P.S. I Miss You

by Jen Petro-Roy

But maybe one day soon we can.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9TH

  Dear Cilla,

  In chorus today, we sang a song from My Fair Lady. I loved seeing you in that musical. You were a better Eliza Doolittle than Audrey Hepburn was in the movie. I remember you telling me that after the cast list went up, two senior girls got mad at you because a sophomore wasn’t supposed to get the lead role.

  But you did.

  Because you were talented.

  You were nice and smart and funny, too.

  Also annoying. You snored super loudly and cracked your gum and took showers that lasted way longer than the ten-minute rule. You stole Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from my Halloween candy stash and told me all my music was super cheesy.

  But when Mrs. Harper passed out the sheet music to “I Could Have Danced All Night,” I didn’t remember the candy stealing or the freezing-cold showers. All I could see was you, dancing and spinning across the stage, dreaming of your future with Henry Higgins.

  You got a standing ovation that night. The next night, too.

  That’s how I want to remember you: dreaming of your future, forever and ever.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. But I still miss you.

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10TH

  Dear Cilla,

  I saw Alex this afternoon. Sat next to him awhile, too. We didn’t talk much, but that’s okay.

  It was at church, even though today’s not Sunday. I still haven’t gone to church with Mom and Dad on Sunday, even though they ask me to come every week. They still look disappointed when I say no, but they accept it. (I think.)

  For some reason, I wanted to go today, though. Maybe it was the angel necklace I found at the bottom of my jewelry box, the one Dad got for both of us that time our whole family got the “Flu of Doom.” Maybe it was because Katie and Maggie kept talking about the fun party they had at youth group last weekend. Maybe it was because I felt lonely and church used to make me feel better.

  Whatever reason it was, I went to church today.

  Maybe Alex was feeling lonely, too, because when I walked up to the altar (I still made the sign of the cross when I passed the crucifix. Total habit.), he was already there. He had his hands steepled and his head down. There were two candles shining brightly in front of him.

  Vigil lights.

  When Great-Uncle Paul died, Mom and Dad made an offering at church. When my principal’s mother died, they did the same thing. Put some money in the little gold box by the altar and lit a candle. Then they prayed. They prayed for the person who died and they prayed for their spirit. They prayed for the family they left behind.

  Alex was doing that for you. And for Amélie. He didn’t have to tell me; I just knew.

  He smiled at me. It was a small smile, but his mouth definitely turned up.

  I smiled at him. Then I lit my own two candles and knelt down beside him.

  We didn’t say anything.

  We just prayed.

  It was nice. It made me feel a little better.

  I’m still not sure about God. But anything that makes me feel better can’t be that bad. Maybe I don’t have to do religion exactly like Mom and Dad do. Maybe I can take what I want from it and leave the rest on the shelf, like I’m going food shopping and I decide that the chocolate chip cookies are way better than the M&M ones.

  Or maybe I can buy the ingredients to make my own cookies.

  Maybe.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. Alex misses you, too. I can tell.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 14TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Happy New Year’s Eve! Okay, it’s obviously not really New Year’s Eve, but tonight we’re pretending it is, since you weren’t here to celebrate with us last year.

  Since we didn’t celebrate at all last year. So we’re having our Summer New Year’s party … in September. Which is a bit different, but I guess traditions can change.

  Things can change.

  Dad rented out the pool at the Radisson Hotel. Mom’s over there now, decorating with streamers and twinkly lights and beach balls. She brought over a few paper snowflakes, too, to remind people it’s supposed to be winter.

  Mom and I went shopping for new bathing suits yesterday. When we were walking into our third store, we saw this pretty red two-piece in the mirror. It had a halter top and a little skirt.

  “Cilla would have loved that,” Mom said. She said it a little sadly, but mostly matter-of-factly.

  “She would have,” I agreed. Mom reached out and squeezed my hand. I didn’t pull away. I squeezed back.

  “Let’s have fun for her tomorrow,” Mom said. “Cilla loved Summer New Year’s.”

  We’re going to. June’s coming, and Katie and Maggie. Hannah is coming and so are Emma and your other school friends. Dad even invited Alex when we saw him at the supermarket yesterday. He walked right up to Alex and asked him. No dirty looks or anything. I thought Alex was going to faint. He whispered to me that he’s not going to come, though. He said it would hurt too much without you there. That’s okay. I know he’d come if he could.

  Maybe someday Amélie will do something like this with her new family. She’ll have a Summer New Year’s. Or a Silly Hat Day. Or her entire family will take a road trip across the country to visit the World’s Largest Santa. (That’s a thing. It’s in North Pole, Alaska, and weighs nine hundred pounds.)

  It’s nice to think she’s out there somewhere, happy and safe and loved.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. Tomorrow’s one year since you went into labor. One year since you died. Mom and Dad haven’t talked about the “anniversary” specifically, but I know that’s why they planned this party.

  P.P.S. That makes me happy and sad at the same time.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Summer New Year’s Eve was fun. We played chicken in the pool. (I got on Hannah’s shoulders and June got on Maggie’s dad’s shoulders. June totally won, which was so not fair because Mr. Taylor is about a foot taller than Hannah. She gloated about it for the rest of the night.)

