“Yes, okay,” I said. I clutched the arms of the chair and shakily pushed myself up to stand.
“Wait,” said CJ. “Stay.”
“You need your rest,” the nurse told her. “You can’t have a guest come in and agitate you to the point that it interferes with your health.”
“Just a few more minutes. Brenna, please.”
“I’m coming back in ten minutes. Capiche?”
“Capiche.”
Brenna left and I sat back down. Then CJ asked if I needed a tissue, and I stood again to reach for one. My body felt like it had that first night without Talley, when it seemed like it wasn’t really my body. I held the tissue in my hand, and I almost didn’t know what to do next. I lifted it to my face, moving as if in slow motion, and wiped my eyes and nose.
I felt CJ’s eyes on me the whole time.
“I didn’t know,” I told CJ. “When Alba told me, it was unbelievable to me, but then I started thinking that maybe Talley’d had cancer when she was a kid, and she’d tried to hide it from me.” I shook my head.
“She’d been so convincing the whole time,” CJ said. “She knew so much, down to the drugs you’d have to take. It was like she studied up to be able to lie. She told me she didn’t plan it out like that. She was just in the library when she saw the sign for the support group, and she decided to go. She said the trauma felt familiar to her, even if she hadn’t had cancer. When it was her turn to share, she borrowed the details from a book she’d read. Then we became friends, and then we became best friends, and I got sick again, and it got out of hand. I was so mad at her. How could she have done that? How could she have thought that what I went through—what any cancer patient went through—was familiar to her in any way?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“It’s the most offensive thing anyone ever told me,” CJ said.
“I can’t believe she said that.”
“I’m not the liar in this story.”
“Oh, I know you’re not,” I said. “It’s just . . . Talley used to make me play this game. She’d say ‘imagine if’ about all these terrible things. She was trying to get me to understand that I was lucky, and that other people had it so much worse.”
“So this time she was playing a real-life version of her game,” CJ said. “Like playing dress-up. I’ll put on this outfit and pretend that I’m a cancer survivor. It was . . . it was humiliating. I brought her into the Sunshine Crew—this sacred space. I let everyone down.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said softly.
“I couldn’t even tell Alba the truth about it. She knows all the secrets I’m keeping from my parents, but I was too ashamed to tell her about this.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I knew why Talley did what she did. With her gone, everything is just so hard to understand. I’ve been playing the Imagine If game a lot—I’ve been imagining being Talley and being in so much pain. All those memoirs she read, and the volunteer work—I think it was at least partly because she was hurting and she wanted to remind herself other people had it worse, and to try to feel better about her own life. I didn’t get that. Not till right now, this second.” I started crying again. “Talley wasn’t just carrying the burden of other people’s stories. She was carrying hers, too. And I’m sorry she hurt you. Really, I am. But mostly, I’m sorry that I didn’t know how bad it was for her. I had no idea. She knew me the best out of anyone else in the world. When someone knows you that well, you think that means you know them right back. But I didn’t. When I walked out the door that last day, it didn’t occur to me that she wouldn’t be there when I got home.”
CJ and I shared the box of tissues again. “I thought I knew her so well, too,” CJ said. “But she keeps surprising me. She keeps breaking my heart. She was the one telling the rest of us how much we had to live for. She made those lists with the kids.”
“You said she made one, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have it?” I asked, but as the words came out of my mouth, I realized of course she didn’t. I did.
TSL.
The Survival List.
I reached into my bag. “This was in Talley’s pocket on the day she died,” I said. CJ took it from me. She ran her fingers over the page. “Do you know why she picked those things?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. And she began to fill me in: Grease at Mr. G’s was because they went there one night and a woman was singing the theme song, and she sounded as good as any professional singer they’d ever heard. They went to the Bel Air Arcade at midnight because a guy CJ had known in high school worked there now, and he’d let them in. More pie was something CJ herself had said when she’d gotten the diagnosis: “We’re all going to die, so let’s eat more pie.” For whatever reason, it really cracked them both up. “Total gallows humor,” CJ told me. “But at that moment I really needed it.”
