P.S. I Miss You

by Jen Petro-Roy

  Today is one year since you conceived. Since you got pregnant. You’ve only been gone since June, but a year ago today is when everything changed, even if I didn’t know it.

  A lot of things can change in one year. A lot of things can change in six months. Like me. Here are the most obvious ways I’ve changed since you left:

  1.  I’m taller. Only by an inch, but being 5 feet is way better than being 4'11". I had to get new pants because my socks were showing. All my socks are boring white, too, nothing like the cool print and stripey ones everyone at school has.

  2.  I started playing the flute. I’m not very good and sometimes it sounds like a cat when someone’s stepped on its tail, but I can play “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” and “Twinkle, Twinkle” AND read music now. Mrs. Harper taught us tricks to remember which letters go with which lines and spaces.

  FACE: Like a face. (Duh.)

  EGBDF: Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge.

  The official name for the tricks is a “mnemonic device.” Like how you remember the names of the planets by saying “My Very Eager Mother Just Served Us Nectarines.” There are lots of other mnemonic devices, too. Maybe you’re learning some at your school. That’s cool to think about. Like how sometimes people look up at the stars and think that someone far away is staring at the same ones.

  3.  I think I might be allergic to raspberries. Every time Mom brings her raspberry pie to a church reception, the back of my throat starts itching. Not a lot, but enough to make me stick my tongue back there and wiggle it around. Last week I didn’t eat the pie and Mom got mad at me.

  4.  I don’t really talk to Mom and Dad anymore. Partially because I don’t want to and partially because they’re too distracted to talk to me much lately. I ask them to give me a tissue and pass the remote. I tell Mom I need a ride to the store to get new ChapStick. I tell them about my day, but only the stuff that happened in class. I don’t tell them anything important. I don’t tell them about June or how in art class yesterday she kept flicking paint at my nose. Then I flicked red paint at her nose, so we both looked like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer by the end of class. I don’t tell them how much I miss you. I still pray with them, but sometimes I’m not sure if God is hearing what I’m saying.

  5.  There’s one more thing that might be different about me. I can’t tell you yet, though. I’m not even sure about it myself.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. Mrs. Harper told us that when she was younger and Pluto was still a planet, the mnemonic device they used was “My Very Eager Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas.” We’re having pizza tonight. Mushroom pizza. You hate mushrooms. I think that’s why we get them now. I’d rather have you than mushrooms, though.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 18TH

  Dear Cilla,

  I still haven’t heard back from the headmaster. Or from you. Maybe Dr. Locke isn’t checking his e-mail because of winter break. But if Saint Augustine’s is closed for vacation, where are you?

  I was going to ask Mom and Dad about your Christmas plans the other night, but when I knocked on their door, I heard Mom crying. When I peeked through the crack, I saw her going through the trunk at the end of their bed, where she stores all our baby stuff. She had tons of your old stuff piled on the bed: a pair of tiny sneakers, your frilly white baptism dress, even a gross chewed-on pacifier. Piles of papers and drawings you made when you were little. I backed out of there before she saw me, but not before I saw her face. It was red and blotchy, like she’d been crying for hours.

  I don’t understand. Why would Mom be crying so much if she was so ashamed of having you around? Maybe she misses you, after all. I’m going to let Mom and Dad calm down, and then ask them about you. Not about only Christmas, but about whether you can come home for good.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21ST

  Dear Cilla,

  I waited a few days to ask Mom and Dad. They were finishing up the rosary before bed, so I ducked back around the corner, but it was too late. Mom put her beads on her Bible and Dad wrapped his around his fingers. Mom was wearing this awful robe she bought herself last month. It’s long and black, with pearl buttons on it. She looks like a nun. Or a ninety-year-old widow.

  I remember when she used to wear fun clothes. Like those bright red leggings she had with the white polka dots on them. Or the purple bathing suit Dad said made her look like Marilyn Monroe. Dad laughed when I said I didn’t know who Marilyn Monroe was and told me she was some beautiful movie star from the old days. Then he twirled Mom around, bent her practically upside down, and kissed her. He only stopped when you ran down to the ocean, got a pail of water, and dumped it on their heads.

  Everyone on the beach thought we were the weirdest family ever.

  I’d rather be weird than … this, though. Whatever “this” is.

  I’d rather be soaking wet and covered in gritty wet sand and seaweed than living in a land of black robes and pearl buttons and sadness.

  They looked sad when they finally noticed me. Annoyed, too. I started my speech anyway. I was sure I could convince them it was time for you to come home. And that if you’re the one staying away on purpose, then it’s their job to bring you home.

  Nothing came out right, though.

  When I talked about how you were family, Mom teared up. When I talked about how you’ve been away long enough, Dad’s face turned into a mask of stone. Then I started yelling. About how they’re not being fair to you or me and how they weren’t fair to your baby by making you hate it. That you wanted to keep it at first and that everything is their fault.

  That’s when Dad lost it. I’ve never heard him yell so loudly. That’s when Mom started sobbing. Dad teared up, too, I think, but that may have been from all the screaming. I had no idea what was going on, so I ran out of the room.

