by Julie Murphy
When I didn’t take them, she pressed the stack into my hand. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Working,” I said, weighing the papers. Each page looked to have been unevenly ripped out of a notebook. The only marking I could see was the number one written with pencil on the first paper.
“Call in sick. You know Dennis will cover for you if you ask him to.”
I shook my head, my nostrils flaring. “You’ve got to be shitting me. I’m not doing this anymore, Al. I told you. This isn’t happen—”
“Harvey,” she said, reaching up and cupping my face in her hands like she’d done so many times before.
The feel of her skin against mine silenced me.
“I haven’t given you any reason to, but trust me. Trust me this one last time and expect better of me than I deserve. Last time, I swear.”
I opened my mouth. I felt myself slipping away and without anything to hold on to.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “wait until late afternoon. Like, three. The pages are numbered. Read them in order and don’t read the next one until you’ve completed the task before it.”
Falling into this pattern—her telling me what, when, and how—felt sickeningly familiar. “Do you need me to pick you up?”
She shook her head. “No. This is for you to do alone.”
Harvey.
Now
I almost tore apart the whole stack of papers the second I got home, but I stopped myself. I wouldn’t let myself get excited, and if I didn’t open the notes early, I could convince myself that this didn’t matter to me. Sleep felt impossible and when it came it was short-lived. When I woke, the stack of papers taunted me.
By noon, I nearly gave in. I slid the first note out from the pile.
No. I couldn’t do it. I’d waited this long. I could stand a few more hours.
Like Alice had told me to, I called in sick to work. I watched the clock and prayed for three p.m. When that didn’t work, I watched a few hours of daytime television. Which was embarrassingly enjoyable.
Three o’clock finally came.
I unfolded the first paper, nearly ripping it in half.
Harvey,
Follow these directions to Alton. Once you reach your destination, unfold the next paper.
—Al
Directions without reasons. Of course.
Alton was about forty-five minutes north of us. I stopped for gas and drove. My mind was too busy for the radio, so I rolled the windows down and soaked in the early-summer heat. Maybe Alice would be meeting me in Alton. I couldn’t figure out how she would get there without me to drive her.
My foot weighed a little heavier on the gas pedal, but I didn’t care. I was too anxious.
When I arrived in Alton, I found it was much like Hughley. Small businesses, a few big chain stores on the outskirts of town, and mostly two-lane roads. I’d never been here, but knew that our teams played their teams all the time and that Bernie always said they had the best shopping. But, really, there was nothing special about Alton, so for Alice to have wanted me to come here made no sense.
I followed her handwritten directions to a small parking lot full of empty storefronts. At the end of the strip mall was a narrow little place called Oscar’s. The windows were heavily tinted and there was no open sign. Above the door were decals that spelled out suite 667. I checked Alice’s directions, and cut across the parking lot, sliding into a spot right up front. My Geo was one of three cars.
After turning off the ignition, I opened the piece of paper labeled with the number two and held my breath.
Go inside.
Exhaling, I crumpled the piece of paper and threw it into the backseat. I shoved the rest of the notes in my pocket and went in, hoping there wouldn’t be anyone checking IDs.
Inside, a haze of smoke hung to the ceiling, and it took me a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The only employee seemed to be an old lady behind the bar with a name tag that read Beth. Diamond-patterned hunter-green wallpaper covered the walls, peeling at the corners. The bar where Beth stood was at the back of the room. Lining the walls were high-back booths the same color as the wallpaper. Tables and chairs peppered what little floor was left.
Before deciding where to sit, I reached for the next note.
Welcome to Oscar’s. Sit down at the bar and order a drink. Supposedly they have really good gin and tonics. TRUST ME.
I sat at the bar, in the stool farthest from Beth with her big red hair and white roots. My hands were sweating. I was going to get arrested. I was totally going to get arrested for underage drinking or, like, attempting to drink while underage.
