The Milestone Tapes

by Ashley Mackler-Paternostro

  It was her turn to speak that evening, the kindred greetings that bounced off the cinderblock walls of the basement hushed as she pulled herself towards the speaker chair. Her voice had been thready and thin, but commanding. She was eloquent and educated, and the words she chose were brave. Her message haunted Jenna then, and maybe that was why she had never gone back; in her mind, she wasn’t a peer, but now, it was in that memory that Jenna found comfort, she wasn’t alone.

  The woman, she explained, had been a teacher. She had taught high school level English at a Reservation school for years, although she made no mention of which one. She had five children, all boys, all under the age of ten, handsome young men, she had said. She was only thirty-five. Her husband was a logger who made daily trips to the West End, and now that she wasn’t able to work, their money was stretched tight, they couldn’t afford much, and his insurance hardly covered her treatments. They struggled to support the family; it was a place she never dreamed they’d be, like so many of the other obstacles they faced now, it was never something she planned on. She’d gone to college, fallen in love, put in her years teaching others to appreciate the English language and the nuances of it. She had only just begun to raise her children, her boys, to be kind, respectful, and fair. She loved her husband and had since they were little kids growing up in the same small town. But she was dying now, and everything they’d had the potential to become together was dashed. She didn’t talk about her treatments, or the heinous side effects or how cheated she felt; she wasn’t a cautionary tale, she said. She was there to tell a story. Her name was Susan Taft.

  Her boys, she had said, were young men. They had dreams, goals, and plans for the future. Two wanted to be loggers, to follow their father into the woods and do ‘man’s work;’ the others longed for something different, they wanted to learn about science and medicine, art and history. They were all different, but they were all hers.

  She began to speak about responsibility, which was her message for the night. The insight of which was something she credited her years in education for. She realized now that a parent’s work was never really done. No matter how big, smart, or steady the child—they always would need their parent. Her death, she reasoned, didn’t change that or negate that, but only stood to make it more important.

  She had begun recording tapes for her sons. Five tapes for each of her boys. She called them their milestone tapes. Her sons could listen to them during the times they would want their mother’s guidance. She would offer advice, share stories, impart her wisdom. It wasn’t easy, she said, going to that place where she had to admit she wouldn’t be around for them, but it was the truth. She wasn’t going to see them graduate high school, or go off to college; she’d never bounce a grandchild on her knee or meet their future wives. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be useful. Being a mother, she said, meant figuring out how to best fit into your child’s life and be what they needed—a friend, an authority, a confidante, and a touchstone.

  Jenna remembered walking out of the meeting that night feeling, for the first time since her diagnosis, as though this was the worst possible thing in the world. She was angry, furious. Not for herself that night, but for Susan Taft, her husband and her boys. Jenna drove away as quickly as possible, back to her comfortable house, stripped off her jeans, sweater and boots, turned the shower on as hot as it would go and stood under the water until her skin was red and tender and sore. Jenna had cried for the woman, for her sons, her husband and their countless struggles. She prayed that night, as always, but not for herself.

  Later, Jenna learned, that Susan had taught at Sequim High. A quick note had been published in the local paper, along with a picture taken on the first day of school years prior. Susan smiled up from the paper in black and white scale. Her hair had been long, pretty waves cascading down her back, her arm casually draped over a smiling student in a classroom that looked inviting and tended. She had been plump, motherly, and womanly with wide hips contained in an ankle length skirt. The article mentioned the strides she’d made as a teacher, encouraging a love of literature with books and poetry and field trips, someone who believed learning shouldn’t be confined only to the classics or the classroom.

  Jenna was struck by how much she liked Susan Taft, the teacher and the woman, and wondered if they had met at the grocery store or carpool line, if perhaps they wouldn’t have grown to be good friends. A scholarship fund had been established her name to promote the things she loved and championed during her short life.

