it, but she was too busy making sure the florist didn’t sneak any carnations into the centerpieces that’d cost a fortune. He hadn’t been feeling well. Tired and achy. But he was old, what did he expect? He better not think that a couple of aches and pains would get him out of attending the gala—there is nothing that would stop her from attending.

  She should check on him, make sure he had everything he needed. That’s what a good wife would do. Lorraine tapped on his office door, then opened it. Odd. His desk chair was empty. She scanned the room. It was all dark wood and polished leather, exactly the portrait of a successful businessman’s office. The large wood desk was in front of bookshelves full of pictures of Floyd with various political and business celebrities from the fund-raisers he attended. To Lorraine’s annoyance, not one picture of her or the girls, let alone their grandchildren, decorated the room. A large window overlooked the backyard where a stream tumbled beneath huge oak and willow trees. Ah, there he was, in front of the window in the large squashy leather chair where Floyd would often read or enjoy his nightly scotch.

  She could see his arms and feet dangling around the edges. He must have fallen asleep. He’d be cranky tonight if she let him sleep too long. She walked around the chair’s back, ready to shake him awake, but his eyes were open and his body was . . . wrong. His head rested on his shoulder like he didn’t have any muscles to hold it up, his lips dark, almost blue. She picked up a hand. Cold. She dropped it and it flopped down, the gravity shifting his whole body, causing his head to drop from where it had been perched to his chest.

  Floyd was dead.

  She was a widow.

  Again.

  And Floyd had found an excuse to get out of the gala. He could always find the loophole.

  She called 911, efficiently gave them the necessary information, then picked up one of the crystal glasses next to his scotch decanter. She poured herself four fingers and settled into the chair behind his desk where she could see his profile.

  She took h
er first sip. The first was always the worst, burning up her taste buds, shooting fire down her throat, but the second sip always made it worth it. That’s when the layers of peat and wood, maybe a little brown sugar came through. This was his best stuff—some small batch distillery in the Highlands. Mac-something or another.

  She took another sip. It really was magnificent scotch. They had just had their thirty-fourth wedding anniversary, and while Floyd may not have been a great husband, he had impeccable taste in everything. He had never once questioned her spending three hundred dollars on a pair of shoes or picking up the latest purse she’d spotted in Vogue. He did his thing, she did her thing. It worked. She may have been a bit lonely, but that’s what friends were for. She could always head to the club and find someone to chat with over white wine and a Cobb salad.

  She took another sip and let the flavors melt into her senses as this new widowhood settled into her bones.

  She didn’t have to worry about security, Floyd would have left her the estate in his will. They had agreed she would sell the company if he died first. She’d have more than enough for the rest of her life, even if she lived to one hundred and twenty. Which meant she didn’t need to hide the truth anymore.

  The EMTs arrived, confirmed he was dead, and they waited together for the police. Once the police arrived and asked her some questions about when she’d found him, they called the coroner, who again confirmed he was dead and packaged him off to the morgue. She agreed that it would be all right to come by the station in the morning to finish any paperwork.

  With the house completely empty, she finished her scotch, picked up her phone, and called Roza. But before her old friend could speak, Lorraine did.

  “Floyd is dead.”

  She heard Roza gasp, then take a meaningful pause before forging ahead.

  “I’m sorry. Do you want me to come over? Did you call the girls?”