“Hey, Alex. He just finished creamed corn and steak. I’d say he’s doing real good. Go on, look for yourself.”
Bryce gently tugs on my blouse. “I’ll be waiting out here with Goliath.” She nods to Andy, the receptionist/security guard/nurse.
The smell of assisted living reeks just like a hospital in my opinion. Mom decided to put him here after he took a turn for the worse after what happened with Clay and me. She couldn’t handle him on her own. Was afraid he’d walk off and leave in the middle of the night. She couldn’t bear locking him in a room for his safety. It was a really hard decision on my mother, but I think it was the right one. But what Dad doesn’t know is that who tried to kill me was his own son. The son we, my mom and I, didn’t know about. The one he never told us about. The one he kept a secret. For my own reasons, I have to know why he left. Whether I’ll get the answer or not, I’m not sure.
I push open the door, and Dad’s in a recliner. It makes me think of his at home, vacant. He’s watching the news.
“Hey, Meredith.”
“Hi, Dad. It’s me, Gidget.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He beckons me with his hand. “Come in.”
I bend and kiss him on the forehead. I sit on his bed next to the recliner. The rooms are small but livable.
When my dad’s accountant sent me the first bill from Sunny Springs, I did a double take at the zeros that followed the five. My mom doesn’t know I’m paying for it. She thinks it’s being paid for from my father’s trust that his father set up for him. I’d rather keep it that way.
“How are you?” I start with small talk.
“Good. Where’s your mom?”
“In the kitchen.”
There’s a lot of confusion about where he’s at most days. Many times, he thinks he’s at home. Sometimes, he thinks he’s here—and that’s when the anger sets in. But it’s been a few days since that happened.
“So, remember the incident that happened with Clay? We need to talk about it.”
His eyebrows rise, his eyes fill with tears, and his head slowly turns in my direction. “I-I think so. I-I remember it was sad and that I was scared for you.”
I nod. “Yeah, it was scary for me. But you raised me to be tough, Dad. Remember?”
It’s as if he wants to smile but can’t because the memory just isn’t there. As bad as he wants it to be, it just isn’t.
I try to go a different road. “Remember that time we took a trip to Brooklyn, Dad?”
Dad draws his eyes from the television to me. “Was that in the motor home?”
“I don’t remember. Do you?”
“The bridge,” he says.
“Yeah, the bridge.”
He looks up toward the ceiling, tapping his fingers against his leg. An overwhelming bout of sadness washes over me. The way he sits in the recliner, in his old jean jacket. It’s as if everything is exactly the same on the outside about my dad, and the only thing that’s changed is the only thing we need. The brain.
“Should we give you a haircut?”
Dad smiles. “Hey, that’d be nice, Gidget.” His eyes are empty.
I grab the scissors in the cabinet along with the comb. I just cut his hair yesterday, but he doesn’t remember.
I sit him on one of the two kitchen chairs, in front of the television, and wrap a towel around his shoulders. I get the comb damp. I pull the comb through his hair, and I feel his entire body begin to relax.
“You are a great dad. You know that, right?” I say quietly. I pull the comb through again.
“Remember when I asked you to marry me, Meredith?” he asks.
“I’m Alex. Remember, Dad? I’m your daughter.”
My dad nods, as he always does in this part of the conversation.
I hold my breath, knowing this time it might not hurt as bad.
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“But you had a son, right?” I ask, my words breathy, slow.
The world stops. It leans, stretches, and calculates. It’s a moment I know I’ll remember forever, so I latch on to the scent, the noise, the feel. Every last detail.
Breathe, Alex.
He nods. “Clay.”
Breathe.
“Where is he? I haven’t seen him lately.”
My dad laughs. “Such a great kid. Big smile. Bright eyes.” His voice grows quiet as he toys with his hands.
I see the regret, his own heartache. But he can’t reach that memory now. His mind won’t allow it. He knows the exact feelings associated with the decision to leave that he made that day back in Brooklyn. The returned letters from Philip to his son, Clay, in Brooklyn. The regret he spewed across the lined paper in search of Nancy and Clay, only to come up empty handed.
“I don’t know. Gidget, I feel sad. I’m not sure why. But I’m really sad.”
Pull.
Snip.
Cut.
With life comes heartache. We all make decisions, sometimes split decisions, sometimes well-thought-out decisions. Sometimes good decisions. Sometimes poor decisions. But, with the decisions, no matter which way they turn, regret can be a by-product. Sometimes, that regret is easy to carry, easy to push away, not feel. But, sometimes, those decisions are burdens we carry around in life, protecting them because we’re too scared to face them.
“Can you tell me what Clay was like?”
Snip.
Cut.
Silence.
“Can I tell you what he was like?” I ask as a tear streams down my face. I don’t want my dad to die, knowing he left a child. I want him to know what a wonderful father he was. So I give him our memories from my childhood as I continue to cut his hair.
“Yes.”
“You used to take him on your back, like you were the horse and he was the cowboy, and you used to run around the house like crazy boys. You taught him how to build a fence and ride a horse. You taught him respect. How to love and to never give up. You taught him about second chances.”