Beth slid a coaster to me and strolled down the length of the bar.
Okay, so Beth had these nails. Not fake nails. Real nails. Long nails coated in chipped red nail polish. Everything about her smelled of smoke, like she was the source of the smoky haze. She was one of those ladies who could have been fifty-two or ninety-four and you’d never know. Her jeans were high-waisted and too tight and her boobs spilled out of her yellow V-neck shirt. Beth, with her boobs and her nails and her fake red hair, scared the shit out of me.
“What can I get ya, sweetcheeks?”
I twisted my hands together in my lap. “I, uh.” I cleared my throat. “Gin and tonic.”
She made this nasally noise like a buzzer going off. “Try again.”
“Uh, I’ll have a Sprite.”
“One Sprite!” she called to no one in particular.
I opened the next note.
SUCKER!
Rolling my eyes, I reached for the fourth note.
I got you good. It should be almost four. Sit tight and enjoy your nonalcoholic beverage. Open the next note when the music starts.
When the music starts? Where was Alice? The anxiety twisting in my chest had faded and now I just wanted to see her. Beth brought me my drink and left me alone after that. I was surprised when she didn’t ask any questions about me or what I was doing here. But this struck me as the type of place where people didn’t ask questions.
The customers were mostly men, although there were a few women. Every one of them was over the age of forty and looked like they hadn’t slept in years. A lady with a cat sweatshirt on and purple pants. A man with a fedora and a tracksuit. A balding man with a holey T-shirt and jeans with a cigarette box imprint in his back pocket, but no cigarettes. The only person who seemed out of place was an old man wearing tan slacks, a cream polo shirt, and a maroon sweater vest. He carried a well-used leather portfolio and wore an old baseball cap with a mesh back, but took it off when he came inside to reveal a thinning head of white hair. Age spots covered his face, and on his feet were spotless white orthopedic sneakers. This guy was someone’s grandfather who’d probably gotten lost on the way to the pharmacy.
When he walked past the bar, Beth called to him, “Evenin’, Porter. Usual?”
He nodded and gave her a faraway smile. Him I felt bad for most of all. Because, of everyone in this bar, he seemed to be the one who had lost the most.
I checked the time on my phone. Four thirty-five. I shoved my hand in my pocket and pulled out the rest of the notes. Frustrated and sure that Alice had sent me on a fool’s errand, I held number five in my hand ready to open. This was bullshit. I didn’t know what kind of kick Alice was getting out of this, but it made no sense. She was probably off with some guy while I was sitting here like a total jackass. I stood up to leave and slid my wallet out from my back pocket.
Then the music began. I sat down. I didn’t know the song, but it sounded familiar. It wasn’t typical ballet music, of course, but it felt like I should’ve known it. My eyes followed every note to the sad piano in the corner of the room. It wasn’t a grand piano, just a plain, old, light-wood piano. I never paid much attention to piano makes. I only played whatever was put in front of me. If I really thought about it, though, I always felt most comfortable with the piano at my mom’s studio—a 1973 Baldwin Concert Grand.
Behind the piano was the old man with the sweater vest. I listened as each note fit together seamlessly, like he’d played this song a thousand times. If I closed my eyes, I could feel the touch of ivory beneath my fingers.
Porter’s eyes crinkled a little as he focused in on Beth. She mouthed something for him to lip-read. Out of gin. He leaned forward and she moved her lips once more. Porter nodded and returned his attention to the keys.
My lips twitched, thinking about that day before freshman year, when Alice had mouthed to me to meet her in the front yard.
The note. Shit, I almost forgot about the notes.
Harvey, when I found out I was sick, I decided I wanted to give you something. A thing that would outlive me and all your memories of us. But I didn’t get it done in time. I wasted my time with things and people that didn’t matter. I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being sorry. Since I got a second chance at this whole life thing, I wanted to do something that should have been at the top of my list and finally give you the puzzle piece you deserve. Listen to a few songs. On the phone, Beth said Porter was really good, but I don’t know, she sounded kind of crazy too. Whatever. Order another drink.
