P.S. I Miss You

by Jen Petro-Roy

  “Why should I believe?” she asked. “Where’s the evidence?”

  I looked at the pine trees surrounding the football field. At the moon shining in the sky. I remembered the sunset earlier that day and how a squirrel scurried across the grass when I left for school.

  There’s the evidence, I thought.

  I didn’t say anything, though.

  Because I got distracted when I saw Alex. He was standing by the fence, talking to one of the cheerleaders. I don’t know her name, but I think she’s been over our house before for some school project you guys did together one year. He turned around right when I was looking at him and made eye contact. He jumped a little bit, like he’d been electrocuted.

  Or like he’d been caught doing something very, very wrong. He ran over to me right away. “We’re just friends! We’re just friends!” He kept saying it over and over, like it mattered to me who he was dating.

  Like it might matter to you.

  Do you still love Alex? I know you guys had a big fight, but he’s still the father of your baby. Even if you don’t have her anymore, she still belonged to you two once.

  I liked Alex. I still do like him, even if you guys had a fight. He doesn’t treat me like a little kid.

  He asked about you.

  I wish I had something to tell him. Please write back.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 22ND

  Dear Cilla,

  Yesterday afternoon Maggie and Katie went over to June’s house for a horror movie film fest. I couldn’t go, of course, since Mom and Dad are “morally opposed” to horror movies. I bet you can still picture Mom’s pursed lips all those times you asked to watch one.

  June told me about the movies in art class today, though, complete with creepy sound effects. She makes the best faces. She even looked pretty pretending to be a zombie.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I still miss you! Remember me? Your sister? Your sister who’d love to hear from you?

  P.P.S. I bet I’ll get a letter any day now.

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Mom heard me say your name on the phone this morning. Her lips pressed together like she’d tasted sour lemonade, like that time we added salt instead of sugar. I was talking to Katie and Mom made me hang up right away. When I told her it wasn’t fair, she said that nothing that happened was fair. Then she went to her room and cried. The television in her room was blaring, but I still heard the sobs. When she came out, her eyes were all red and puffy, but she pretended nothing had happened. We folded our hands and said our prayers and everything was fine again.

  Mom made macaroni and cheese for dinner tonight, the kind with three cheeses, just the way you like it. She made brownies, too. And cheesecake. She’s turning into a cooking machine.

  Mom cried after dinner, too.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 30TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Mom and Dad are the worst. The absolute, probably-verified-in-a-scientific-experiment WORST.

  Katie and Maggie and June are dressing up as devils for Halloween. We all went to the party store together and bought the coolest costumes—a red bodysuit with sparkles all over it, red shimmery tights, and a long tail. We even got headbands with devil horns and matching pitchforks. When we tried the costumes on at June’s house, she kept flicking her tail in my face, which totally tickled.

  But when I told Mom and Dad about our costumes, they said there was no way I could go trick-or-treating dressed as the devil. Like the second I put my costume on, I’m going to start worshipping Satan or something.

  Don’t they get it? Halloween is a holiday! It’s for dressing up and laughing and trick-or-treating and getting candy. Lots and lots of candy. This is probably going to be one of my last years, too, so I want to go with my friends. As a devil. Not the real devil (who probably isn’t real, anyway). A pretend devil.

  Is that so hard to understand?

  They are the WORST!

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you. I miss the voice of sanity in this house!

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31ST

  Dear Cilla,

  In the end, we were three devils and an angel. An angel wearing a white sweater, white leggings, and a “halo” made out of cardboard.

  It was the worst Halloween costume ever.

  June said I looked cute, though. I didn’t know what to think about that, but I guess I did look cute. At least my hair did.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. Did you dress up for Halloween? If you don’t want to write back, maybe you can just send me a picture? Or do they not do Halloween at your school?

  P.P.P.S. I got twelve Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and two were full-size!

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6TH

  Dear Cilla,

  No letters. No nothing. (That’s a double negative, but you know what I mean.)

  I e-mailed the headmaster of Saint Augustine’s yesterday. I figured that if these letters really aren’t getting through to you, maybe he can give you a message in person.

  He must be really busy, though, because I haven’t heard anything yet.

  From anyone.

  It’s my birthday this week, too.

  Hint hint.

  You don’t have to buy me a present. A letter would be nice. I’d even take a postcard at this point.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to meeeee-eeeee, happy birthday to me!

  Or not.

  Last year, when I turned eleven, you woke me up on my birthday by bouncing on my bed and shoving a shiny red bag in my face. A shiny red bag filled with colored pens (my favorite!), two new books, and a Hogwarts T-shirt.

  When I turned ten, you woke me up on my birthday by bouncing on my bed and giving me a gift certificate to the trampoline park.

  When I turned nine, you woke me up on my birthday by bouncing on my bed and giving me a picture of a unicorn that you’d drawn. You didn’t have any money because you’d gone to the movies twice that month.