  When she died, the students came out in force to mourn her, a testimony to how many lives she touched and futures she effected. She had left more than tapes behind, she had left a legacy, and Jenna had fiercely hoped her boys knew that. The students asked for donations so they could plant lavender bushes around the property of the school in her memory. Jenna had asked Ginny to drop off a check with a note, thanking the students for their effort.

  This must have been how Susan felt, Jenna considered, sitting on the floor of her office now. The hopeless realization that life will go on without her. She dabbed her eyes with the sleeve of her robe and climbed to her feet. Life going on, moving forward, those would be good things, the way it should be. Gabe should know that was what she wanted for him. Jenna wondered idly if Mr. Taft had ever remarried, if he’d ever met someone and fallen in love again. If he’d loved that new someone enough to bring her into his family, to help him raise the sons he’d had with Susan, maybe even have a few more children. She wondered if he was happy again, a different type of happy, changed, but still happy nonetheless.

  Could she be strong enough to want that for Gabe? Her Gabe. The man she married on a sweet balm day in the middle of summer at a small Justice of the Peace off the 101. The man she’d taken inside herself, loved for the good and the bad. Her husband.

  The idea of that stung, and she doubled over under the pressure of the pain. It felt like the worst sort of infidelity; they loved each other so much, they had made promises and they had plans. She should always be his, he should always be hers, they’d sworn it. Never in their marriage had he looked at another woman; even when Jenna closed herself off to him and grew inwards, he still told her she was beautiful, smart, funny and brilliant. He still reached for her and was everything she needed him to be. He loved her, she was sure of that. Thinking of him feeling that way about someone else stole her breath. She couldn’t breathe, it hurt too much. But, would it hurt her more to know that, in time, he would grow lonely. That’d he’d never have someone worry about his day, or fix his meal, or celebrate the holidays with him?

  Mia would grow up, she’d get on with her life and leave. Maybe those things would take her across the country or across the world. Maybe she’d only be able to call every so often, but not nearly enough. She’d do the right thing—the normal thing: she’d start her own family, and gather all the distractions that came along with that. And then there’d be Gabe, alone. Eating his meals, watching his shows, washing his dishes.

  He was still young. So full of life and charming, charismatic and warm. She didn’t want him to spend the rest of his years by himself. Picturing that hurt her more than imagining him with someone new. She loved him enough to want a secure and happy future for him, no matter what that meant. She balled her hands into tight knots for fury, pressing them into her legs, soundless sobs found no purchase, she gasped for air between the wracking. It was guttural. Her marriage was ending, and not because they didn’t love each other—they loved each other— but because she was dying.

  ~ * * * ~

  “Gabe, honey, can we talk for a few minutes?” Jenna peeked her head into Gabe’s office, the bright drafting light bounced off the white blueprints he was hunched over.

  “Sure, hon, what’s up?” Gabe took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes and pushing away from the desk.

  Jenna slipped into his office and pulled the chair out across from his desk. Mia was playing in the family room, so Jenna had popped in a tape, and put
a bowl of popcorn in front of her.

  “I just want to talk to you about a few things. Seems like we hardly have the time lately.” Jenna glanced over her shoulder to the open door, the soundtrack of Sleeping Beauty lulled in the background.

  “We could ask Ginny to come back, just to help?” Gabe offered, trying to read her.

  “No, it’s not that. I like this, just us.” Ginny wagged her finger between herself and the open door before continuing. “But, I was just thinking about a few things—one thing actually—and I wanted to discuss it with you.”

  “Okay ... ” Gabe hesitated.

  “I wanted to talk about life after ... after I’m gone,” Jenna began, worrying a loose thread on the hem of her shirt, keeping her eyes lowered.

  “Jenna—” Gabe folded his thick arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Gabe, listen, please ... This is hard for me, and it’s important. I can’t put everything off until there is no time and then I’m worried because I didn’t say what I had to ... ” Jenna sighed, climbing from her chair and wandered over to the thick bookshelves in his room. They were a mirror image of her own, only his held multiple models of buildings he’d crafted.

