by Jay McLean
“You raised some kid there, Warden,” Martin says.
I blink, coming to terms with everything that’s happened. I pick up the photograph Becca had pointed to. “This is her mom?” I ask him.
“That’s Rebecca.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to take the picture and shove it in my pocket, but I do.
I make my way upstairs and toward Becca’s room where I stand in the doorway and watch Tommy sitting against the headboard, patting his lap. “You can lie your head here, and I can stroke it. If you want me to. That’s what Daddy does when I’m sad, too.”
Becca lies on her side, her head on his lap, and he does exactly what he said he’d do. Becca cries. He doesn’t see it, but I do, because she’s looking right at me. She mouths, “I’m sorry.” And I shake my head at her. She has nothing to be sorry for.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” Tommy says, and my eyes meet his. “I got this. I’ll take care of our Becca.”
I move to the side, away from his view, but I don’t leave. Instead, I listen. I listen to him singing—a song Chazarae used to sing to him when she was still capable of having him spend the night. “Somewhere over the rainbow…” he sings, “…way up high…”
I lean against the wall, my son’s voice the soundtrack of our grief, our mourning, and I break. A thousand times over. I slide down the wall, my pain, my heartache, all of it consuming me, and I wonder how it’s possible that a six-year-old is the one to keep it together. To keep us together. “Don’t worry, Becs,” he says, the song now over.
I sniff back another sob and wipe my face with my sleeve.
“My Pa’s in heaven, too. He’ll take care of Ma’am. Even if she’s yelling at him to stop being so grumpy, and he’s yelling at her to stop being so loopy. They’ll take care of each other. And they’ll take care of us.”
38
Journal
coast
kəʊst/
noun
the part of the land adjoining or near the sea.
If I am the land,
and Josh is the sea,
Tommy is the shore that completes us.
~ ~
—Becca—
“You look so handsome,” I sign slowly, hoping Tommy will understand.
“I look…?” he asks.
I spell out, “S T U D,” and smile up at him as I fix his tie.
He sounds out the word a couple times, before yelling, “Stud! I look like a stud?”
My grin widens.
“You guys ready?” Josh asks, entering Tommy’s room, dressed as he is.
“What about Daddy?” Tommy asks. “Does he look like a stud, too?”
I stand and take Tommy’s hand and lead him toward his dad. I kiss Josh quickly, and press my hand to his chest. “Stud,” I mouth.
He smiles down at me. “Let’s go celebrate your Grams’s life.”
* * *
We hold the service at Grams’s church, of course.
They suggested we make it an open service. Because of everything my grandmother had contributed to the community, a lot of people would want to attend. Josh’s mother, however, suggested we keep it closed, keep it intimate, especially because of his status. It was hard to gauge who exactly would show up. We didn’t want media, and with how open Josh had been about his relationship with my grandmother, we were afraid it might take away from the reason we were there. But Josh disagreed with her and was adamant about it, so he hired security to keep the media out so that the doors of the church could remain open for everyone. No judgments. No questions. It was clear Grams had touched a lot of people in her life, and it wasn’t fair to her for Josh and I to be the ones to decide who could and couldn’t pay their respects.
Tommy sits between us. My dad next to me, and Ella, Robby and a heavily pregnant Kim, Nat and her fiancé Justin, Blake and Chloe and their families taking up the rest of the pew on the other side of Josh.
Josh’s team had flown back from Hong Kong without attending the event, and going by the look of surprise on Josh’s face, he wasn’t aware of their decision. They sit behind us at the front of the church, along with their families and many others from Josh’s work life.
Members from Grams’s church take up one side of the room, we take up the other. Soon, the church begins to fill, murmured voices and condolences filtering through the air.
I sit with my gaze lowered, with Tommy’s little hand in mine, his finger tracing circles in my palm—another thing Josh does for him when he’s sad.
The service starts, the priest says a few words, and so do her friends and other members of the church. Ella speaks, too, her words covering everything Josh and I feel. And soon, but nowhere near soon enough, it’s all over. I breathe, relieved that I was able to make it through without breaking down. We stand in unison, Josh leading the way, me in one hand, Tommy in the other, and we hold our heads high as we walk down the aisle and toward the church doors. There’s no space in the room left unoccupied. Groups of people stand against the walls, against the corners, anywhere they can to pay their respects to a woman who created a legacy. As we reach the doors, doors ajar from the people trying to pile into the room, I hear a tiny voice call Tommy’s name. We all stop and turn to the sound.
“Nessa,” Tommy shouts, letting go of Josh’s hand. He runs back a few steps and slows just in time to not crash into her. “What are you doing here?”
“We came for Becca,” she says simply, pointing down the row. Members of Say Something—volunteers, kids, parents take up the entire row and the one after it. I cover my mouth with my hand, shocked and confused, and the confusion doubles when I see Pete and the rest of the team from the paper. I turn to Josh, now standing beside me, “How?” I mouth, allowing a single sob to escape. “Why?”
Josh shrugs as he points a couple rows down toward Dawn and Lexy and even Aaron. “They all wanted to be here, Becs. For you.”
