by Elle Tyler
SUNDAY BLESSINGS
40.
ONE SUNDAY IN RED PINE, we were in the middle of debating Tatum’s chicken-frying skills when the doorbell rang—an oddity around our house. The screen door was typically the only thing between us and the outside world, and most people knew us well enough to just come in if they needed something.
The shadow that stood in my doorway had shoulders wider than mine and the darkest eyes of any man I had ever met.
I didn’t even open the screen door; my spirit was too damn exhausted to deal with the Scorn of Satan. “What the hell do you want?”
He held up a small white box. “I was told to give this to you.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Everly told me.”
Opening the screen door was necessary. There was no way I could kill him with it closed.
He noted my anger and added, “It wasn’t until last week I went in her bedroom.” And when he said it, he looked away like the man I had been told stories about—that same man who’d bought railroads and broken rules in the name of love. “I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.” He held up the box again. “There was a note in this box that said I was supposed to give this to you.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He just set the box on the stoop and turned away.
I quickly pushed the screen door open and hollered, “You know, I left messages. I tried to tell you about... About where the funeral was being held.”
He turned around, the darkness of his eyes shifting as he broke free from the statue he had always clung to. The sting of my words reflected in his sullen face as he returned, “I didn’t want to bring turmoil to her place of rest. I thought it was the least I could do now—let her rest in peace.”
I stepped out of the house; the door rapped loudly behind me. “I hope that’s true, because the only other explanation is that you really didn’t give a damn about her.”
“I loved Everly in a way you will never understand, and I pray you will never have to, Callum.” His eyes flicked to the house. “Is that him?”
Andy wormed himself into the doorway. “Who are you?”
I almost told my son to go back inside, that it was just a man dropping off some mail, but the tether still breathed under my ribs, always needing, always reminding.
“This man took care of your mom for a long time, Andy.” I glanced to Brighton. “Yes. This is our son.”
He exhaled what seemed like relief. “He has her eyes.”
“And heartbeat,” Andy chimed in. “Do you like fried chicken?”
Brighton nearly smiled. “All respectable southern men do, boy.”
Andy had hope when he turned his face my way. His eyes said, “Pleeeeeeeaase!”
I breathed for a moment, searching for Everly. Tell me yes. Tell me no. I’ll slam the door if you want. I’ll tell him to never come back and guard our boy from this statue of agony. I’ll make nice and pretend no war exists between us. Your call, peach.
Peace settled in my chest, hope sunk into my ribs.
I stepped back into the house and left the door open behind me. “We even have sweet tea that we steeped in an old pickle jar out in the sun.”
“We took the pickles out first!” Andy added.
Brighton did smile that time, and it was alien to say the least—Satan happy.
***
I remember, after my mother died, we suddenly had more relatives and friends than we knew what to do with. I used to think all of those people were so damn fake, pretending to care when they had been missing from our lives all the years she’d suffered, slowly dying. But the truth is that people fear death, and if it wasn’t considered bad manners to not come around after someone dies, they wouldn’t do it then, either. And with this belief I was once again left on an island, wondering how the hell his mind worked. He clearly didn’t give a damn about what people thought, so why would Brighton come back to the one place everyone would rather avoid like the plague when he didn’t have to? Hell, we weren’t even on good terms before Everly died—let alone after.
I sat and watched him awkwardly take interest in Andy, as he showed his grandfather the fireworks he planned to set off, explaining why Romans were better than Smoking Snakes, and recalling the fireworks from previous Fourths.
And it was then, in the middle of his stories, when he stopped and kicked his shoes against the dirt, pausing to find bravery, that I found the reason—the real reason—for Brighton’s presence. Everly’s name was attached to my son’s shoes. He couldn’t talk about her without nervously shuffling them, and as his story stretched, as it reached Brighton they shared the same nervousness and desire. The same longing to be close to what they both had lost but feared.
Timothy listened with intent to my son for over an hour, until the sun grew tired and the stars peeked out. Until the fireworks flew and the memories rolled.
Watching them, seeing their joy play out in the front yard of our home, gave me the most profound sense of full circle. Timothy never truly had a child, and in that way, he was never really a father. But on that July Fourth night, under the stars and in the moment of facing that fear—of loving someone so deeply that you would go to the only last connection on earth, even if unwelcomed—I finally understood. Everly hadn’t been the only one suffering, and in an odd twist of fate, through all his rules and tyranny, he had given her a voice after all.
It shouted with every beat of two hearts revived.
***
It was dark when I heard his footsteps; the sun had long gone to bed and fireworks were long since over. I stared out into the night and saw nothing but ghosts. Timothy sat in a lawn chair beside me and spoke of the same.