  “Okay, I’m listening,” Gabe sighed.

  “So, here’s the deal.” Jenna didn’t turn around; she felt the prick of tears threaten behind her eyes. “I want you to be happy again ... after I’m gone.”

  “Jen.” Gabe’s voice seeped heavy with compassion. “I’m not thinking about ... I’m not going there in my mind. You’re here, and that’s all I’m focused on. You, right now—that’s it.”

  “This is as hard for me to say as it will be for you to hear, but Gabe, we both know that—that you’re life is going to have to go on. And I just, I want you to know that I want that for you, I want you to be happy again.” Jenna wiped at her eyes.

  “I don’t even want to think about that, Jenna, please ... I don’t want you to think about that,” Gabe choked out.

  “How can I not?” Jenna asked. “All I think about is how this is going to hurt you. You and Mia, you’re my whole life. I just want you to know, to be sure of the fact, that I want your happiness more than anything else, so that one day—when it doesn’t hurt as much—you can know that you moving on, that’s what I wanted.”

  She heard the scrape of his chair against the floor and felt his arms around her waist, his lips on the side of her throat. Her heart broke.

  “J,” he breathed into her ear, spinning her around so that they eyes met, “I love you. You. That’s it. And whatever else may or may not happen someday, this is right now, focus on this—don’t worry about anything else.”

  “What if you meet someone?” Jenna leaned into him, resting her head against the strong plane of his chest. Gabe ran his fingers down her spine soothingly. “What if you fall in love?”

  Gabe pulled back, holding Jenna’s arms in his hands, meeting her eyes. “That’s what this is about? Meeting someone? Falling in love?” His words were ice, cold and hard in her ears, and his eyes were furious as they bore into hers.

  “I thought you understood,” Jenna gaped back.

  “This is sick, Jenna, really. I don’t want to think about that, and I sure as hell don’t want to fucking talk about that.”

  “Gabe ... ” Jenna yanked herself free, balling her hands into fits and squaring them on her hips.

  “No, don’t even do that. Don’t get mad and flustered because I don’t want to talk about other women.” His eyes burned into hers, and he sighed heavily before continuing. “I get it, I really do. You want to tie this life up with a big, neat bow. You want to make sure Mia’s okay, and I’m okay, and life is just good for us ... and I guess knowing that will make it easier on you. And hell, maybe I should pretend, sit here, nod and agree and appease you. But you know what? You’re my wife, but you’re also my best friend, so when you’re … gone … none of this is going to be neat and tidy and fine. That’s not how losing someone you love works—and you know it—so stop trying.”

  “Please.” Jenna extended her hand, trying to reach him.

  “Jenna, I’m really serious. Okay?” Gabe lifted his eyebrows, his arms still crossed his chest and he lowered his face to meet hers. “I have one focus right now, that’s it—that’s you. I don’t want to think about anyone or anything else. Really. You and Mia, you’re it for me.” He shrugged lightly and ran his hands over his face.

  “I just need to know that you know my thoughts on this. I’m not asking you to do anything with them until the time is right for you, obviously ... but I ... I guess, I don’t want you feeling someday like you’re betraying me.” Jenna leaned back against the bookcase; she felt lightheaded and confused.

  “Okay, so I know. And now, I don’t want to ever talk about this again. We have so many other things to focus on.” Gabe pulled Jenna again, holding her against his chest so she could feel the pulse of his heart race through his thin T-shirt.

  “Dinner?” Jenna asked against the cotton of his shirt.

  Gabe laughed, pressing his lips against the top her head. “There’s that.”

  “We could order in?”

  “That sounds good. Pizza?”

  “Sure. Maybe I could rope Mia into helping me with some blackberry cobbler for dessert.”

  “She’d like that. Let me finish up in here, and then we can order.”

