Dolly stands up from the couch, where I hadn’t noticed she was sitting, filling out a chart. She lets herself out without saying a word, sliding the door closed behind her. I’m too upset to be embarrassed. I take her place on the couch and look up at Tommy, sitting propped up in that stupid hospital bed. “She dyed her hair.” I spit the words out like venom.
“Is that all?” Tommy closes his eyes again.
My right leg is bouncing with the adrenaline pulsing inside me. I can’t sit still, so I stand and start walking back and forth at the foot of his bed. Of course he doesn’t understand.
“Isn’t that what teenage girls do?” Tommy asks in his shrink voice. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that tone and I can’t say I’ve missed being on the receiving end of it. “She’s just experimenting and trying to figure out who she wants to be.”
“Oh, she knows who she wants to be. That’s the problem.”
As if on cue, there’s a soft knock at the door. “Daddy?”
“Come on in, baby.”
The door slides open and CeCe walks in with my face and Monica’s jet-black hair.
“Wow,” Tommy says, looking at me then back at CeCe.
I give him the biggest I told you so look I can muster and sit back down on the couch facing him. I can’t look at her right now.
“What do you think?” she says, her voice timid and small.
“It’s interesting,” Tommy says. “Come closer.”
CeCe hesitates at the door. She hasn’t been in here much since we set up the hospital bed. I can’t blame her for wanting to keep her distance, but since Tommy is hardly getting out of bed these days, she doesn’t have much choice.
She walks to the side of the bed, perching herself on the edge, facing her dad.
“Why’d you do that?” he asks in a way that sounds curious and not annoyed or angry like it did when I said almost the exact same thing a few minutes ago.
“You don’t like it?”
Tommy brings his hand up and runs his fingers through her new, dark hair. “It’s not that I don’t like it,” he says. “You just don’t look like you anymore.”
“You mean I don’t look like her.” She tilts her head in my direction.
“You don’t look like you. Sweet girl, you and your mom have a lot in common, but you are very one of a kind.”
CeCe nods, quiet for a moment. “I was thinking about getting contacts.”
My jaw drops. We’d talked about contacts when she turned ten, but she was grossed out by the idea of putting her finger in her eyes. One guess who changed her mind about that.
“That would be nice,” Tommy tells her.
“The only thing,” she says. “I just . . .”
She bows her head and a tear falls onto the crisp white sheets and my anger changes its target. I can’t be mad at my daughter. But I can definitely be mad at Monica for existing, and at myself for not being the bigger person.
“I just,” CeCe says, trying again. “I just want you to know, so that you’ll still be able to recognize me. When you . . . after you . . . if you can—” The rest of her words get lost in a sea of tears.
Tommy opens his arms and CeCe falls into them. “Shhh,” he whispers, smoothing her hair. “Nothing you ever do will keep me from recognizing you. I know your heart, my beautiful girl. And you can’t change that.”
Her shoulders are shaking and the sobs coming from my little girl are more than I can bear. I excuse myself to give them time alone, and so neither of them will see me cry.
The tears come faster than I can stop them. I clasp my hand over my mouth, rushing toward the kitchen so they don’t hear the wailing that doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me. I turn the faucet on, hoping the water can drown out the sound of my heart breaking into a million microscopic pieces.
I splash my face, cold water mixing with my tears, until eventually, there’s nothing left. I don’t have to see my face to know it’s red and splotchy.
The almost empty pitcher of Arnold Palmers is still sitting where I left it on the counter when CeCe walked in the front door an hour ago, looking like a familiar stranger. I pour what’s left into a glass and drink it like a shot, which I could honestly use right now. Alcohol makes you numb, it helps you forget. It would be good to forget.
I stare at the empty pitcher, wishing it were full so I could make myself a glass and add a little vodka to it. Instead of standing there, thirsty and helpless, I open the pantry door and get the powdered lemonade and iced tea mixes that Gran always used.
I’m not patient enough to wait for the flavors to blend together like CeCe always insists, so I fill a glass with ice and pour my old-fashioned Arnold Palmer mixture over it and take a big sip.
The taste, one that’s always been synonymous with my childhood, is artificial and sweet. CeCe is right: fresh ingredients are so much better.
