You and Me and Us

by Alison Hammer

  He’s right. That’s where I would have gone.

  I could still go. I could run after him and let him help me forget. But that would be too easy, and this shouldn’t be easy. I have to be brave and strong and feel every feeling. Even when it hurts.

  And right now, it really hurts.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Alexis

  It used to be I was the one who fell asleep first. But lately, Tommy can barely keep his eyes open by the time we crawl into bed. Tonight, he had to stop and catch his breath three times on his way up the stairs. Between that and all the excitement at dinner, he was asleep before I turned off the lights.

  After CeCe and Beau ran off, Lou excused herself, saying she had to get up early for work the next morning. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Not that I could blame her. I couldn’t wait to escape all the sad faces and uncomfortable glances, either.

  It’s hard enough to hear Tommy making light of everything that’s happening, but when he said the word “funeral.” It was like I could see her heart shattering in a million pieces, right before my eyes.

  Thank goodness Tommy said he’d talk to her in the morning. I wouldn’t know where to start, but he’s always had a special way with CeCe. Even when she was a baby, he was the one who knew the difference between her cries—when she was hungry or tired or needed to be changed. He was the one who knew how to hold her just right, rocking her to sleep in his arms. Tommy made everything seem effortless. When I tried, she would scream and scream until her face turned red, as if I were a stranger. Which I guess I was.

  I blamed myself for going back to work a few weeks before my maternity leave was up. I’d been itching to go back, not because I didn’t love being with CeCe, but because I was desperate to feel like me again. And I felt more like myself when I was surrounded by deadlines and creative briefs than dirty diapers and baby talk.

  By the time she grew up into an adorable little person with opinions and stories and a personality all her own, I had already become the third wheel of our family. I never stopped trying, though.

  I almost always called to say “sweet dreams” back when Tommy still tucked her in at night, and as she got older I made an effort to read the same books and listen to the same music so we’d have something real to talk about, to bond over. It didn’t always work, but at least she saw me trying. I hope she noticed that.

  It was more than my mother did—and she didn’t even have a good excuse. She stopped working when I was born and still didn’t have time for me. Of course, she had more than enough time for all the committees she chaired, the charity balls she planned, and her six-year streak as the president of the PTA. The irony isn’t lost on me. Neither is the fact that my dad worked even longer hours than I do now, yet he never felt the need to justify his time.

  Eventually, I stopped craving my parents’ time and attention. I was proud of my independence, the fact that I didn’t need anyone else. Except there was someone who needed me.

  I can’t believe I didn’t realize before that I was repeating the same mistakes my parents made with me. I told myself CeCe was fine because she had Tommy—he was better than both of my parents combined. And all of him was better than half of me.

  What in the world are we going to do without him?

  I look down at Tommy, his chest moving up and down in haggard breaths that make it seem like even sleeping is too strenuous. The glowing numbers of the clock on his nightstand catch my eye as the number changes to 11:11. For the first time since all of this happened, my wish isn’t for Tommy. It’s for CeCe. That somehow I can find a way to be enough for her.

  Tommy makes a noise and I hold my breath. A second later his breathing is back to normal. This new normal, at least. I sigh and lie back down, willing myself to sleep. It’s been harder and harder to come by lately. It seems the more Tommy sleeps, the more awake I get. Like my body is aware that the clock on our time together is running out, and I don’t want to miss a single minute.

  I try to soothe my mind by thinking about the good times. There are so many of them, it’s hard to choose just one. Flipping through the memories like pictures in an old photo album, I stop at a mental image of Tommy and CeCe playing together on the beach. She must have been five or six, squealing as Tommy chased her. Running through the shallow waves, she splashed him before running back to the folding chair where I was holding down the fort.

  “Come play, Mommy!” I remember her saying.

  “In a minute,” I told her, reaching for my cell phone instead of her outstretched hand. We were in the middle of a big new business pitch at work—it was a big deal, I told Tommy.

  He probably told me that this, playing on the beach with our daughter, was an even bigger deal, but I wouldn’t have listened. I was so focused on proving my boss wrong, showing him that Becky and I, a team of two women, could be just as smart, creative, and clever as any of the guys he threw on the brief.

  I was so hyperfocused that I don’t think I realized I was chasing success at the price of being present for my daughter’s childhood. How many of her memories am I absent in, or just out of reach? God, I really was the worst.

  It hurts too much to remember, so I try counting sheep instead. Even though I’ve never met an actual person that technique has worked for. I’m about to give up and go downstairs to find something mindless on TV when I hear the front door open.

  CeCe.

  I listen to her footsteps as she climbs the stairs, tiptoeing into her room. I hear a soft click as she closes her door. I stare at my own closed bedroom door like it’s a bridge I have to cross.

  Who knows where my sudden sense of bravery comes from, maybe from Tommy lying beside me, but I slowly sit up and climb out of bed, careful not to shift the mattress.

  I hesitate for a brief moment outside her room, the glow of moonlight shining under the door, but a calm confidence comes over me and I lift my hand, knocking softly. She doesn’t say not to come in, so I open the door.