  “Okay,” Jenna stepped up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. “I love you Gabe, and I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Gabe leaned back on his heels, puzzled.

  “Yeah. Of course. For all of this. I don’t know how to do this.” Jenna closed her eyes, squeezing her hands together.

  “Jenna, you have nothing to be sorry for.” Gabe kissed her against, running his fingers over her back.

  “I just feel like I’m lost, I don’t know how to do this. There are so many things I want to do, things I need to say ... and ... ” she stopped. Nothing more came to her. She was lost.

  “This is new, to both of us. I think we’re both lost, Jenna, and it’s going to take time to be found.”

  “I should call Sophia,” Jenna blurted out. Her sister. They hadn’t spoken in months, and before that, it could have been years.

  “That would be good, she might be helpful.” Gabe nodded slowly in agreement, ever the peacemaker.

  “She hates me,” Jenna moaned, cupping her face in her hands.

  “She doesn’t hate you Jen,” Gabe soothed, running his hand over her arm comfortingly.

  “She does.” Jenna nodded, a childish pitch hitching her voice.

  “She doesn’t know you.”

  That was true, even Jenna had to admit. They were five years apart; they had never shared a life together in their childhood home. Sophia had always been the little baby running around after her, a hindrance and an annoyance, and Jenna had always been the big sister, irritated and tired of babysitting. But that wasn’t their problem. It was something much deeper and darker.

  Sophia had left at eighteen, fled to South Carolina without a dollar to her name, and no reason to stay. She worked the boardwalks of sleepy coastal towns catering to the upper crust of society, selling home goods she stitched and mended herself where she eventually would met Alex Fledger.

  He had been a budding family practitioner, fresh from Ivy league medical school, from a good, solid family with money, eloquence and roots that went both deep and wide. He was straight laced and quiet with good looks, southern manners and a dry, brittle personality. They married shortly after meeting. Alex set her up with a store, and they leisurely had three beautiful sons. She was upper crust now, a boutique owner, a doctor’s wife, and a mother, who traveled in the prim and educated circles of the South.

  “She knows me Gabe. She doesn’t like me. It’s bigger than that, it’s our—” Jenna rolled her eyes and held her arms out in wide, empty observance.

  “Mom,” Gabe cut her off; he knew the story.“That doesn’t change anything
. She’s your sister, your only living blood. She’s going to care.”

  “Gabe, it’s not that simple. After my Mom died—” Jenna stopped herself.

  When Jenna left home at eighteen, bound for Seattle, she left behind a happy family. Her mother had waved from the curb at the airport, stuffing a few small bills into her pocket with teary eyes and sad words. Her father had patted her back, told her he was proud of her. Sophia had shuffled her feet and swatted away bugs, whining that it was too hot to stand around all day.

  When Jenna returned, only a few months later, everything had changed. Her mother had cancer, she was bedridden and worn. Her father spent most of his nights at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, yelling, cussing and stumbling around. Sophia was quiet, different, changed. Her eyes were deadened and her smiles forced and sour. Jenna had run. She loved her mother, her father, and her sister, but she saw what was left of their home and she couldn’t be there anymore.

  She had made excuses, school, work or both, to keep herself safely away. And eventually, two years later, it was too late. Her mother was dead, and her father was gone, off to places unknown without a backwards glance. And Sophia was alone, off to live with their cankerous grandmother on a downtrodden farm in the backwoods of Southern Illinois.

  Jenna had been only twenty then, Sophia fifteen. Jenna was a Sophomore with nothing of worth to offer Sophia, but she tried. She wrote, called and tried to scrape enough money together to rent a shabby apartment on the wrong side of town, giving Sophia at least the option to come West if she wanted. But Sophia hadn’t wanted that, or anything else that involved Jenna. While Jenna had been running, Sophia had been building. Walls, so thick and unbreakable, around her heart and her life, that nothing touched her now.