You and Me and Us

by Alison Hammer

  “Hit the gas a little more,” Dad says. “You can see how fast you’re going right there.” He points to one of the little circles on the dashboard.

  “Five?” It didn’t feel like I was going that slow.

  “You can go a little faster,” he says.

  I put more pressure on the pedal and watch as the lever goes higher, first to eight, then to twelve before jumping to fifteen.

  “Eyes on the road,” Dad reminds me. I look back up, seeing the other end of the parking lot getting closer and closer.

  “How do I slow down?” I ask, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel.

  “Ease your foot off the gas and onto the brake, press down slow but firm.”

  I follow his instructions and the car slows down smoothly before coming to a stop. “How’d I do?”

  “You were great, baby.”

  Since my foot is on the brake, I figure it’s okay to take my eyes off the road for a second, and I quickly look up in the rearview mirror. Mom’s eyes are a little misty, but she’s smiling. I smile back, because I feel the same way.

  “Want to go around the full circle?” Dad asks.

  “Can I?”

  “You tell me,” he says.

  “I can do it.” I take my foot off the brake and slowly move it over to the gas. I turn the wheel to the left, hoping Dad didn’t notice that I forgot to put the blinker on.

  At the next end of the big square parking lot, I remember to put my blinker on before turning left. I do the same thing for the other three sides until we’re back where we started.

  “Think you’re ready to drive us home?” he asks.

  “No way,” Mom says from the backseat.

  I don’t mind this time since I know Dad was just joking. I’m not ready for the real roads, but when I am, I hope I’ll be able to remember everything he taught me.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Alexis

  The second week of July, Tommy took a turn for the worse and I couldn’t deny that it was too much for me to handle on my own. He would stop breathing for what felt like a minute at a time, gasping for air like a fish out of water. I was afraid to leave his side long enough to go to the bathroom, and CeCe was so scared she wouldn’t get closer than our bedroom door.

  I probably would have put off calling hospice for another few weeks, but Jill convinced me that having their help would be good for all of us. I thought it would bother me, having strangers in my house. But from the first day they came to set up a bed down in the living room, I knew they weren’t strangers. They were angels.

  And now, walking into Dox Pharmacy armed with a shopping list from Dolly, one of the hospice nurses, I’m relieved not to feel so helpless for once. I drop the new prescriptions off at the pharmacy before going up and down the aisles in search of everything she thought might help. They’ve already helped, just by being there.

  I glance down at the list, looking for the one thing I know isn’t there. I asked Dolly three times, but she kept saying I didn’t need to get any snacks for the nurses, but she’s wrong. I need to do something nice for them, so I detour down the snack aisle, grabbing anything they might like.

  My cart filled with a variety of chips and candy, I head over to the freezer aisle for a box of the Fla-Vor-Ice pops Dolly said would be both easy to eat and soothing for Tommy’s throat. Next, I grab a few packs of bendy straws—another ordinary thing I never would have thought of. They are going to make it so much easier for Tommy to have a sip of water when the bed is reclined.

  This is the kind of stuff Dox should be sharing with their customers. Not the hogwash they have us put in their brochures and emails, empty lines about how much they care about your family’s health, with obvious tips like washing your hands during cold and flu season. If they really cared about their customers, they would share tips like this.

  Rolling my cart down the over-the-counter-medicine aisle, I grab a pack of ZzzQuil, which I assume is for me, since sleeping is not something Tommy has trouble with anymore. I wonder how they knew I’ve been up all night, almost every night. Afraid to go to sleep in case Tommy needs me. I make a mental note to pick up some more under-eye concealer in case the dark circles gave me away.

  Next on the list is the one thing I don’t want to buy. I hesitate in front of the aisle, staring at the shelves stocked full of diapers, formula and pacifiers. I’m flooded with memories of the first time I bought Tampax, the first time I bought a pack of condoms. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to buy a baby monitor, but it is the most depressing.

  The process of death is so damn patronizing. I understand the logistics of having a monitor so I can keep an eye on Tommy down in his bed while I’m upstairs in mine—but would it kill someone to package a baby monitor a little differently so it’s easier for a wife to buy for her dying husband, a grown man?

  I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. The last thing I need is to have another panic attack right here in the goddamn baby aisle. I rest my hand over my heart and breathe in and out slowly. I close my eyes and continue to breathe, counting my breaths.

  “It gets easier,” a woman says as she walks by. “And it gets harder; just wait till they can talk!”

  I cringe and exhale with purpose. The universe, it seems, has the same sense of humor that Tommy does.

  My phone buzzes with a text from the pharmacy that the prescriptions are ready—a service we advertised with a “fill your cart while we fill your script” messaging. At least this is one thing that has proven to be useful.

  “Lexie?”

  I turn at the sound of my name, a fake smile plastered on my face to make polite conversation with someone who may or may not have heard about what’s going on with us. It’s a small town, and bad news seems to spread.

  When I see the face that the voice belongs to, my lips tighten back into a disapproving line. Like a living page of the “stars are just like us” magazine spread, Monica Whistler is standing in front of me, a prescription bag in her hand. If there is any justice in the world, her Rx is for something painful like hemorrhoids.