Ulysses wasn’t a nod to the James Joyce novel. It was a species of butterfly, and they’d both gotten the tattoo. CJ pulled down the sheet and hiked her hospital gown to show me her hip, the twin of Talley’s hip. “I needed something to mark what I was going through. Butterflies are symbols of so many things—fragility, change, hope. I wanted us both to get one, and once that thought was in my head, I worried it’d be bad luck if we didn’t. I told Talley, and she was so anti-tattoo, but then she was worried about me, so she got one.”
“She never showed me, but I saw it in the hospital.”
“It’s been weird to have this thing that connected us still marking my body. I want to get it lasered off, but my doctor said not until I finish the treatments. Eight down, two more to go.”
“So you’re in the homestretch,” I said.
“It doesn’t feel like that when you’re in it,” CJ said. “You just feel in it. Each treatment is a hurdle unto itself.”
“I can only imagine,” I said.
“Imagine if,” she said.
“Imagine if,” I echoed. “Any idea why she wrote down the scientific name for California grizzly bears?”
“I don’t know. Once when I was having a particularly hard day, I told her that I wasn’t fierce like she was. So maybe she put it there because she knew that fierce things can also be fragile. But really, I don’t know.”
“What about eggs at the diner—I figured out she meant the El Camino Diner. My aunt’s yoga studio is next door. But they don’t have anything called Sunny’s eggs.”
CJ shook her head. “I don’t know that, either. Sorry.”
“I guess those are mummy stories.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone I know was driving the other day, and the people in the car next to him were dressed as mummies. They drove off before he could roll down the window and ask, so now he’ll never know.”
“Ah. That’s super weird.”
“Yeah, I know.” I paused. “CJ. It was Adam.”
“Adam—as in, my brother? But how—”
“Turn over the paper,” I said. “She wrote down his number.”
“You called him?”
“I did everything I could to figure out Talley’s list.”
“I only gave her the number in case something happened to me and she needed to get in touch. But I didn’t tell him or anyone about her. Adam wouldn’t have even known her name.”
“I know,” I said. “He didn’t. But he was still helpful—he recognized some of the Bay Area things. That’s how I knew to come out here. He drove me around to different places—to Mr. G’s, to Bel Air, to Big Sur.”
“Wait a second, you’ve been taking road trips with my brother? You didn’t tell him anything about me, did you?”
I shook my head. “He didn’t tell me about the Sunshine Crew till last night. I don’t think he has any clue that anything bad is happening to you now.”
“Good. I’m trusting you to keep it that way. He’ll tell my parents.”
“He said they’re a wreck with worry about you.”
“
It’d be worse for them if they knew.”
“It’s worse not knowing,” I said. “Finding out after the fact that someone you loved was in pain and hiding it from you—it’s so much worse.”
“Oh, Sloane,” CJ said. “I’m sorry about Talley. I don’t think I’ve said that yet, but I am. These past few months, I’ve had a million conversations with her in my head. In person, that last day, I told her I never wanted to see her again. But I guess if I keep coming up with things to say, then I didn’t really mean it. Even though she did this unspeakably terrible thing, she gave me a lot of support, too. All I did was yell at her, and now . . . ”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, echoing what Adam had said to me. “She was sick. She gave you support because you can do that for a friend who has cancer. But that doesn’t mean you can cure their cancer. And you can offer support to a friend with a mental illness, but you can’t cure that, either.”
“Still, I could’ve been kinder.”
“You didn’t even know Talley was sick. Maybe because it made her too ashamed. I don’t know; she didn’t tell me. She was a really good poker player. She didn’t have any obvious tells. She did everything she could to hide how she was suffering, and that sounds like shame to me.”
“It does to me, too,” CJ said. “I never thought I’d feel sorry for her, but I do.”
“I do, too.”