Because my dad is a living example of second chances. He might not have gotten it right the first time, but he sure as hell got it right the second time.
Pull.
Snip.
Cut.
In this moment, I realize that I can’t afford to live a lifetime full of regret. I can’t allow the burden to sit and hang in the back of my mind like a heavy, worn-out coat.
I don’t want Eli to move on and marry the hot blonde and have two-point-five kids and a white picket fence.
I want Eli to love me. Marry me.
“Thank you for teaching me about life, Dad.”
He stops fidgeting his hands. He reaches up, pulls me to his side, and looks me in the eye. “Thank you for being so easy to love, Gidget.”
I walk out to Andy and Bryce.
My best friend looks up from her phone, legs kicked up on the chair beside her. “Hey. You ready?”
“Yeah.” I take her hand, and we leave Sunny Springs, not knowing if it could be our last time leaving.
I’ve learned about my grief with Kyle. I have to talk about it. And maybe Eli has brought that out in me.
My mom is waiting for us in the parking lot. She just couldn’t bring herself to go in today. I understand. No matter what, she’ll always be there for my dad. Always. Because that is what love is. Being there to pick up the pieces, even when it hurts.
“Mom, I need to tell you about Eli.” I say Eli like it’s natural, as if it’d been rolling off my tongue since I was a child. “He’s a game warden in Maine.”
I go on and tell Mom about Brand and Merit. How Brand lost Rebecca when Eli and Merit were just kids. I tell her about Rookie. I tell her about how Eli is the kindest, most compassionate man—aside from my father—and just like Kyle, only different. I think, at some point, I’m not sure when, I stopped comparing Kyle and Eli and separated them into two different men. One I lost. One is here—or rather, three thousand miles away but nevertheless living and ready for me to love him for the rest of my
life. His life.
His letter he wrote broke down another wall I’d put up. His words, his heart, were smeared across pages, making himself vulnerable, open, to love. Maybe that’s what I need to do.
“Do you love him?” my mom asks.
“Yes.”
“Then, why is he all the way across the country?”
“Because I just realized, I’m ready to eat the lettuce for the rest of my life.”
My mom stares at me. “Eat the lettuce?”
I laugh. “Long story.”
Bryce is in the back seat. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I’m getting hangry. Can we please go eat now?”
Mom and I laugh.
I turn and look at my best friend, Bryce. If I hadn’t taken a chance on sending her that manuscript eight years ago, our friendship wouldn’t exist.
Funny how fate works.
In this moment, no matter what is wrong with the world, all of a sudden, everything seems so right. Though we don’t get what we want when we want it, life seems to pan out the way it’s supposed to. Some might call it fate. Divine intervention. Karma. In this moment, I am genuinely happy. I’m not happy because of material things. I’m not happy because of what I have. I am happy because of the experiences that have brought me to this precise moment in my life.
I am resilient.
I am woman.
I am a widow.
I am a survivor.
But all of these things don’t define me. If we allow our experiences to define us, then I believe we get stuck—emotionally, mentally, spiritually. But, if we begin to embrace who we are fully, not allowing any label to capture us, then we become whole. We can take our life experiences and help someone else find their own.
I am reborn.
I plan to walk on a path that does not define me but allows me to push the limits. Allows me to refine myself. Allows me to walk uncomfortably in my own skin when life gets hard. Because let’s face it; life will get hard. But it’s how we walk through the hurt, the hard, and come out on the other side of things—stronger, more in tune with who we are.
“Bryce, can I talk to you for a minute?” I ask as we pull up to my parents’ place. “I want to fly to Maine tomorrow. Tell Eli I love him.”
Her mouth drops. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because … you just can’t.” Her fingers twist around themselves.
I cross my arms and don’t even have to ask why again.
“I committed you to Barnes and Noble for two days from now. We fly to LA tomorrow. You have to do the signing.”
“But—”
Bryce stomps her foot. “Woman, listen, LA first and then Granite Harbor.”
January 22, 2018
I tossed and turned all last night, debating on calling Eli. Dialed the number forty-eight times. Never hit Call. But I did get up and finish the manuscript for Bryce. I emailed it to her at 2:38 a.m.
It’s just after twelve in the afternoon, and I’m putting in my earrings as Bryce walks into her spacious bedroom, reading on her Kindle.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I pause. “What?”
Bryce looks up from her Kindle and tilts her head. “Peony Red. Are you fucking kidding me? Alex, you-you did it. This is the story. Raw and beautiful. Poignantly told.”
“You finished it already?”
“How could I not? Your words kept drawing me in.” Bryce comes over to me. “You know Eli is going to read this, right? Just hope he doesn’t turn into a big fucking blubbering mess.”
“How would you know?”
“Oh, love makes you do some pretty weird shit.”
Bryce knows this isn’t my deal—that I’d rather be wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt, tucked behind my computer—but I’m learning new things. Like I really like how this white linen suit fits. She made me go get my makeup done and my nails. The neutral color on acrylics did come out nicely. They’re short and simple.
I stand behind the curtain and watch the line grow to outside and around the block. My hands grow sweaty. I hate being the center of attention.