  “I thought that was you,” Monica says. She walks closer to me and puts her hand on my arm. I pull away and step to the other side of my cart so there’s a buffer between us. “I have been meaning to give you a call and apologize. I am so sorry about the little mix-up with CeCe.”

  “Little mix-up?” I say, not believing the audacity of this woman.

  “What are the odds the producer had promised the same role to a different girl the very same day?” Monica laughs and it takes everything in my being not to slap her across the face. “But I promise, I’ll make it up to CeCe. If another part doesn’t come up, I’ll find a different way to help her out. Tom said she’s got a lot of talent.”

  I bite my lip to stop myself from telling her that he goes by Tommy now, evidence of the time that’s passed, proof that he’s mine now, not hers.

  “I could make some introductions.” Monica is still talking. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “No,” I say, a little too abruptly by the look on her face. “You’ve done enough.”

  Before she can say anything else, I push my cart back down the stupid baby aisle and away from the pharmacy counter, where Tommy’s prescriptions are waiting. I’ll go through the drive-through or come back for them later.

  There’s a line at the register, so I stand there with my foot tapping, looking behind me every few seconds to make sure Monica isn’t standing there. The woman checking out is making small talk with the cashier, and I’m considering just walking out and leaving everything there when another register opens.

  “Did you find everything okay?” the cashier, an older woman with blue-gray hair and too much red lipstick, says.

  I give her a curt nod and continue to empty the cart, hoping she will get the sign that I’m not in the mood to talk. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to make idle chitchat even more.

  “Looks like you’re having a party,”
the cashier says, scanning bag after bag of the chips. She picks up the baby monitor next. “A baby shower?”

  I can’t bring myself to answer so I just stare past her at a poster we worked on last year for the refresh of their loyalty card program.

  Once the last item has been scanned and bagged, the woman makes eye contact and smiles so wide I can see a spot of lipstick on her front tooth. “Would you like to donate a dollar for cancer research?” she asks.

  All of the rage that has been building inside of me bubbles up and I snap. “Why in the hell would I want to do that?”

  The cashier takes a step back, shocked. I know I should say I’m sorry and leave, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.

  “Do you know how much money I’ve donated over the years to cancer research? And what have they been doing with it? I can tell you what they haven’t been doing—they haven’t been finding a cure for small-cell lung cancer. So why would I give them another fucking dollar when they can’t give me more time? Is that too much to ask?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the cashier says. Her chin quivers and I feel like the most heartless person in the world.

  Behind me, someone sets a hand on my shoulder, and I turn to see Monica staring at me with sad eyes. Make that the second most heartless person in the world.

  “I can’t.” I slide my card through the credit card machine and stand there for what feels like an eternity before I can sign my name and roll my cart out the door.

  Somehow, I manage to keep myself together until I’m in the car, the door locked behind me. Of course Kleenex wasn’t on the shopping list. I find a brown paper napkin in the armrest and wipe my eyes. The rough paper scratches, but the physical pain can stop, it will heal. My heart is a different story.

  I drop my head into my hands and let myself cry, sobs shaking my shoulders. I let it all go, getting it out of my system before I head home to put on a smiling face for my family.

  The knock on the window is so soft I almost think I’m imagining things. But I look up, and Monica is standing there, her face looking even more forlorn than before. The woman really can’t take a hint.

  I shake my head and turn the car on, hoping she’s smart enough to get out of the way before I start backing up. Because if she doesn’t, Tommy won’t be the only one who needs end-of-life care.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  CeCe

  You don’t want to talk about it?” Beau asks.

  I shake my head and slide my feet underneath me, trying to find comfort in the gentle swaying of the front porch swing outside my house. No matter how many puppies or unicorns I try to think about, nothing can erase the image of my dad crying earlier this morning. He stopped when he saw me and pretended like everything was okay, but we both know it wasn’t. It isn’t, and it won’t be.

  Beau tries to hold my hand, but I’m not in the mood to be comforted. I know he’s trying, but nothing can change the fact that nurses have invaded our house. Dolly and Sandra, with cheery smiles on their faces like false advertising.

  At first, I thought it was a good thing, that they were here to help Dad feel better, but then I heard Mom talking to Aunt Jill. She said something about hospice nurses—I didn’t know what that word meant so I googled it. And now I can’t unknow that they are the ones who come in at the end of a patient’s life when there’s no hope left.

  “Want to tell me more about Monica?”

  I look at him and frown, knowing there’s no way I heard him right. “Don’t be mean.”

  “How is that mean?” Beau laughs. “I just want to see you smile.” He reaches for my hand again, and this time I let him. He brings it to his mouth, kissing it gently. It’s sweet and I don’t want him to leave, so I give him a little smile.

  “That’s better,” he says, putting his arm around me. I lean into his shoulder, letting myself relax. “You can tell me about the lunch again if you want, or that you’re going to the set soon, right?”

  I nod, but I’m too sad to think about how excited I was when Monica texted, inviting me to come down to the set on Wednesday—which couldn’t have been more perfect since it’s my day off. I know Beau is sick of hearing about it, and I think I hurt his feelings when I said that meeting Monica was the one good thing that happened to me this summer.