“Do you think it had anything to do with your mom and . . . you know, the way you guys lost her?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Talley always seemed okay to me. And even when she didn’t, she never talked about our mom.”
CJ shook her head. “You’re too young to have gone through all the things you’ve gone through.”
“You, too,” I said. “You’re not much older than I am.”
“And yet here we both are,” CJ said. “I guess we’re not too young after all.”
“If you were my sister, I’d want to know what you’re going through. And Talley—God, I really hate it when people say, oh, your sister would’ve said this, or thought this, or wanted that. It’s impossible to know what she would’ve done about anything. But I think she’d want you to tell your family. I don’t think she would’ve wanted you to be alone. She knew too well how awful that felt. She wouldn’t have wanted that for anyone she loved.”
Brenna came back into the room and tapped an imaginary watch on her wrist. “I gave you twenty minutes, ladies,” she said.
“I better go,” I said.
“Sloane, wait,” CJ said. “Just one more thing. I’m not going to laser off the tattoo, okay? I’m going to keep it.”
I swallowed hard and nodded, thinking maybe I’d get a blue butterfly tattoo one day, too.
“And I’ll call my parents,” she said. “I promise. You check in with my brother tonight if you want. He’ll know.”
“You’re going to be okay, Ethel,” I told her.
CJ reached her arms up in bed and I crossed the room and hugged her goodbye.
Chapter Thirty-Six
ON THE TRAIN TO REDWOOD CITY, I HAD ANOTHER conversation with Talley in my head:
Hey, Tal. Can you hear me, wherever you are? I wanted to tell you that I forgive you. I’ve been afraid to say that word, because I didn’t want to admit that I was mad at you in the first place. I know your depression was an illness, and what happened wasn’t simply a choice you made. You were sick and it’s not your fault. That’s why they say “died by suicide” and not the other way. But it’s one thing to say those words. It’s another to actually feel them. I do now and I forgive you. I forgive us both; at least, I’m trying to. I’ll still always wish you were here. The same way I wish Mom hadn’t gone out to pick up the dry cleaning on such a freezing cold night.
CJ’s voice popped into my head: Do you think it had anything to do with your mom and . . . you know, the way you guys lost her?
It probably did. Talley was five years older than I was when Mom died. She had more memories, and more memories mean more reasons to miss someone. Maybe that set off the sadness inside her, or exacerbated it. Maybe she’d needed a mom to talk to.
Oh, Tal. I didn’t realize how much that loss hurt you—and the reason I didn’t realize was because you always did such a good job filling in the empty spots for me. But you needed someone to fill in your empty spots, too.
The train rolled into the station. I crossed El Camino and made a left on Poplar Avenue. For some reason, CJ’s words were still rolling around in my head: Do you think it had anything to do with your mom and . . . you know, the way you guys lost her?
Why had she said it like that? Especially the words the way—maybe she’d meant that Mom had died so suddenly. But she’d paused awkwardly, like there was something she wasn’t saying.
I was still a couple blocks from Aunt Elise’s, and I started jogging. Soon I was all-out running. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but my feet pounded the pavement the rest of the way to 124 Crescent Street. It took me three tries to get the key to go in the keyhole. My breaths were coming short and fast. I pushed the door open without bothering to close it behind me.
“Sloane?” Aunt Elise called from upstairs. “Honey, I’m upstairs.”
I raced into the living room, grabbed at the photo album on the coffee table, and I flipped the pages to Talley and me in our coordinated red outfits. There I was on my mother’s lap, in my birthday dress with the white trim on the collar, and capped sleeves.
My mother had died two days later, when her car skidded on black ice.
“Sloane?”
I could hear Aunt Elise crutching her way down the stairs. I tore the photo from the album and ran to her.
“Why did she dress us in short sleeves if it was cold out?” I asked. My whole body was shaking.
“What are you talking about?”
“This.”
I held the photo out. Aunt Elise dropped her crutches, lowered herself to a sitting position on the steps, and took it from me. “Oh shit,” she said.