  When I woke up today, my bed was still and silent. Mom and Dad wished me happy birthday at breakfast. They didn’t say anything else. Mom made scrambled eggs, which I usually love, but she’d burned them. They gave me a card they’d signed their names to (no personal message, no little doodle, not even a heart) and some book with writing prompts. Religious writing prompts.

  “If you want to write, you can write in here,” Mom said.

  “It’ll help you understand our faith’s teachings better,” Dad said.

  I shoved it in my desk drawer and went to school. Maggie, Katie, and June had decorated my locker with balloons and streamers. Maggie bought me a book. It had two kids carrying a red canoe on the cover. I’ve never been canoeing before, but the book looked good. Katie got me a bracelet with four charms: a heart, a sun, a pencil, and a flower. I can add on to it, too! There’s a website where I can buy new charms.

  June got me a pair of earrings: little blue stones. I usually don’t wear earrings, but she told me these reminded her of me and that they looked like my eyes. This made me blush, so I mumbled thank you and shoved them into my pocket. I apologized later for being rude, but she said it was okay. I put the earrings in then. They do look pretty.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. Since we usually plan mine together, I also missed having a party this year. I know I could have planned it on my own, or with Mom and Dad, but it didn’t feel the same.

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Mr. Carlon took us to the library during art class today. We’re starting a unit on sculp
ture, so Ms. Manfredi, the librarian, pulled all these books for us to look through. Mr. Carlon wanted us to “feel the muse” and “be inspired by the masters.” He said it in this booming voice, then pounded on his chest. Katie and I rolled our eyes when he turned away. June did, too.

  Mr. Carlon may be cool, but he’s also ridiculous. Maybe he should have been a drama teacher instead.

  It only took me about ten minutes to page through the books that were left after the rest of the class descended on the table. I saw stuff by Michelangelo and Raphael (none of the other Ninja Turtles, though, haha), but everything looked like a bunch of clay to me.

  Mr. Carlon was on the computers across the room (probably checking his e-mail), so I wandered into the stacks. Ian Mahoney and the basketball guys were in the fiction area, so I headed for the nonfiction. I looked through a book called The Life Cycle of the Butterfly before I got up the guts to look for what I really wanted: Teen Pregnancy and You.

  I was kind of surprised that it was on the shelves, actually. Remember a few years ago when Mrs. Clarke from church started a petition for the elementary school to ban that book about gay penguins? And Mom and Dad signed it and went to the big town meeting? You were so embarrassed. I didn’t know enough to be embarrassed then, but I definitely am now. We don’t live in the Dark Ages. If penguins want to be gay, let them be gay. Whatever.

  Anyway, I thought that after that, Mrs. Clarke went around in the middle of the night burning all the “controversial” books. But there it was, right next to Teenage Sexuality: Opposing Viewpoints and GLBTQ: The Survival Guide for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, and Questioning Teens—everything I wanted to know about teen pregnancy. (Like I don’t know enough already.)

  Working up the nerve to actually take the book off the shelf took a few minutes. Maybe more. I kept looking around me and moving up and down the aisle whenever I heard giggling or rustling. (Someone was wearing corduroy pants, otherwise known as the loudest pants ever. Swish swish swish!) Luckily most people were over by the computers.

  It took me another two minutes to open the book and look over the table of contents. I don’t know what I was expecting—information on why being pregnant might make you sad? A chapter on what to do if your older sister gets pregnant, gets sent away to have the baby, and never comes back?

  WHEN SHE SAYS SHE’S GOING TO.

  The book was about twenty-five years old, though, and all it had was really technical stuff. Eggs, sperm, ovaries, uterus. Labor and delivery. Newborn care. Day care. I don’t care about all those facts. I care about you.

  Fact: Mom and Dad said that your labor was fine and the baby is fine and everything is fine blah blah blah.

  Fact: The baby (I still think of her as Anna) is with some family that loves her.

  Fact: You decided to stay at Saint Augustine’s instead of coming home.

  Reality: I don’t know why things turned out this way. I know you wanted to come home. I just know it.

  Stupid books.

  Stupid libraries.

  Stupid you.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you and I hate you and I love you.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 20TH

  Dear Cilla,

  I have to tell you something. I don’t know if I should, but it’s been living inside me all week. It feels like a huge rock inside my stomach. A huge rock that keeps growing.

  Last week, we went out to dinner for my birthday. We went to Bianchi’s, your favorite. When we got there, the host, that old guy who’s worked there for about a billion years, asked if we needed a table for four. He pulled out four menus as he was asking the question, too, like he was expecting you to burst in the door any minute.

  That’s how much you’re a part of this family. The bald guy with the nose hair knows you should be here.

  I guess Mom and Dad didn’t get that memo because Dad shook his head and said we’d need a table for three. The host didn’t ask any questions, which I was kind of bummed about. I wanted him to ask why you were gone. I wanted him to mention you, even if he doesn’t know your name.

  If you weren’t here, I at least wanted your name to be.