  She looks up, surprised, as she tucks herself into her double bed. “What?” She sounds more exhausted than annoyed.

  Since “I don’t know” doesn’t seem like the right answer, I say, “Slide over.”

  She looks at me like I’m crazy, but after a second, she slides over against the wall and I climb in beside her. I look up to the ceiling at the dull stars that used to glow in the dark a million years ago when this was my bedroom.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “No, of course not.” I shift so I’m sitting up, leaning against the wall. I stare at her mousy-brown hair, splayed across the pale pink pillow. My hands are itching to reach for it, to run my fingers through the way I did when she was a little girl. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Do you mind if I talk?”

  She shrugs and I take a deep breath. I rest my hand on top of her head, smoothing her hair over and over in a repetitive motion that I hope is as comforting to her as it is to me.

  “From the time your dad and I were kids, he’s been taking care of me.” I can tell that’s not what she was expecting me to say, and it wasn’t what I expected, either. But I keep talking, letting the words tumble out. “It was just little things when we were young—he stayed back to walk with me once when my bike got a flat tire and he always made sure I got a grape Popsicle since he knew they were my favorite—but when I got older . . . did I ever tell you about the first time I came back down to Destin? As an adult?”

  CeCe shakes her head and I try to decide which details I should leave out, since she is my daughter and she’s only fourteen. I don’t mind her thinking poorly of Adam, but I don’t want her to think worse of me than she already does.

  “My heart had just been broken by the man I dated before your dad, and I came down here to get away. I used to do that a lot when things got tough. And I was about to do it again, to leave Destin and go back to Atlanta after I had a big fight with Aunt Jill and Uncle Adam.”

  She
didn’t need to know that the fight was over Adam drunkenly kissing me while Jill was weeks away from giving birth to their first child. “But your dad was there, telling me not to leave. I remember he told me that some things in life were worth sticking around for, and that things would be hard wherever I went. So he told me I should stay and work through the tough parts to get to the good ones.”

  “Did you stay?” CeCe asks.

  “Not then,” I tell her, disappointed in my younger self. “But I came back eventually. And when we found out we were having you, he left everything and everyone he knew, he moved his practice and followed me up to Atlanta. It was his idea to stay home with you so I could keep working—he knew that I loved it, and he believed I was good enough that I deserved a shot to be one of the best. Everything he’s done, every day of his life, has been for you and me. So now . . .” I pause to gather myself and swallow the tears that are forming. “So now I’ve got to do everything I can to return the favor and be there for him. Even if that means biting my tongue and letting him make those awful jokes about dying.”

  I feel CeCe inhale deeply next to me. I should have avoided that word, but we can’t pretend it isn’t happening.

  “He knows there’s nothing funny about it—I think that’s just how he has to deal with it. To try to lighten the mood. I know it’s hard, and I’m so sorry you had to hear him talk like that tonight. But just know, he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Why do you care so much about work anyway?” CeCe asks. She rolls over on her side and tilts her head up to look at me. That’s not exactly what I meant for her to take out of the story.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I say, even though I know it’s a cop-out.

  “Let me guess, I’ll understand when I’m older?” She leans her head back against the wall.

  “I hope you will,” I say. “If you have a job that you love, then it won’t feel so much like work, but it’s not just that.” She looks up at me, waiting for an answer that will make all the missed moments make sense. “What if I told you I didn’t believe you could make a soufflé that wouldn’t fall?”

  “I’d prove you wrong.”

  “Exactly.” I manage to hold back a laugh, but I can’t stop a smile. She is my daughter more than she knows.

  “So who said you couldn’t do something?”

  “My old boss, when I was pregnant with you. He pretty much said my career was over. That I couldn’t be a good mom and a good employee. I wanted to prove him wrong.”

  CeCe nods and I hold my breath, hoping that she doesn’t say what I already know. That I wasn’t a good mom. But I’m trying now, and hopefully that counts for something.

  “I know that’s not an excuse, and it doesn’t make everything okay. But every time I wasn’t there for you, I knew your dad was. And I thought that would be enough, that he would be enough.”

  “He was,” CeCe says. “He is.”

  The silence hangs between us, heavy with the words neither of us wants to say. But I’m the mom, and I’ve got to start acting like it.

  “I promise you I’m going to try harder. Not just try, I’m going to do better. I know I’m not your dad.” A tear slides down my cheek before I can stop it. “But I love you so much it hurts. And if you need to talk, or if you need me to listen, or if you need me to leave you alone or be there by your side, I promise you I’m not going anywhere.”

  CeCe hiccups back a sob and then launches into my arms, letting the tears go. I don’t tell her to stop, I just hold her, letting her cry until she falls asleep in my arms.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  CeCe

  Table for one?” the hostess at 790 asks.

  “For two,” I say, trying to sound as grown-up as I can.

  Monica and I have been texting for a few weeks, ever since I “accidentally” found her number in Dad’s cell phone—but it was her idea to meet for lunch before filming started up again after the Fourth of July break.