“Talley said there was ice on the road. Mom went to pick up the dry cleaning, and she lost control of her car.”
I’d heard the story so often it got to the point that I was able to picture it in my head, as if I’d been there—as if I’d been the driver—and it was my own memory. I could feel my hands on the steering wheel. I could feel my heart thumping. I was pumping the brake so hard, but it didn’t matter. The tree was coming at me, closer, closer, closer. I squeezed my eyes shut and braced for impact.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. I sank down to the floor at the base of the stairs. “I’ve already learned too much today.”
Aunt Elise reached down to me. “Sloane, Sloane, Sloane,” she said.
I wished I could close my ears the way I’d closed my eyes. I didn’t want to hear what I knew was coming next. But my aunt didn’t say anything else. She moved down a couple more steps and wrapped her arms around me. Her touch was so warm and it made me shiver. I was too cold. I was too hot. What was I? I’d lost all sense of myself. I cried and cried.
“All right, sweetheart,” Aunt Elise said. “Let it all out. It’s okay. It’s all right.”
When I opened my eyes and twisted around to look at her, her face looked blurry. She hadn’t said it, so I said it myself: “It wasn’t an accident.”
“No, it wasn’t an accident.”
“Mom hit the tree on purpose?”
“There wasn’t a tree,” Aunt Elise said. Her voice was steady and even, like she’d been practicing these words in front of a mirror so that when the time came, she’d be able to deliver them, just like this. “She was sick, like Talley. She pulled into the garage and shut the door and left the engine running. She didn’t see another way.”
“My whole life,” I said. “I’m looking back on everything, and I can’t even tell what parts were real, or if anything has been real at all.”
“The love has been real, Sloane. You’re so deeply loved. You always have been. Talley loved you beyo
nd measure, and so does your dad. He wanted to protect you. And even though I haven’t been physically present, I’ve been loving you, too.”
I pushed myself away. “But what good is love if you’re not there? I couldn’t feel it. You might as well have been dead, too.”
“Oh,” she said softly, and I knew I’d wounded her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did,” she said. “And you’re right to feel that way. Your dad and I did it all wrong. When Dana died, we were sick with grief, and so scared. The night after the funeral, we were sitting at the kitchen table in utter shock. What our lives had just become . . . we couldn’t believe it. You girls were asleep in your rooms. You were so little, Sloane. Barely two years old. I don’t know what was harder—talking to Talley, who understood she was now motherless, or you, who kept looking for your mom around every corner, like she was playing an extended game of hide-and-seek. Your dad told me that he never wanted you girls to know how it happened. He said . . . he said some hard things about Dana, things I don’t think he even meant. He was just heartbroken. You can save the people you love from a lot of things, but you can’t save them from themselves. But oh, how we wanted to—your dad and I. I think that’s why he didn’t want to tell you and Talley. He said he thought if you knew what really happened, it’d be worse. Losing someone to suicide, you can start to blame yourself.”
“He thought we’d think it was our fault?”
“That’s what he said. But looking back now, I think he thought it was his fault. I think he was afraid you’d blame him, and he’d lose you, too.”
“I wouldn’t have,” I said. “I don’t think I would have.”
“Maybe you would have,” she said. “Either way, he was the parent, the only one you and Talley had left, and he decided he wanted to tell you it was an accident. I told him if either you or Talley ever asked, I’d tell you the truth. We had a terrible fight. He said he’d keep you two from me.”
“So Talley grew up, and came out here, and you told her?”
“No, sweetie,” Aunt Elise said. “She already knew. It turned out that she’d known all along. That night we were sitting in the kitchen after we’d put you both to sleep, Talley had apparently gotten out of bed, and she stood right outside the doorway. She heard every word—the things your dad said, in the midst of his deepest grief, about Dana’s selfishness, and all the rest of it. Talley carried that secret around. She never told anyone, until she called me to ask if she could come out here.”
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