  We had a water balloon fight and got in trouble with the hotel manager. (After he left, Dad burst out laughing and threw one more balloon at me. It was very “old Dad”–like and very cool.)

  We ate hot dogs and hamburgers and corn on the cob and strawberries. Then we made ice cream sundaes from the five different flavors Mom convinced someone to stash in the staff-room refrigerator.

  We even said a prayer for you before we ate. That made me feel good, but it didn’t feel like enough. It felt like you deserved more than a fake Summer New Year’s Eve party. You needed something real. Something just for you. Something where we talked about how you were gone, instead of dancing around what happened.

  I’m sick of dancing. I’m sick of avoiding the truth.

  You need an official memorial. The second I thought of it, I wondered why I hadn’t before. Then I remembered it’s because I’ve been avoiding the topic of where you are now. Where your body is, I mean. I didn’t want to think about it before, but all of a sudden I needed to know.

  So I asked Mom and Dad.

  As I asked them and they answered, I realized something. Something new and sad and kind of amazing. It was the first time I’d asked an honest question and they’d given me an honest answer in a long time. Maybe ever. It was the first time they’d acknowledged what had happened. It was the first time they’d used the word “died.”

  I didn’t dance around what I really wanted and they didn’t keep secrets because they were afraid of my reaction. I didn’t get angry at them and they didn’t get all judgy.

  I didn’t get all judgy, either, when they told me they’d buried you in a cemetery near Aunt Maureen’s, instead of here, where I can see the grave and put flowers on it. Where I can visit you in one way, if not in the way I really want to.


  They made a mistake. They didn’t want to grieve then, so they made arrangements fast and tried to forget.

  It means we’re grieving more now, though.

  Maybe I can help us grieve in a different way.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you. Still. Always.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 29TH

  Dear Cilla,

  I’m going to read this letter at your memorial today. I’m writing it on my last sheet of stationery. I thought the happy yellow and pink roses might hurt to look at, but I’m actually smiling right now.

  It’s Sunday. We’re not at church this morning, but Father O’Malley is here. He’s going to say Mass before we honor you. I’m not sure if you were still going to church when you died. I’m not sure if you even believed in God. But Mom and Dad wanted him here.

  Actually, I did, too.

  Mom lined the brick walkway with daisies, your favorite flower. She went to every flower shop and every supermarket in town. Every flower shop in the next town, too, until she had more than two hundred daisies. She bought a bunch of mason jars at the craft store and wrapped them with colored paper, then arranged flowers in each jar. I helped her put them out on the bricks. It looks nice, but also really homemade. I hope you don’t mind. I don’t think you will.

  Dad bought a special box for me, the kind they use in time capsules. I filled it with your favorite things: Cuddly the koala and your old, ripped script from My Fair Lady. A half-empty pack of your favorite kind of gum that I found in your desk drawer and your journal, which I found in there, too. (I didn’t read it at all this time!) The Penderwicks, your favorite book from when you were a kid. A baby blanket and your earbuds.

  Amélie’s picture.

  I left enough room in there for what I’m going to add later (which will be now, and my letters, for those of you listening to me read this).

  Dad dug a hole underneath your favorite tree, the maple tree you planted when you were in third grade. I remember when you first told me that it was “your” tree, I was so impressed. You seemed like God to me then. You’d created life. Well, you’d planted something in the ground. That was close enough when I was three years old.

  Now you really have created life. You had a baby. You named her after me.

  That’s not what makes you special to me, though. You’re special because you’re Cilla. I could say so much about why I love you. I’m sure everyone here could, too. Mom and Dad. Emma. All your theater friends. Alex is here, too. I invited him and he said he’d come. He said he had to, that he needed closure, too.

  We could list reasons that would go on forever, that would use up every piece of paper in the entire world. We could talk about the time you organized the food drive at school. The time you let Emma buy the last “cute green sweater” at the mall because she wanted it so much. The time you convinced me we should cook tacos and pretend to be mariachi singers for Mom and Dad’s anniversary, since their first date was at a Mexican restaurant.

  I don’t need to list all the reasons, though. I don’t need to write them down and bury them with you. You’re not special because of “reasons.” You’re special because you’re Cilla. I don’t need to make a list to know why I love you.

  Loving you is a feeling. It’s the warmth that fills my chest when I think about you.

  It’s not just one memory; it’s a million, twisting and twirling and wrapping together into something that looks like the pictures of galaxies in my science book.

  That feeling will stay with me forever.

  Your body is buried. These letters will be, too. I’ll bundle this one up with the rest and add them to the box. They’ll be my memorial to you, and this will be the place I can go to talk to you and feel your presence.

  I hope I’ll be able to feel your presence. But even if I can’t, I know that the letters aren’t my only link to you. Amélie is out there somewhere, which means that a part of you is, too. Maybe I’ll never meet her. I’ll be sad about that, but hopefully I’ll be okay, too. Because it’s enough to know she exists. That I have a niece and that you loved her.