If this was some kind of fantasy, this would be the moment when Alice sauntered in and explained herself, but not before kissing me. That didn’t happen though. I took her advice, ordered another Sprite, and listened to a few more songs.
I was about to open the next note when Porter stood up from the piano for a break. Stretching his back and popping his knuckles, he walked over to the bar. “Beth,” he said, “you’re slacking on me. I can’t play for free without some gin to wash it down.”
“Oh, hush,” she said. “You make your tips.”
He chuckled. “If I was doing this for tips, Oscar’s wouldn’t be my venue of choice.”
They both laughed, like the whole thing was some kind of inside joke.
I took a big gulp of soda and looked around, trying to make it look like I hadn’t been staring.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” said Porter, and pointed at me.
“Oh, I don’t think you want any of that,” she said.
Coughing, I said, “It’s soda.”
“What?” asked Porter, motioning to the hearing aid in his ear.
“Soda,” I said. “Just soda. No kick.”
“Ah,” he said, and took the seat next to me. “Then the boy will have whatever I’m having and I’m having a Jack and Coke.”
Beth raised her eyebrows. “No can do. I already refused him once.”
Porter leaned forward on the bar and smiled.
“Oh, fine, but if anything happens to him, that’s on you.”
Porter nodded once.
Beth made two Jack and Cokes and set a coaster down in front of me.
I reached for the glass.
“Just the one,” she said.
Porter laughed a great big belly laugh and turned back for the piano.
He played another song and I drank my drink too fast, my vision going a little soft on the edges.
After a few more songs I turned back to the bar and opened the next note.
I wanted to find your dad. Isn’t that so stupid of me that I thought I could even do that? Well, Porter’s not your dad. He’s too old. And that would be kind of gross. Open the next note when you’re ready.
Blood rushed to my head like I’d been hanging upside down. My dad? Alice wanted to find my dad? I couldn’t figure out how she would know to do that for me. She was right, though. Porter was way too old to be my dad. Maybe he’d just known him or something. I squeezed my eyes shut and ran my hands down my face.
I asked Beth for a glass of water. I downed the whole thing, cooling my liquor-warmed chest, and drank two more glasses. Porter finished another song. What did he have to do with this?
I started digging. I looked everywhere. Finally, I found all your emergency contact information from when we were kids in my mom’s closet in an old accordion folder. I knew she would have something in case anything happened to your mom. Take a bathroom break or get another drink or something, because the next note—the last note—is the big one.
For once, I ignored Alice and went for the last note. Whatever she’d found out was folded up inside that little piece of paper.
I set the note back on the counter.
I didn’t want to know.
I picked the note back up.
I had to know.
The clock on my phone said 6:15. With the note in my hand, I took one last deep breath.
Harvey, this is my gift to you. And who knows, maybe it’s not anything you want. But before you let your eyes skip forward, read this: my weird-shaped-doesn’t-fit-into-a-box-sometimes-angry heart loves you, and whatever comes next, I want to be there. On whatever terms you decide. It’s okay if you don’t want to know what I have to say. It’s okay. But if you want to know, skip to the bottom of the page.
I fished a piece of ice out of the bottom of my glass and chewed on it. She loved me. And it didn’t feel like a condolence prize. This time it was a promise, and the only thing that would make it better was to hear her say it out loud. I touched my fingers to the page, letting my skin absorb each letter.
Okay.
William Joseph Porter is your grandfather. I don’t know who or where your dad is, but Porter was the only family I could find. But he’s YOUR family. It doesn’t have to be now or this week or whatever, but he comes here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday around 4 if you decide you want to know him.