  Beau knows he’s a good thing, too. I look up and give him another smile, this one meant to thank him for being there for me. But he clearly interprets it as an invitation to kiss me, which it totally isn’t.

  “Not here,” I tell him, sliding farther away from him.

  “Isn’t your dad sleeping?”

  “So?” I ask, a little annoyed he brought it up. Now that Dad’s bed is down in the living room, it seems like he’s always sleeping, just waking up, or just about to fall asleep.

  “And your mom is out running errands.” Beau tries again.

  I elbow him in the side to let him know that I mean it.

  “Oh, Cecelia,” he sings. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  I’m on my feet in less than a second. “Don’t say that.” I cross my arms and glare at him so he knows I’m serious. “My dad, that’s our thing, you can’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry.” Beau reaches for me and I can tell he means it. “I really am. Come sit back down.”

  I stay put. This is a big deal, not just something he can brush away with two little words.

  “Let me show you how sorry I am.” He reaches for my hand again. “Please?” I sigh and sit back down, but only because if I stay mad at him, I won’t have anyone else to talk to. “You sure you don’t want to tell me about what you’re going to wear on Wednesday?”

  “Not really.” This time, I let Beau take my hand. I appreciate him, but I need to find some girlfriends I can talk with about this stuff. It’s not worth trying to make him understand how good it feels to finally have someone who’s willing to help me make my acting dreams come true.

  “Want to talk about something else?”

  “Not really,” I say again, resting my head on my favorite spot, just below his shoulder.

  When Beau kisses the top of my head, I let him. I close my eyes and focus on the rise and fall of his chest as he slides his arm around my shoulder again. He means well, even if he doesn’t always say the right thing. I pull back so I can look at him. He really is cute. He could have his pick of girls on the beach, but he’s here with me, even though I won’t let him get any further than kissing.

  I smile, and he takes it as a sign it’s okay to try again, which I guess it is.

  He kisses me, just a little peck. And then I kiss him back. He kisses me again and I forget everything else that isn’t the two of us.

  In the distance, I hear something that sounds like the slamming of a car door.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Alexis

  My first thought is that something must be wrong.

  CeCe and Beau are sitting on the porch swing and he has his arms around her, their heads bent together. If he’s comforting her—I jump out of the car. Tommy was fine when I left an hour ago. The hospice nurse said he was doing okay. CeCe should have called me. Tommy was tired, but he was fine. He was going to take a nap, and then he said he’d feel better.

  He said—wait one damn second. Beau is not comforting her.

  I slam the car door and they don’t even hear me. “Get your hands off my daughter,” I scream, louder than I mean to. They pull away from each other and CeCe’s face is bright red. “Cecelia, get in the house. Adam, go home.”

  “I’m not Adam.” He stands, still holding my daughter’s hand. “I’m not my dad.”

  “I said go home.”

  He may not be his dad, but he’s got the same white-blond hair, the same ice-cold blue eyes, and I’m willing to bet he’s got the same streak of trouble and destruction and disregard for the people who care about him.

  CeCe and Beau look at each other, and I can’t believe I missed this. All the girls on his Instagram. I haven’t
checked either of their accounts in the last few weeks. I didn’t think I needed to, they were both here or with Jill or—oh, God. Who knows where they could have been, what they could have done. Right under my nose, and I didn’t see it.

  “We weren’t doing anything wrong,” CeCe says.

  “Go inside, Cecelia.”

  The front door opens and Tommy stands there looking like a ghost of himself. I’m too angry to be embarrassed that Dolly is standing there beside him, hearing everything.

  “Everything okay?” Tommy asks in his shrink voice, slow and careful.

  “Nothing is okay.” CeCe’s voice is strong but quivering. I can tell she’s on the verge of tears. “I hate you,” she says before running inside. Beau follows her and I don’t stop him even though I want to.

  “You handle this,” I tell Tommy before turning and walking away. I’m not sure where I’m going, and I don’t care that the groceries are still in the back of the car. Let them go bad. Everything else around here has.

  Out of habit, I turn down Barracuda, but I don’t stop at Jill’s house. I keep walking toward the beach, hoping the calming energy of the water will help me relax. At the bottom of the old, wooden steps, I slip my shoes off and step into the sand.

  I walk closer to the water and take a deep breath, letting the salty air fill my lungs. My footprints get washed away as soon as I pick my feet up, as if I were never there. I stop and let the water rush over my toes as I sink deeper into the cold, hard sand.

  When they hand you the baby at the hospital and send you on your way, they make sure you know how to change their diaper, how to feed and bathe and swaddle them. But after that, you’re on your own.

  It’s like I blinked and CeCe went from a baby to a toddler. I blinked again and she was double digits. And now, she’s a teenager, trying so hard to be a woman. Tommy can handle this. That’s what he does, he handles the hard things.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” a woman says, walking toward me. She looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world, but she’s got to. Everyone has something difficult they’re facing. I want to know what hers is, but I stop myself from asking because I know that’s not a normal thing to say or do.