  I was going to tell Aunt Jill that I wasn’t feeling well so I had to leave the café early—but Beau pointed out that she might call and ask my mom if I was feeling better, and then I’d be busted. He has a lot more experience breaking the rules, and he told me that when you’re lying, less is more. So I just told Aunt Jill I needed to leave work a little early. She didn’t ask why, so I didn’t tell her. And if she mentions my leaving early to Mom, I’ll just say that I needed some time to be alone. After our heart-to-heart the other night, I know she won’t push or question me.

  The restaurant I picked is just a few blocks down the beach from the café, so I got here in plenty of time to change into clothes that aren’t covered in flour.

  The hostess grabs two menus and walks outside to the patio, which Dad says is the prettiest hidden gem in Destin. It isn’t touristy and it’s right on the beach with a view of the sand dunes and the water, which is like every shade of blue and green rolled into one. She pauses by a small table right along the edge of the patio, overlooking the beach. “This okay?”

  “Perfect.” I take the seat facing the door so I’ll be able to see the moment Monica arrives.

  I glance down at my phone: 12:05. She’s late. I guess that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re kind of famous. It’s hard to make an entrance if you’re the first one there. I make a mental note to start showing up just a little late to things. Except for class. Maybe I’ll get there right as the bell rings so I can have the effect without getting detention.

  I’m already learning so much and she isn’t even here yet.

  “Expecting one more?” the waiter asks. Usually, I’d be a little annoyed at the obvious question. I mean, there are two menus on the table. But today, I don’t mind.

  “My stepmom,” I say as he sets down two glasses of water.

  I’ve been thinking of Monica as my stepmom since I found out about her and Dad, because that’s really the best way to describe her. Plus, if she’d been married to my dad after I was born instead of before, that’s what she’d be. I shouldn’t be punished just because I was born inconveniently late.

  Today is the first time I’ve actually said it out loud, and it’s pretty freaking awesome.

  “My name is Gary,” he says. “Would you like anything besides water while you wait?”

  “I’m okay, thank you.”

  If I were casting the role of the waiter for the first of what I hope will be many lunches together, this guy would totally get the part. He’s older than my parents, but you can tell he was a catch in his day, with his tanned, dark skin, and light blue eyes. His hair is gray, but not the bad kind. It makes him look distinguished, not old.

  I’m looking at Gary when Monica walks in, but I can sense her arrival. The whole patio goes quiet except for some woman talking loudly about how she’d asked for no tomatoes. It’s like people are doing the Wave, but instead of standing and lifting their arms, they turn and stare.

  Who can blame them—it’s Monica Whistler. Even if they didn’t know who she was before The Seasiders started filming in Destin, they know now. And anybody can clearly see that she’s somebody: it’s obvious in the way she walks, the way she holds her head up high, the way her white linen pants and flowery off-the-shoulder top look like they were literally made for her.

  “CeCe!” She sounds almost as excited to see me as I am to see her. Now the heads turn and stare at me, wondering who the lucky girl having lunch with a celebrity is. And it’s me. I’m the lucky girl.

  I stand up the way Dad does when someone he knows comes up to our table. I smooth out my outfit, a black and white sundress that I hoped would look nice but not too fancy.

  “You look gorge.” Monica leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you.” I can feel my face turning red. “You do, too,” I remember to add as I sit back at the table, where I am about to have lunch with Monica freaking Whistler!

  “You’re sweet, but I know I look exhausted,” Monica says as she sits down. “I took the red-eye back f
rom L.A. last night, my agent insisted I go to this silly little party.”

  I try to cross my legs the way I notice she does, but my knee bumps into the table, making it shake and send water splashing out of my glass. I’ll have to practice that move at the kitchen table when Mom and Dad aren’t around.

  “Thanks for inviting me to lunch,” I say, after we order our drinks.

  “Oh, please. I was tickled you said yes.” There I go, blushing again. I’m going to have to figure out a way to stop doing that. I take a sip of water, hoping that will help calm my face down. “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about the part not working out—I had no idea they already promised it to someone else.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her.

  “It’s not,” Monica says. “But I’ll make it up to you. Your dad says you’re really good.”

  “He has to say that.” I look down for just a second, but it’s enough for my glasses to fall down my nose. I push them up quickly, hoping Monica didn’t notice.

  “Tom wouldn’t lie. Not to me.”

  “You and my dad,” I say. “I still can’t believe he never told me.”

  Monica leans forward and looks me in the eye. I resist the urge to break her stare and push my glasses up even though they haven’t slipped again. “It wasn’t his fault; it was all mine. And it’s one of the biggest regrets in my life.”

  Before I can decide whether or not it would be appropriate of me to ask what happened, Gary the waiter comes back with our drinks.

  Monica’s whole face changes as she lifts her glass of champagne, and I can tell the opportunity is over. “To the beginning of a very long friendship,” she says.

  I clink my glass against hers and take a sip of my Arnold Palmer.

  “I brought you something.” Monica reaches into her giant black purse and hands me a hardcover book. The author’s name is in bright yellow letters along the top: Stella Adler. And at the bottom in the same bright letters it says: The Art of Acting.