I stood up and shoved the note into my pocket. I had a grandfather. A living grandfather. A laugh slipped out of my lips, and I slapped a hand over my mouth. I took a step toward the piano, then doubled back. I didn’t know what to say to him or what I expected us to be. And my mom. I had to talk to my mom. I couldn’t go behind her back on this. All of these possibilities and it had been Alice who had given them to me.
I wasn’t ready to know Porter. I didn’t know when I would be. But thanks to Alice, I knew where to find him. I needed to talk to someone, and there was one person who I wanted that to be.
If possible, the ride back felt even longer than the ride to Alton. The summer sun fell in the sky, flirting with the horizon.
My grandfather. I had a grandfather.
I didn’t know what to do, but I knew where to go.
Alice’s house added about ten minutes to the drive.
I sat at the last light before her house, waiting forever for it to turn green. I swear to God, the lights skipped right over my street. Rolling out to the middle of the intersection, I looked both ways and floored it.
When I got to her house, I parked and turned off the car all in one motion. I fumbled with the seat belt, remembering the day I came here after she’d found out she was in remission. She’d watched me through a window, like a ghost, as her dad told me It’s gone.
I shaded my eyes with my hand and ran up the driveway, and this time she was there, waiting for me. Alice sat on the steps of the porch with her knees pulled into her chest.
I stopped less than a foot away. I couldn’t find words, but it didn’t matter. They wouldn’t have done me any good. The sun dipped down behind her house, bringing her into focus.
Alice stood, closing the gap between us, and whispered in my ear.
Acknowledgments
I’m going to give thanks, I swear. But first, I want to tell you—whoever you are—that I barely graduated high school and completely bombed the SAT. I am telling you this because I want you to know that the path of dreams is flawed, and it is the beauty of flaws that makes you.
As promised, I would like to offer my deepest gratitude to:
Alessandra Balzer, my editor, for her incredible guidance in shaping these words into a book and for seeing potential in such raw form. And to everyone at Balzer + Bray, but especially to Sara Sargent for every little bit of help and for all the wonderful mail.
My agent and friend, Molly Jaffa, whose faith i
n my work has changed the course of my life. I will never be done saying thank you. And to the entire team at Folio, your enthusiasm and tireless effort pushes me forward every day. (Hi, Molly’s mom!)
Annemieke Beemster Leverenz and Alison Klapthor, for this exquisite cover.
Jessica Taylor, who has read every wretched word I’ve ever written and whose talent amazes me.
Andrea Walkup and Valerie Cole, for all their encouragement and feedback when I was at my ripest and needed it most.
Kristin Trevino, who has always read first and cheered loudest. Ashly Ferguson and Allison Jenkins, whose kind support has been constant.
Corey Whaley, for listening to and challenging me. I want to see all the movies with you. Even the bad ones. (You’re my friend, kind of.)
Jenny Martin (my betrothed), who is strong where I am weak.
Natalie C Parker, who is my surest compass.
My mom, dad, and sister, who are my foundation and who have encouraged me in this and every other thing.
Thank you to all my family, blood and otherwise: the Murphys, Komaromis, Buzwells, Werthmans, Pearces, (both of the) Trevinos, Pierces, and Richardsons.
My friends, who were there before, but especially to: Ashley Meredith (my dearest friend always), John Stickney, Hayley Harris, Veronica Trevino, Asher Richardson, Matt Meredith, and Nathan McCoy.
This community—every inch of it—has taken me by surprise. Each writer, librarian, blogger, reader, and publishing professional. Thank you all. And a special dose of love to the Lone Star community. Y’all are my home.
Many thanks to the following friends for their encouragement and love: Adam Silvera, the incredible women of the Fourteenery, Sarah Combs, Siobhan Vivian, Jennifer Echols, Margot Wood, Jeramey Kraatz, Stacy Vandever Wells, Jen Bigheart, Kari Olson (for sharing her medical knowledge), Caron Ervin, Britney Cossey, and my Texas Wesleyan family, specifically: Dr. Salih, Professor Payne, Joie Arn, and Ann Smith.