I move to Dawn first, allowing her to hug me. She’s been such a huge part of my life for so long and I’d taken that for granted. She’s here. For me. “You’re going to get through this,” she whispers in my ear.
“I know,” I mouth, believing her more than ever before.
I will get through it.
For Grams.
For Josh.
For Tommy.
“You need to look outside,” Dawn says, smiling genuinely at me.
My feet falter, my steps slow as I make my way back to the entrance, Josh doing what he can to keep me upright. It’s all too much. I’m on the verge of falling apart, of shattering in his arms, of becoming nothing more than a thousand pieces he’ll have to work to make whole again.
The crowd at the doors part, allowing Josh and I to walk through.
We freeze when we see it.
Just like time does.
People stand on the steps of the church, litter through to the sidewalk and onto the road, far beyond where my eyes can see.
Hundreds of people stand…
…beneath a sea of red balloons.
Next to me, Josh grabs one from Grams’s crazy friend Mavis and hands it to me, then takes one for himself.
Mavis clears her throat and leans in to whisper, “Your grandmother told me this is how she wanted to be remembered. Up there,”—she points to the sky—“she wanted to give everyone she came across a red balloon.”
“Why?” I mouth, looking up for an answer.
I release the first balloon, then watch as a couple join them, followed by dozens, until the sky is filled with nothing but red.
People clap.
People cheer.
People chant my grandmother’s name.
Mavis laughs, her arms waving in the air as if to work up the crowd. “Your grams was a thousand shades of crazy, Becca,” she shouts. “And we loved every single one.”
* * *
“He finally went down,” Josh says through a sigh, walking into his bedroom while tugging at his tie.
I sit with my legs crossed in t
he middle of the bed, already changed out of my black dress and into one of his t-shirts. “I can’t believe he’s not exhausted,” I sign.
Josh sits on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched. “I know.” He removes his tie completely and unceremoniously dumps it on the floor. Then he just stares at it. Moments pass before he turns to me. “I’m so beat.”
I scoot on my knees until I’m next to him and start to undo the buttons on his shirtsleeve.
“It’s going to be strange,” he mumbles, his free hand stroking my leg, “coming home and not racing up her porch steps, excited to see her.” He rubs his eyes, not to rid the tears, but to fight the exhaustion. Inhaling deeply, he stands up and starts stripping out of his clothes until he’s standing in his boxers. I watch, because there’s too much beauty in his presence to look away. I seriously could watch him forever. But I don’t have forever. I have the next two days until I go back home and back to the internship, back to double sessions with Dawn three days a week. And Josh goes back to work, all while the world continues to spin with one less wonder in its population.
I move to the top of the bed, lean against the headboard, and pat my lap, returning the smile he offers me before he lies down, his head where I wanted it, his eyes on me.
I stroke his hair with one hand and type on the phone with the other.
“Did you pay for all those people to come from St. Louis?”
Josh shakes his head slowly. “Does it matter?”
He did pay, but he’s also right. It doesn’t matter at all.
“Will you tell me about her?” I ask.
His brow creases. “About your Grams?”
I nod, still stroking his hair. “I feel like I don’t know her… not like I should. And by the time I realized that and wanted to ask, it was too late. She’d didn’t really know herself anymore.”
He stares blankly at the ceiling. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything, really,” I have Cordy say. “Like, what did she do for work?”
His head lifts a little, as if surprised by my question. “She was a nurse,” he says after a beat.
“Really?” I mouth.
“You didn’t know that?”
I shake my head, trying to imagine Grams in a life before my time. “Tell me more.”
Josh’s lips curl at the corners. “You know what…” he says, sitting up. “I can do one better.”
After slipping on a pair of shorts and handing me a pair, Josh checks in on Tommy, and then leads me down his apartment stairs and toward his garage.
He starts moving boxes around, and I do the same, though I have no idea what I’m looking for. “So I was in here the other day and remembered what you said—about handing out the clothes and shoes at the shelter.” He drops one on the floor and turns to me, his hands on his hips.
“Sorry. We got a little carried away,” I sign.
He shakes his head. “No, I was actually thinking that we should do that. My mom—she runs the charity side of the business—the Henry Warden Foundation—maybe we could make it a thing, you know? We could do something under Chaz’s name. Maybe get some sponsors involved.”
“Grams would love that,” I sign. “And I’d love to be a part of it… if your mom’s okay with it.”
“Oh man, my mom would flip if you joined her on it.” He kicks a box out of the way so he can get to me. “My mom loves you, Becs. She loves you as if you were her own. You know that, right?”
I didn’t know that. Not until he said it. But then again, I’m not really sure what a mother’s love is supposed to feel like. Still, I find myself smiling up at him with yet another lump in my throat.
“You’re so cute.” He the mess of hair on my head. Then he spins on his heels and continues to search through boxes while I stand there, wondering if I’m worthy of his mother’s love.
“Here it is,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts. After grabbing the cardboard box from the top shelf and placing it carefully on top of a pile of shoes, he points to it. “Open it.”