  Even though you were ashamed, I know that you loved her. Just like even though you didn’t answer my first set of letters, I know you loved me.

  I forgive you for not writing back.

  Because I learned from your mistakes. I learned to be proud of who I am. I learned that it’s okay to grow and change, to like who I want and to believe what I want.

  I don’t really know what I believe or who I’ll end up with, but I know what I want now. And I know that it’s okay for me to want it.

  Thank you for helping me get here.

  I won’t make valentines with you this year.

  I’ll still make them, though.

  You won’t see me go to high school.

  I won’t see you go to college.

  I’ll still go, though.

  You won’t see me have a baby, but maybe I will.

  Maybe I’ll have a family of my own, even if you’ll never have that chance.

  You won’t have the chance to figure out what God is or isn’t.

  Hopefully I will.

  You won’t get to sing or dance or love or hate or tease me about all the annoying stuff I do.

  I’ll probably still do annoying stuff.

  Things will change. Things have changed.

  Things are still changing.

  One thing will never change, though.

  I’ll always miss you.

  Love,

  Evie

  Acknowledgments

  There never would have been letters, never mind a P.S., without my incredible agent, Brianne Johnson, who fell in love with this story from the start, read an early revision on vacation, and encouraged me to raise the stakes until it became so much more. To Jean Feiwel and Christine Barcellona, I could not ask for more incisive, encouraging, sensitive, and brilliant editors. I could tell from the start that you were the right home for this book and your enthusiasm and care has made everything about this journey wonderful.

  Thank you to the stupendously marvelous staff at Feiwel and Friends. There are so many of you who have championed, celebrated, and worked so hard on this book. I literally squealed out loud when I first saw the cover designed by Liz Dresner and drawn by Alice Willinger, and Carol Ly helped the interior look just as amazing. I have endless gratitude for Alexei Esikoff, Kim Waymer, Veronica Ambrose, Patricia McHugh, Kiffin Steurer, Val Otarod, and Erin Sui for their work through the numerous stages of bringing this book to life, and I am so lucky to have the wonderful Kelsey Marrujo and Melissa Zar behind me as my publicist and marketer.

  Thank you to Taylor Templeton at Writers House, for her work during initial revisions and her suggestion that sparked a crucial plot point. More thanks to Allie Levick, for all her help.

  A huge hug of gratitude to Kelly Hager, who read this book before I queried, encouraged me to keep going, and checked for any issues with representation.

  Thank you to Erin Dionne for her constant encouragement and belief over the past six years. You answered my questions, counseled me on my career path, and helped with the parent/writing balance. You are truly a mentor and a friend.

  To Lynda Mullaly Hunt, whose generous scholarship to the Whispering Pines Retreat came at a time when I was close to giving up. Your belief led me to revise this book. You are a shining star in the KidLit community.

  Thanks to critique partner Jenn Bishop for helping me grow as a writer, to the New England chapter of SCBWI, and to the 2017 Debut Group and the Electric Eighteens. Having a group of writers to share this crazy journey with adds to the fun and lowers the anxiety.

  To “Book Twitter,” especially Rachel Simon, for making me feel like a “real writer” before I really considered myself to be one, and to the staff of the Chelmsford Public Library, for being such a wonderful day job while I wrote this book.

  Thank you to Team Unicorn: Kristi Chadwick, Rachel Keeler, Margaret Willison, Amy Conway, Jer
emy Goldstein, Anna Mickelsen, and Sara Marks. From grad school to Google Buzz to TMI Thursdays, you have always believed in and supported me.

  Endless appreciation for my TSG girls: Patricia Moore, Erin Holt, Wendy Silver, Amy Derickson, Amanda Snow, Mollie Lancaster, and Nicole Thomas. Thank you for listening at two in the afternoon or two in the morning and for being there through the parenting and life roller-coaster.

  To my Sisters of the Traveling Anxiety: Kate Averett, Jena DiPinto, and Pam Styles. You girls listen to my crazy and tell me I’m a wonder. I could not get through this life without you. You are my lighthouses in the dark.

  To my parents, Ann and Jack Clancy, and parents-in-law, Ann and Tom Petro-Roy, whose love, belief, encouragement, and babysitting hours helped this book get written and edited. Even before I was published, you believed in me enough to give me that time. My extended family has echoed my goal of being an author back to me for so long that I had no choice but to do just that. Thank you all.

  Finally, and most importantly, thank you to my husband, Brian, and to my daughters, Ellie and Lucy. Thank you for understanding when Mommy had to go write. Thank you for saying you were proud of me when I first received my ARCs. Thank you for giving me time, never letting me give up, and always believing. You are my everything. I love you.

  To those who feel like they can’t reveal their true selves or question authority, I send you strength. You can love who you love and be who you are. You are wonderful.

  P.S. To my readers, thank you for picking this book up and letting Evie into your hearts.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jen Petro-Roy is a former teen librarian, an obsessive reader, and a trivia fanatic. She lives with her husband and two young daughters in Massachusetts. P.S. I Miss You is her debut novel. You can sign up for email updates here.

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