My photos covered all four walls, twenty-eight of them in total. They were 40 x 60 inches in size and had cost a small fortune to print. “I’ll be paying myself back for years,” I muttered into Rocky’s fur. “Don’t think you’ll be getting any of that fancy food you like for a while.”
He barked, and I ran my hand over the brick wall. Next to each photo were excerpts from my road trip notebook. The exhibit, titled Remember Us, was a series of photos including Dad sick, others of Bernice, Carl, and Ben at home, yet others from our time with Guru Carl and on the road. Blake was in the background of two photos, small and with his back to the camera. It appeared allegorical, symbolic, and I lightly tapped the glass on his image. “Hi you.” I’d printed a few small photos for Blake too, had been carrying them around for months, telling myself I’d know when it was time to write him, but the right moment had yet to appear.
I sighed and moved away.
Toward the end of the wall was the photo of Mom and me laughing, the moment I couldn’t remember. I’d stared at it so often, willing myself to bring those seconds into some coherent memory, but it never worked. Next to the photo, a small plate read, Forgiveness is never easy, but it is a road worth travelling.
The air was chilly, and I pulled Rocky closer. He always barked at the next photo, a snap of my mother holding him and laughing with her head thrown back, mouth wide open, as if all the joy in the world over could fit inside her smile.
He barked and barked, and I sobbed and sobbed. I hated her for leaving me. I hated her for leaving me again. I hated myself for not driving that day, for not giving her one chance to explain, for not taking even one step closer to her world.
I hated myself for not knowing how to grieve, how to go back, how to make it right.
I hated myself for hating myself, and then, I was done.
When I gathered myself enough to see straight, I left the gallery and walked into the nighttide. The city beyond was ablaze with colors and sounds, and I ran into the flurry.
I worked late the next evening and contemplated going straight home. But I was still too excited about my showing and decided to hop on the F line out to Queens to make sure my photos were still there. When I showed up at the gallery, the curator handed me the note with a smirk. “You picked a bad night to be late. He dropped this off for you a few hours ago. He waited around a long time, but I told him you must not be coming.”
“Who?”
“There’s a red balloon for you too.” He motioned to the desk.
“What?” But the curator had already walked away. I opened the folded paper distractedly, and it took me a minute to focus on the words in front of me.
Reese,
I happened to be in the city for a book deal and came across a poster for an exhibit by one Reese Hamilton. You really should go see the show—it’s fantastic. And, yes, you read that right—my friend Reese is a famous artist and your old friend B is a signed author. I wrote a book about a girl who finds her way in this insane life. She has brown eyes, a heart of gold, and enough sass to fill the Atlantic. She is witty and she is fierce, most of all she is kind—an oft forgotten trait these days. Of course, “Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination… Any resemblance to actual people, is completely coincidental.” Completely, Reese. And fiction—who knew? Now they want a second book, about anything I want. So far I’ve only written the dedication. You’ll have to come see me to find out more. I waited around for you all afternoon, but I suppose famous artists have more to do than stand around, talking to their patrons. If you want to meet up for drinks for old times’ sake, leave a message at my hotel. I’m staying at the Roosevelt for one more night. I can’t believe I’m so close and almost missed you.
P.S. This is even better than I imagined—I’m proud of you. I’m astounded at you.
I folded it with a snap, heart pounding.
It wasn’t until I was in the taxi that I realized I’d moved. “I need to go to the Roosevelt,” I said and slanted into the seat.
At the hotel, I headed to the bar and settled into the teal seat at the end, ordered a gin and tonic and shoved shaking hands into my lap. Even then I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I looked around the bar, half expecting Blake to appear, the last scene in a Hollywood movie. There were enough silver heads in the room to fill a soccer team, but no Irish-American with hair that curled around his ear and a smile that made my stomach hurt.
I’m not going to see him, I decided one sip in to the silvery gin and citrus. I pulled my notebook out of my satchel and started writing, hardly comprehending the words.
I’m not going to see him, I reminded my reflection in the bathroom mirror when I took a pee break.
I’m not going to see him, I told myself as I finished my drink, exhaled, and stood. I paid and headed to the check-in desk.
“Is Blake Kelly in?” I leaned against the counter. Because it doesn’t hurt to ask.
“I can’t tell you that.” The clerk didn’t even attempt a smile.
I have to see him, one last time, like he said for old times’ sake. One drink won’t hurt. “Please, it’s important. He’s an old friend, and he doesn’t live here, but he’s here for one more night. I’d like to see him.”
“Privacy laws and blah, blah, blah.”
“I don’t think that’s true. Can you call him for me and say Reese—”
As the clerk opened his mouth to respond, a large, loud group of tourists swarmed en masse around me.
“We need to check in.”
“We booked ten rooms, but I think we need twelve. Isn’t that right, Murphy?”
“Because Beth and Jerry wanted to share a room, but now they want their own,” a lady with red lips agreed. “A little drama, if you know what I mean.”
“No, Jerry is sharing with Sherry now—”
“I want some sherry, I’ll be at the bar. Someone bring my key to the bar.”