  I’m crying, too. That’s why this page is all smudgy. I hope you can still read it okay. I love you. I tried.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. I’m not giving up.

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 24TH

  Dear Cilla,

  It’s Christmas Eve. It’s Christmas Eve and you’re not here. I wonder if lots of other girls are staying at school with you, or if you’re the only one. Maybe lots of students board at Saint Augustine’s over winter break. Maybe you sing carols and decorate a Christmas tree in the lobby. Maybe you’re having a huge feast, like they do at Hogwarts at Christmastime.

  Maybe you’re alone in your room.

  There are too many maybes and only one truth: I don’t know what you’re doing right now.

  Nana’s special lace tablecloth is on the dining room table, the one you spilled gravy all over when you were my age. The spot is still there in the middle, but Mom didn’t put a poinsettia plant over it this year. When I asked her why not, she shrugged and mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

  The Christmas tree is up, but we didn’t decorate it. Not two weeks before Christmas, like we usually do. Not even one week before. The branches are draped with colored lights, but the decorations are still in the attic.

  No paper snowflake that you made in kindergarten, with a picture of your gap-toothed smile peeking out from the center.

  No plastic Elmo.

  No porcelain rocking horse, the one Mom always put at the tip-top of the tree so no one could break it.

  We don’t even have a real tree.

  Yeah, you read that right. We didn’t go to the tree farm this year. I kept waiting for Dad to drag me out of my bed on some cold, snowy Saturday morning and stick a to-go cup of Dunkin’s hot cocoa in my hand. Then drag me through a field in search of the perfect tree. Where Dad would notice every tree’s imperfection:

  “Too tall.”

  “Too few needles.”

  “Too many needles.”

  “The branch-to-ornament ratio would be insu
fficient.”

  Then we’d roll our eyes and Mom would spot the perfect tree and run over and hug it tightly. She’d turn to Dad with that huge smile of hers (the one I haven’t seen since you got pregnant) and he’d agree it was perfect.

  Maybe we didn’t go this year because you weren’t here to roll your eyes with me.

  So we have a plastic tree in our living room. A plastic, doesn’t-smell-like-anything Christmas tree without a single decoration on it.

  We have a stained tablecloth that nobody took the time to cover.

  And we have about seven million pounds of food. Because it looks like Mom made dinner for three hundred instead of three.

  I hope the food at Saint Augustine’s is good. Merry Christmas Eve, Cilla. I love you.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Mom and Dad got me a doll for Christmas. A doll. Like I’m five years old instead of twelve. Mom said it was a “limited-edition, special collector’s edition” doll of Anne of Green Gables, my favorite book. And yeah, it is. And yeah, I love that book. But it’s still a doll.

  Maggie got five bottles of nail polish, a dress for her voice recital, a sleeping bag for arts camp this summer, and a new phone from her parents.

  Katie got shoes, pink leggings, and a new pair of skis.

  (We called each other right away to compare gifts, like we always do. I’m going to see June tomorrow, so I’ll find out what she got then.)

  I got a doll. (Oh, and five Hershey’s Kisses in my stocking. The wrappers looked wrinkly, too, like Dad had pulled them out of his pocket at the last minute.)

  Then I got to go to church. I heard words like “grace” and “forgiveness” and “rebirth” and “love.” I heard Father O’Malley’s sermon about how the birth of a baby transformed the world. I kept giving Mom and Dad these super-meaningful looks, but they didn’t notice at all.

  Because the only transformation that happened in our house was a bad one.

  And now the only baby here is a collector’s edition one meant for a little kid.

  I hope you had a better day than I did.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. To make the day worse, I caught Mom crying again. I didn’t feel bad for her, though. If she’s sad that you’re not here, she shouldn’t have made you feel like you don’t belong.

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 28TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Things June and I have done so far on Christmas break:

  Watch the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation, this old science fiction show her mom loves. Then argue about which episode was our favorite.

  Go to the roller rink the next town over and skate in circles with the elementary school kids. (Our excuse was that we were going with June’s little cousin Iris, but that was totally a cover story. We wanted to go anyway. It was so much fun. And I only fell once.)

  Play with June’s karaoke machine in her bedroom for about three days straight. (That was her Christmas present.) Even though June and her mom don’t believe in Jesus, they still celebrate Christmas. Which seems kind of weird to me, but I didn’t say anything. At least their tree is decorated.

  Go sledding on the big hill behind the high school. Everyone from school was there because it was the first big snowfall of the year. We took our snow tube and June’s toboggan and switched off about a hundred times. Then we went back to her house for hot cocoa (her mom puts in tons of marshmallows) and chocolate chip cookies.

  It was the best vacation ever.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. Even if it was the best vacation, I still did miss you. Remember last year when you and Alex let me tag along when you guys went to the movies? At the scary part, I threw my popcorn in the air and a bunch of it went down the back of Alex’s coat. We laughed so hard the manager threatened to kick us out.

  P.P.S. I miss things like that most of all.

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 29TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Something weird happened yesterday. Something that I was going to mention in my last letter, but then chickened out. I kind of want to chicken out again, but I’m going to force myself to write it. Because I’m confused. Really confused.