“Why do you think I put her in those differentials?” he asked.
“She wanted to know what it’d feel like to attend college.”
“But why did I agree? You know they all fell for her, don’t you? You weren’t the first.”
“And?” I asked.
“And...” He sighed. “And I never saw her infatuated with any of my students, no matter how hard they worked to earn her affection. Not until you.”
“Except I wasn’t infatuated with Everly—I was in enamored.”
“I know,” he said quietly, “which is what made you the most dangerous. Everly loved your father—I’m sure she told you—and when he left, he didn’t just walk away from a case. He walked away from her. So when she started cooperating with you in class, I thought Andrew was the reason why—because you were his son, the closet link to him. Then... something changed. I watched her after she came home one day. Her skin was tanner, her face was flushed, and her eyes had this light I recognized—her mother had the same look. She was in love, and not the soft kind that fades, but the kind that consumes. Everly stared out the skinny window next to our front door, unknowing of my watching her, probably watching you leave, and she pressed her mouth to the glass and blew her breath. Her little finger drew a heart, and inside of it she etched C A in her fog. She was childlike, yet so grown-up.”
He looked down for a moment. “It was also the same look of hopefulness she had for your father returning when she was a child. She would sit in my office as a little girl and stare out the window, asking me when Dr. Andrew was coming back. And even though I told her he wasn’t, she still waited every day, hoping for him to round the corner.” He looked at me. “But this time she was hoping for you, because she was in love with you. My med student who would move on when the semester was over, just like all the others who had had such an infatuation with Everly, the girl who felt no pain, and yet all of it, all at once.”
“You thought I was going to break her heart, so you broke it for her?” I scoffed. “That makes sense, if you’re psychotic.”
“I would rather have her believe I was too strict than face the reality that the person she loved didn’t love her back. Everly didn’t have the luxury of time to heal heartbreak and move on to someone or something new. Her window was so near closing. What should I have done�
�let her die heartbroken and hopeless?”
“All right,” I said, “so after you knew it was more than infatuation on my end—that I did love her—why didn’t you cut me some slack? Let her be happy to be in love and loved by someone?”
“I was still scared for her.” He closed his eyes with a heavy breath escaping his chest. “I have always been scared for her.”
I nodded, my voice brave against the black of night. “And I will always be enamored with her.”
***
Alone in my room that night, I opened the box. Inside rested a journal Everly had started at age thirteen.
EPILOGUE
OF ALL THE PARTS of me that fell in love with her, my memory won in the end.
It loved her when I was only a grain of sand being scrawled into a map of possibility; before I knew my own name or the sound of my mother’s voice, my memory locked with the most beautiful laughter between heartbeats and fate.
Years after her Soft Goodbye, my memory is still a begging child, constantly tugging for a revival.
And while the image of her remains evergreen within my mind, the world has grown quieter without her, and, in a way, so have I. When someone you love dies, that’s exactly what happens, and with a resilient memory such as mine, I’m only left with a double-edged choice: remember to keep her memory alive inside of me or forget and be forever restless with this void. Both have consequences that I may suffer in defeat.
So, foolishly, I spent years of my youth thinking I had been alone... But the truth is... I never knew what alone was until she died.
Sure, there were the years I spent sleeping alone in a bunk in between calls and emergencies—the endless hours of studying while others slept and socialized. And of course, all those dark holes in the “ever after” when I couldn’t save a life, when learning from books wasn’t enough and I was reduced to a bump on the curb outside of the emergency entrance bay.
But that kind of loneliness was always repaired with morning rays and a head of blonde hair tucked under my chin. That kind of loneliness never honed the power to unravel my inner workings, tie an invisible cord around my ribcage, and anchor me to an infinite hope.
This kind of alone is far different. This kind of alone has taught me I was once a cosmic kid fighting for falling skies, burned out stars, and trails of dust. There is so little magic without her. There is so little fight within me.
But still, my heart beats. It dreams. It wonders. And most dangerous of all, it hopes, because, despite its smallness, this hope is still a great something.
The softness I once knew under my fingertips as I traced her shoulder, cheek, full lips..., it now lives on as wonderment-filled eyes and innocent questions. A small hand reaching for adventure appoints me the leader and top troublemaker.
And in this new role of alone, I must decide how to let our child live. I must decide how to not let her memory die.
I won’t say I loved her, because that’s too short-lived.
I’ll just keep counting the number of ways.
I’ll just keep tallying the moments we lived as a neon contrast to the everyday black and white.
And I’ll never regret my memories numbered 1 or 708, no matter how greatly they suffer my memory. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it is that I have a vote in the happenings of my life..., and I have chosen to live.