You’re doing this for Bryce, remember? I tell myself as I go to rub my hands on my pants but stop. White linen, I remind myself.
My lips are plumped with more gloss than color. The man who did my makeup reminded me of Clay.
“Gloss for the win!” he said as he strategically placed it across my lips.
“You ready, champ? Game time.” Bryce smacks me on the ass.
“There’s a lot of people here, B.” I look out to the crowd.
“This is your first signing in a long time. They’ve missed you, Alex. They’re your fans. They’ve been with you from the very beginning. Just think of it as a one-on-one conversation with each person who comes through.”
I nod, trying not to psych myself out. “Right. Just a conversation.”
“Think about Stephen Curry. He’s got to do this all the time. You’ve got this. You are Stephen Curry right now, Alex.” Bryce peers out from behind the curtain, too.
I look at her. My lip curls. “I can’t bite off on that one. No comparison with Curry.”
She shrugs. “Thought I had you.”
Mindy, the Barnes and Noble manager, pops out of nowhere with her shrill voice. “Hiya! Are you readyyy?”
A tiny microphone starts at her ear and ends at her lips. Mindy clicks it on. “Welcome, Alex Fisher fans!” She walks out among the crowd.
Whether I’m ready or not, I can walk through this.
“Game face,” Bryce whispers and pushes the small of my back toward the signing table.
An eruption of cheers and high-pitched squeals moves like a wave, starting at the beginning and moving outside.
I take my seat at the table. It’s beautiful. Fresh lilies. A deep purple linen tablecloth. My books neatly stacked.
Breathe, I tell myself. You can breathe.
“You all right?” I hear Bryce in my ear.
I nod.
I grab my pen, and the first person comes to the table.
I plaster a fake smile on my face. “Hi. What’s your name?”
“Katie.” She pushes the book toward me. “I’m so nervous. Congratulations on the Golden Globes. That’s so wonderful. My hands are sweaty. Do you think you’ll write a sequel to Cannot Bend? That is my all-time favorite book, Alex. Is it hot in here? My aunt Peggy and I flew in from South Dakota yesterday just to meet you. I heard you were spotted in Maine. Were you doing book research?” Katie seems nervous with her rapid-fire questioning.
“I’ve always wanted to go to South Dakota.”
She stops and stares. “What?”
“You said you’re from South Dakota?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit there.”
Her lip curls up. “Really? But there’s nothing there. I mean, unless you’re eighty-two or over and you enjoy rock structures and the Black Hills. I mean, don’t get me wrong, but Mount Rushmore is cool to see once. After that, total snoozefest.”
I laugh out loud.
She laughs, too.
“Well, it was very nice to meet you, Katie.”
“Can I take a picture with you?”
“Absolutely.” I lean over the table, and we pose.
“Thank you so much, Alex,” Katie says and steps to the side. “This is my aunt Peggy.”
She and Katie look identical, minus the twenty-five-year age difference. “Name’s Peggy Lee, Ms. Fisher. Nice to finally meet you.”
But Peggy’s more set in her ways, comfortable in her skin almost.
I sign and meet and sign and meet.
Shake hands.
Take pictures.
Sign.
Meet.
Take pictures.
Shake hands for two hours.
“Hi. What’s your name?” I say, and then I hear his voice.
Twenty-Seven
Eli
January 22, 2018
You need to catch your breath, man, I tell myself.
Her book … hell, I don’t even know what book it is that Bryce thrust in my hand before she left so as not to be seen with me.
I’m finally in the building at the tail end of the line. And I can see Alex’s white suit, one she looks amazing in. I watch, trying to stay hidden among the sea of people waiting to meet her. This is her world, not mine. I watch as her hair falls in her face, wanting to push it back behind her ear before she does. Her smile is real, genuine, as if she’s doing just fine.
Oh God. I swallow. What if she’s doing fine? What if I fuck up her life? What if she wants to move on?
Eli, shut up. Just do this. If she says no, at least you tried, and you can go back to Granite Harbor, knowing you did everything you could.
What the hell am I going to say?
I flew three thousand miles on a fucking airplane that scared the living shit out of me with a notepad in hand and couldn’t think of a single fucking word to say to her. Words are not my forte.
One more person walks away with a signed book. My heart slams. Hands are sweaty.
Bryce catches my eye. Her lips are in a straight line. And she points with her finger, signaling me to move so that Alex doesn’t see me until the moment I want her to see me.
I take a step back behind an older gentleman, probably there with his wife.
I’m two people back. I’ve waited two hours. I’d wait a thousand more for Alex.
What the hell am I going to say to her? Think, Eli!
One person.
Think.
She doesn’t look up. She just takes a sip of her water. Then, pen in hand, she says, “Hi. What’s your name?”
Go time.
“Was wondering if you would eat the lettuce forever—with me?”
She freezes.
Time freezes.
Alex looks up.
I push my book to her side of the table.
I know this is my cue, so I walk to her side of the table, take her hand, pull her up into my arms—where she belongs—place my hands on her hips, and stoop down, so I can look her in the eye when I say this, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about Grace. It mattered, and I won’t make excuses for it. I’ll accept your decision, whatever it is. Just give me one last thing?”
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