“Me too!” And two of the ladies shuffled away.
“I’m sorry. I’m flying solo here—my co-worker went home sick an hour ago,” the clerk murmured apologetically to me. “If you can wait, I’ll try to help you sort something out.”
Half an hour later the group was still at the desk, arguing over who would get the room with the hot tub and who would get the room with two doubles. I looked between the clerk and the clock, then wrote Blake Kelly in large print across my folded letter. As I slid the pages over the hotel desk, the frazzled clerk glanced up, and I waved at him as I left. I went over the letter in my head the whole ride home.
Dearest Blake,
You are in New York, my city! Since I got your note, I’ve imagined I’ve seen you on half a dozen corners already. You are quite the distraction, my friend.
But I don’t like to think of you in New York. I like to remember you in Ireland on a rainy day, in our pub, tucked away in the back booth where you think no one can see you, wearing your Cubs hat and drinking a pint.
I envision you wandering with the sheep, reading too much Tennyson, and writing your next bestseller.
Blake, you must keep writing.
You have a gift and the world needs to hear your stories. I would offer to mail you all the letters you’ve written me through the years—they’d make a lovely story indeed. But I shall selfishly keep them, the meager piece of your inherent wonderfulness I have left, tucked away from the curiosity of the world. For now, they are for my eyes alone.
Shall they be found posthumously and published? Shall our history be told long after we are gone?
I will wonder this always.
And what is our story, Blake?
I wonder this too.
I’ll always be sorry I yelled at you that faraway night under the stars. I did follow Charlie around, letting his story, his victories swallow my own, pretending being with him was enough for me.
Yet you insisted I was worth more.
If I knew it once, I’d forgotten it. Thank you for never forgettin
g. For this, and for many things, you will have my undying gratitude.
Maybe in another lifetime, the first time I see love in your eyes will be the beginning of our perfect forever. In another lifetime, when I don’t have the weight of unseen things on my shoulders and my own imperfections so clearly laid before me, I will fall into your arms to stay. In another lifetime, I hope it seems more simple, that we waste no time, that I am yours—and you are mine—for all our days.
Until that other lifetime, know someone very far away will be thinking about you, remembering you, believing in you always.
I will remember your kisses each time I see the stars.
I’ll wonder how you are each time I drink a Guinness.
My heart will shatter into endless unseen pieces when word comes over the ocean you’re dating some fabulous girl. When I hear you’re engaged, I’ll find photos online, see her red lipstick and smile as big as Pluto, and I’ll be furious at you, melt to nothing inside.
But I’ll be happy for you too, because, really, truly, I love you. And you taught me love is selfless, wanting the best for the other person.
Blake.
I’ll love reading the books you write, the short stories, and essays too.
I’ll love knowing you are writing, pairing words like no one else I’ve known.
I’ll love knowing you exist somewhere else in this jumbled world and that knowledge will make each day somehow better.
I won’t stop loving you, even when you don’t see me, even when I can’t say it, even when you forget me. Know that.
I can’t help but hope that you, and my other lifetime, are waiting right around the next bend.
Besides, you still owe me that date.
x
Reese
I imagined the three photos I’d tucked inside, the photos I’d been carrying with me for months, hoping I’d gather the courage to write him, falling into his lap. They were the size of my hand, with rough edges and every shade of gray. One was a photo of Ben and Blake sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon, the second was one of him running toward the camera. The third was a photo of Blake sitting by the window, notebook in hand, with a shadow of me on the wall in front of him. I wondered if he’d see that shadow too, think like I did every time, Remember what it was like to be in each other’s lives? So seamless, so natural. Perhaps that shadow was all I was to him now—an idea, a glimpse of something almost, yet not quite. I wanted to ask but instead I scribbled on the back, This is how I’ll imagine you writing.
Epilogue
November
Reese
The only photo I displayed on my wall was of the four of us, a sort of self-portrait. We stood on the side of the road, with the Grand Canyon in the background, each of us in our Superman T-shirts. Even Mom, with her repealed embargo on T-shirts and soft cotton, had allowed us to purchase her a matching superhero tee in Arizona.
I’d propped the camera on top of Ernie because Blake had gone off to explore. It was the first picture we took together as a family since my parents split all those years ago. And it was the last picture we took together before Mom died.
The photo holds more hope than regret between the muted silver tones, and it feels like family.
Under the photo was an excerpt from my journal post her death. It read:
I am too tired to hope.
But without it, I will fall apart.
So where do I go from here?
Where indeed.
I long to say it ended like it began—with an interruption, a surprise, a journey. But when it came down to it, it wasn’t so straightforward.
My life, as it turns out, has been aberrant and complex, beautiful and raw, confusing and wonderful. I’ve grown brittle in bitterness, finally found the sweet grace of forgiveness. My life has been filled with simple adventures, unexpected twists, sharp regrets, more heartache than I ever imagined but more beauty too.
If I’d known two years ago what I know now, I wouldn’t have had the strength to put one foot in front of the other, to get out of bed each day, to go on. So I’m glad I didn’t know.