  During one of our sledding runs yesterday, I wiped out. Like “did a somersault in the air and then face planted into the snow” wiped out. It was totally embarrassing. There must have been a bump I didn’t see. Either that or the universe hates me. Vivek was right next to me, but he just laughed his high-pitched laugh and started to climb the hill again. He didn’t even check to see if I was okay.

  June coasted down a second later. She didn’t hit the invisible bump. But she did run over right away and ask what was wrong. So I showed her my ripped mitten. And pointed to my side, which felt like someone hit it with a baseball bat.

  Then June pointed to my face, which I hadn’t noticed was bleeding. But she didn’t just point to my face. She touched my face. The scratched-up, bloody bit.

  It hurt a little bit, but that’s not why I flinched. I flinched because June was touching my face. With her fingers. I shivered, too, but that was probably because my hat fell off when I wiped out.

  June flinched, too, and pulled her hand away.

  We went up the hill to get a Band-Aid at the Quick-Mart next to the high school. I kept sneaking peeks at June, but she didn’t say anything else. And once, when I peeked at her, she was peeking at me, too.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. If you were here, I wouldn’t miss you and you could help me figure out what’s going on with June. She was almost acting like

  SUNDAY, DECEMBER 30TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Mom finally met June this morning. It didn’t go so well. I’d been so excited, too. It was June’s first time at our house, and I really wanted her to like it here.

  It wasn’t awful, but it was awkward. Totally awkward.

  Mom came out of her room (there was a House Hunters marathon on and she’d been holed up in there all day) when we were eating a snack at the kitchen table. Mom looked kind of dazed, so I introduced her to June.

  Mom said how nice it was to meet her, that she’d heard so much about her—all that polite stuff she says to everyone at church. She didn’t look June in the eyes, though, which I thought was totally rude.

  That wasn’t the rudest thing Mom did—because then she asked June THE QUESTION. You know, the question about what’s obviously the most important thing in the world.

  Mom: So, June. I didn’t see you at church this morning. Do you go to Saint Patrick’s?

  Me: (internal screaming and pulling out my hair)

  June: No, ma’am. My family doesn’t go to church.

  Mom looked surprised. Not mad really, but disbelieving, like June had told her she didn’t like chocolate or something. Obviously Mom has met non-Catholic people before. But I don’t think she expected me to hang out with someone who didn’t go to church.

  I mumbled something about having stuff to do and pulled June into the living room. I’m not ashamed of June, but I didn’t want Mom to find out she was an atheist. They’d think she was the spawn of the devil or something. They’d run her out of town with pitchforks.

  At least Mom let us leave without dumping a vat of holy water on June.

  When June and I went into the living room, she was so surprised that she stopped walking. I almost bumped into her. I’m so used to our house that I forget it probably looks weird to other people. Especially when it’s their first time here.

  The nativity set isn’t that weird, especially since June doesn’t know we keep it up all year long. But the crucifix over the mantel and the bloody picture of Jesus on the cross are definitely creepy. I forget about them sometimes, since they’ve always been there. Since church is such a big part of my life. Since basically our entire town is Catholic.

  But everyone isn’t Cat
holic.

  Not everyone believes in God.

  I guess June doesn’t care that we do, though, because after she blinked a few times at our Jesus decorations, she kept walking toward the TV like everything was normal.

  She’s nice like that.

  Having June here made me look at things differently, though. Why do we have a bleeding man on our wall? Mom makes such a big deal about how I’m not allowed to watch horror movies because they’re “inappropriate,” but we talk about a dying thirty-three-year-old man all the time. Mom doesn’t let me read about zombies, but I hear the resurrection story every single year.

  It doesn’t make sense.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 1ST

  Dear Cilla,

  It’s the first day of the New Year. Last night I went to a party at Katie’s house. Mom and Dad let me go, even though there was a special New Year’s Mass this morning. They just made me promise that Katie’s parents would drop me off at church at nine o’clock. Mrs. Foley wasn’t a big fan of that idea, so Mom agreed to pick me up. I bet Mrs. Foley wanted to sleep in. So did I! I wish I was an adult and could skip church whenever I wanted to.

  Maggie slept over, too. (June would have, but she was sick.) Maggie brought the brand-new sleeping bag she’d gotten for Christmas. It’s shiny and maroon with silver zippers. I still have my ripped Cinderella one from when I was a kid. I almost don’t fit in it anymore, but I felt weird bringing yours. Like it needed to be at home in case you came back. Not that you’ll come home and need a sleeping bag. I feel like that about all your stuff, though. I haven’t touched the snowflake necklace I used to borrow all the time.

  Katie’s younger brother, Ben, hung around us all night, but he wasn’t even that annoying. He kicked our butts at board games. We played Blokus and Settlers of Catan and Twister, then ordered Chinese food. The Foleys poured glasses of sparkling apple cider into fancy wineglasses and handed them out on little trays. They had a “make your own ice cream sundae” bar, too, with three different flavors of ice cream (vanilla, strawberry, and mint chip), crushed Oreos, mini M&M’s, sprinkles, whipped cream, and cherries! Ben is allergic to nuts so they skipped those.