  But, nope! He just gave us our menus and sat us at our regular table. He took away a chair, too. Your chair. Brought it to a table across the restaurant for this short guy with a foot-long beard. He caught me looking at him once and gave me a mean look. So I stopped.

  Bianchi’s still has the lasagna that’s almost as big as my head. I didn’t order it, though, because I knew I couldn’t eat it without you to share it with. And I definitely didn’t need to bring home leftovers, since Mom’s still cooking like a madwoman. I mean, she used to cook dinner and make those “in a pinch” meals for people at church, but she’s turned into some supercharged chef version of the Energizer Bunny. She won’t stop. Our freezer is full of frozen lasagnas, enchiladas, and soup. Cookies, too. I didn’t even know you could freeze cookies!

  But what I ordered for dinner isn’t the point of this letter. (I got the ravioli, by the way. So good.) It’s who we saw at the restaurant.

  After we gave the waiter (the one with black hair who you always said was so cute) our drink order, a guy came up to our table. He was tall and skinny and looked like a giant string bean. He wore a thin green bean–ish tie, too. He had a big pimple on his chin and a thin black mustache that looked like a hairy black caterpillar.

  Do you like my description of him? Mr. Barrett taught us about similes yesterday. Similes compare one thing to another different thing. Similes have to use the words “like” or “as,” though. Metaphors don’t.

  You probably know that, but I still mix them up sometimes.

  The man was named Peter. Dad said they played on the same Ultimate Frisbee team in college. He didn’t look like an athlete, but neither does Dad. Every time he told us stories about his “glory days” at Amherst, I could never picture it. He said he had long shaggy blond hair and practiced barefoot. He said he could throw a Frisbee the length of a football field and from April through September his sunglasses tan made him look like a raccoon.

  Now he wears suits to work and helps people file their taxes.

  I don’t get it.

  Peter seemed to remember the old Dad, though. He clapped Dad on the shoulder, which made Dad wince. “Tommy, good to see you! It’s been too long!” Then Dad got up and they did that weird man-hug where they pat each other’s backs for a few seconds.

  “How have things been since college?” Dad shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s been twenty years.” They muttered stuff about how it was impossible they were so old and it just yesterday that blah blah blah. They talked about weird Ultimate terminology, like “hammers” and “spirit of the game” and “flicks.” Peter asked Mom if she was still the “best baker in the whole damn country.”

  This made me flick (probably not the flick they were talking about, though) my eyes to Mom and Dad. I’ve never heard Mom swear, and I’ve only heard Dad say “damn” once, that time I was in the backseat and you’d just gotten your permit. You swerved to avoid a squirrel and almost crashed into the brick wall in front of Tony’s Pizza.

  Once it stopped being scary, the look on Dad’s face—both when he realized what had happened and when he realized he’d said a swear (well, what they consider a swear)—was the funniest thing I’d ever seen.

  Mom and Dad didn’t react, though. Mom just said that yeah, she was still baking, and Dad talked about how her lemon crumble was the hit of every post-church reception.

  (I bet you miss Mom’s lemon crumble. I bet you miss her blueberry scones, too. And her peanut butter cookies. I bet they don’t have anything like that at Saint Augustine’s. I bet you get stale crackers for dessert. Or Communion wafers. Which are just as gross.)

  Then Peter asked about me.

  “Is this your only kid? She’s a beauty.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged a look. That mind-reading look they do when they need to “talk” without saying
a word. Then Dad said something awful.

  “She’s our only daughter.” He put his hand on my head and smiled. Mom smiled, too. They were the fakest smiles ever. “This is Evelyn Jane.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. My mouth flapped open like the fish Mom buys at the market for “No Meat Fridays.” I bet my eyes looked as dead, too.

  I’m not their only daughter. You might be gone, but you’re still part of our family. Even if they’re ashamed of what you did, they shouldn’t deny you. That should be pretty damn (ha! I can say it, too) obvious for people who say their favorite book is the Bible.

  I stared at Mom and Dad hard, like I had some magic power that would make them correct themselves and take back their words. They didn’t, though. Dad’s lips were pressed so hard together they started turning white. Mom made this little choked sound like she’d been punched in the stomach. They both stared at the ground.

  But they didn’t say anything. It was like because you had a baby before marriage, you didn’t exist anymore. That you were just—poof!—gone. Like you’d never been born at all.

  They talked about weddings and jobs and weather and other boring grown-up stuff after that. Then Peter left. The bell on the door jingled behind him.

  I feel awful for not standing up for you. I don’t want to forget you. I don’t want other people to forget you. I want to talk to you, and not just in these letters.

  Was I wrong to tell you this? Is it going to make you feel worse? I need to tell someone, though. If I write about what happened, then it’s proof you’re real. It’s proof you’re still my sister.

  Please write back with proof that that fourth chair won’t stay empty forever.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 17TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Today’s December 17th. I looked at one of those baby websites online and there was a due date calculator. You could put in the day you got pregnant and it would figure out when you’re going to have the baby. I did it backward and put in your due date. Then I fiddled with it until I got the date I wanted.