Time keeps going. Until it doesn’t. I grew up and chased through my days as if I had somewhere to go, until I looked around and realized there was a difference between being busy and truly living. I slowed down and discovered that even living looks stale without the people who have brought us this far.
Ready to get on with the business of living, I turn and face the sun.
About the Authors
Lindsay Blake’s dream list is one hundred deep. She has traveled to over thirty-two countries, caring for others and exploring our beautiful planet. She’s jumped out of a plane, lived in a mud hut in South Sudan, nearly died from a tapeworm in Pakistan, and dreams of flying to outer space. She’s shaved her head twice “just because.” Lindsay lives the good life in Omaha with her son, Carsen Warner.
Layne James is from Kentucky and has been writing since she could hold a pen. She loves her sister and living near water. Layne spends her free time gardening, writing, reading, travelling, and keeping life as simple as possible. She lives with her husband in Southern Ontario.
Lindsay and Layne met in 2009 when they were on a volunteer team with nine other girls. Together they travelled to ten countries, advocated for social justice issues, and told stories with their cameras. This journey is the inspiration for their second book (title forthcoming).
They started Remember Us as an experiment.
You can follow their adventures here:
www.blakeandbeckner.com
Instagram: @blakeandbeckner
Twitter: @blakeandbeckner
Facebook: www.facebook.com/BlakeandBeckner/
If you’d like updates about Remember Us and future books, you can sign up with your email address at www.blakeandbeckner.com
Acknowledgements
We would like to THANK …
Bryony Sutherland, our rockstar editor and BFF. You keep us sane and we can’t wait to work with you for years to come. You are insanely talented at what you do and have been the best part of this entire process. (https://bryonysutherland.com, @bryonysutherlnd)
Our first round of beta readers, Anne and Catherine. Thank you for being the first eyes to see the (very terrible “first” edition of our) book. Catherine, you broke our hearts when you told us you hated our characters and that you were bored by our story…but you were right and we are forever grateful for your candor. Our lovable characters thank you too. Anne, your friendship and cheering has kept us going through many a long day and every long edit. Your loving yet truthful feedback challenged us to dig deeper and pull more out of our characters. Bernice thanks you.
Our second round of beta reads, Nicki and Sarah. You intimidate us, but you have made us better writers. Thank you for being trustworthy with our baby. Sarah, thanks for teaching us to kill our darlings. Our writing will never be the same!
Courtney, for sharing your professional editing skills with our author bios and the first few chapters of an early draft. Your confidence in our writing ability kept us going. Grateful we are.
Our dear launch team (Suzanne, Savannah, Karyn, Hannah, Anne, Esther, Shellie, Michelle, Katy, Kimberly, Christi). Thank you for jumping on board, reading online (ewwww!), catching our typos, and giving your feedback. You’re incredible! Most of all **thank you** for helping us get Remember Us into the hands of readers everywhere. We are forever indebted to you and can’t wait to champion your dreams.
Kim and Rachel. Thank you for hosting giveaways when you hadn’t even read our book!
Megn who graciously read our book on a tight deadline and told us she believed in us. Your insights and love were both so helpful!
Everyone who responded to our cry for help with our company name. And especially Paul, who came up with the best name ever! #blakeandbeckner
Our team at MJ Publishing—thank you for the hours of work you’ve put into getting our book out into the world, for answering our dozens of questions,
and for believing in us.
Victoria, who told us our book was well-wrought and well-written. You gave us the courage to keep going.
Jenny, who told us we had too many POVs. You were right and we’re still embarrassed by the version of our book you read.
Marcy, who gave us advice on the first chapter. You were right.
Our dear friend, Cambria, who shared her twin birth experience with us.
Lee, who helped us with our Publishizer campaign and talked us through the details.
Kevin Grimes for communicating Blake & Beckner to the world with great design. You made us look good.
Abby who has never met us but gave feedback on our book anyway. We’re humbled and grateful!
Those who pre-bought Remember Us, shared our Publishizer campaign link, emailed their mom, and sent word out to the masses via carrier pigeon. You believed we were brilliant enough writers to spend money before anyone else. We do not take that for granted.
It takes a village, people.
Finally, and not at all least, THANKS to our amazing family of future readers—we stayed the course for you.
Lindsay would like to THANK…
Mom and Dad, thank you for your unending support in this process and my life. For believing in Layne and me, for taking Carsen while we wrote, for celebrating every copy sold, and for being our biggest cheerleaders. It’s time to open another bottle of champagne.
Emily, Sarah, Penny, and Jessica for taking Carsen multiple times so I could write and edit. Without your generosity this book would not have been completed.
Layne would like to THANK…
Mama, the original Bernice—you are everything and nothing like your namesake. Thanks for letting us use your name, reading an early draft of the book, and for commenting on and liking every single post we do!
Daddy, thanks for always believing I could write.
M, thanks for reading an earlier draft of our book and helping make it more realistic. I love you for so much you’ve given me—including a love for books. And you’re right—Uncle Jessie did hang the moon.
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