I bite down on my lip as I lift the flaps, one after the other, treating it like treasure.
Albums.
Photo albums.
A whole pile of them.
All dated.
“Maybe you can find more about her in those,” he says, his voice quiet.
I pick up the first one and flip the solid red cover with 1986 scrawled on the top. The first picture is of Grams with two other women. She would’ve been in her mid-thirties. They’re sitting on a bench, all in the same nurse’s uniform.
“I told her I’d convert them to digital and store them in the Cloud for her—in case there was ever a fire or something,” Josh says, and I look up at him. He shrugs, his eyes distant. “I guess I never got around to it.” After a beat, he clears his throat, his gaze moving to mine. “Maybe you can make a timeline of her life from all of them. Plus, we have the Internet, maybe we can find more there?”
* * *
Josh falls asleep on his stomach, his hand resting on my leg, while I sit up in his bed, surrounded by pictures of my grandmother captured in moments that make me question life.
39
—Joshua—
Four months later.
“It was hell,” Becca signs. “Remind me to never go shopping with Dad again.”
I smile at the sight of her through my computer screen.
She rolls her eyes, a trait that annoys me on most people but is hot on her. Crazy, I know, but it’s those damn eyes. “How much did he try to get off this time?” I ask.
“Half,” she signs, throwing in another eye roll. “I was so embarrassed.”
“He’s just trying to get a good deal. I still don’t know why you won’t just let me buy you a new camera. You’re a photography student, babe. How are you even managing classes right now?”
“I’m borrowing equipment, and that’s kind of the reason I called.”
“It is?” I ask, a grinning from ear to ear. “You’re going to let me buy it?”
“I have enough money saved for the body and a couple lenses, but…” She pouts into the screen. “I can pay you back in a couple weeks.”
I lean forward so I can reach the keyboard, and send her my Amazon account and password. “Just get whatever you need and save your money,” I tell her. “And don’t worry. I’ll find ways for you to pay me back.”
“You’re dirty,” she signs, her nose scrunched in disgust.
“No!” I shake my head quickly. “I don’t know where your mind went, but I was thinking more along the lines of giving me some of those pieces you’re selling on Instagram.”
“Oh,” she mouths, her gaze lowering.
“Filthy girl.”
Shrugging, she looks back up, her emerald eyes bright against the screen’s reflection. “I could do other things, too. I miss you… in that way. Touching you and making you—”
“Stop!” I almost shout. “Ry and Chris are in the room.”
She laughs, silent but there. “They can’t hear me, idiot!”
“Oh yeah.” I’d gotten so used to communicating via ASL that sometimes I forget others don’t hear or understand her. Still, I find myself leaning closer, using my arms to shield the screen, before saying, “Making me what?”
She licks her lips. God, I miss her lips.
“Wait. I have to ask you something else,” she signs.
“Okay. But first tell me what you were going to say,” I rush out. “Make me what?”
“Make you come, dickhead!” Ry shouts. “Touching you and making you come!”
Chris laughs.
Becca’s eyes widen. “How?” she mouths.
Ry gets up and into the shot, his hands moving faster than mine do. He speaks as he signs, “My best friend’s deaf. I’ve signed almost all my life. And by the way, your conversations are lame.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” I tell Ry, pushing him toward the door. He chuckles to himself as he gathers his shit from my room
. A moment later, the door closes.
“Did you not know?” Becca signs, her eyes huge.
“Swear it, babe. I had no idea. What were you going to ask?”
She points down to her keyboard, and I nod, adjusting the program so I can see what she’s typing.
Remember the Fine House Award I got nominated for?
“Of course I remember.”
I made it to the finals.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “That’s awesome, baby. I’m so happy for you. You deserve it.”
Thank you.
“So what now? We wait to see if you’ve won?”
She bites down on her lip, preventing her grin from fully forming. I did win.
“Shut up!” I shout. “That’s amazing! I knew you would!” My words are rushed and loud and now Chris is behind me, looking at the screen, wondering what the hell is happening. “I’m so fucking proud of you, Becs. Holy shit!” I can see her laughing at my reaction, but I don’t care. I’m excited. Maybe too excited. But she deserves this so much and it’s about fucking time she had something good happen to her.
She types, So I guess there’s this fancy dinner coming up where they hand me an award and pass over one of those huge checks and I make a “speech” and I know it’s really late notice because it’s happening in two weeks, and this might possibly be the longest run-on sentence in the history of the world, but it would mean a lot to me if you were able to make it as my date. I just really want you there but I understand if you can’t because you have so much going on right now.
I sit higher. “What’s the date?”
It’s two Fridays from now.
Chris is already on his phone, no doubt checking his calendar and when his gaze lifts and his eyes meet mine, I know it’s not good.
“Can I call you back real quick?” I ask Becca. “I just need to go over some stuff with Chris.”
“Okay,” she signs. Then types, If you can’t make it, I understand. Honestly. I don’t want you to feel bad.
“I’ll call you back.”