I take one more sip before emptying the glass and pour the pitcher down the drain.
“Mom?”
I turn to see CeCe standing in the door. She looks so small and fragile with her arms wrapped around herself. As tough as she acts and as mature as she tries to be, it’s easy to forget she’s still a little girl. “Hey, sweetie.”
“Dad wants you.”
He may want me, but she needs me. I take the few steps toward her and wrap my arms around her. She doesn’t hug me back, but that doesn’t stop me from hugging her even harder.
“Dad wants you,” she says again.
I give her one more squeeze before letting her go, hoping she can feel how sorry I am. For everything.
TOMMY’S EYES ARE closed when I walk back in the room. I sit down on the couch, watching him breathe. Every breath sounds like a struggle and my heart is so torn. As much as I want him to hold on and stay with me, I don’t want him to hurt anymore.
A sob escapes my mouth and Tommy’s eyes fly open. He smiles and I fall in love with him all over again.
“Did you have a good talk?” I ask.
“We did,” he says. “And the color will wash out, it’s not permanent.”
“It’s not just about the color,” I say, even though none of it matters anymore.
“Of course it’s not,” Tommy says. “Come lie with me.”
I crawl on the bed and curl into his side, resting my head on his shoulder. He brushes his fingers through my hair the way he knows I love.
“What’d she say?” I ask.
“That’s between us. Father-daughter confidentiality.”
I pull back so I can look him in the eye. “That’s not a thing.”
“Shhh.” I concede and put my head back down so he can keep playing with my hair. “We talked about the things I love about her, the things that make her who she is. We talked about my hopes and dreams for her future.”
“Like when she was little,” I say. “What do you want her to be when she grows up?”
“Happy.”
I nod and close my eyes. As long as she’s happy, nothing else matters. Tommy bends his head down toward mine and whispers in my ear, “Thank you for making me so happy.”
I smile even though those might be the saddest happy words I’ve ever heard.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Alexis
The second first time I saw you, you were carrying a bouquet of flowers for somebody else,” I tell Tommy. His eyes are closed and his breathing is labored, but I know he can hear me. I’ve been sitting on his bed, talking to him since the sun came up this morning, and I don’t plan on stopping even now that it’s starting to set. There’s a pink cast to the room, and I wish he could open his eyes to appreciate it, but they’ve been closed since early yesterday.
I keep talking and rubbing circles with my thumb on the back of his hand in time with his breaths, because if I stop, I’m terrified he will, too.
“I was at Publix looking for aloe and you made some comment about tourists and sunscreen. I turned around, ready to defend my local status, but you caught me off guard. I re
cognized your eyes before I knew they belonged to you.”
I laugh at the memory, as clear as if it happened just yesterday. “I was so jealous of whatever lucky woman was going to be getting those daisies.”
I hear a noise behind me, and I turn, not letting go of Tommy’s hand. It’s CeCe, standing as close to the room as she can get without actually coming inside. She looks terrified, with her toes at the edge of the door, hanging on to the wall as if she’s standing on unstable ground at the edge of a cliff.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m just talking to Dad; want to come sit with us?”
CeCe bites her lip and shakes her head no.
I nod because I understand and don’t want to push her. Dolly told me it is best to let CeCe process everything in her own way, in her own time.
“CeCe’s here,” I tell Tommy, looking back over my shoulder. “She loves you so much.”
Tommy inhales sharply and exhales a strange, grumbling noise. “It’s okay,” I repeat, both to him and to CeCe, but when I look back behind me, she’s gone.
“I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to finish everything on your list,” I tell Tommy. “I know I gave you a hard time about it, but you knew what you were doing, didn’t you? You always do.”
I bow my head and close my eyes, trying to think of the stories I have left to tell him. We’ve lived a lot of good ones, but there are supposed to be more. In the past few days, I’ve covered them all, some more than once.
“How we doing?” I hear Dolly softly ask.
“He’s doing okay,” I say without lifting my head.
“I’m talking about you, dear.”
I sigh, because the words for how I’m feeling don’t exist. Seeing him like this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Every breath he takes is a struggle; the very thing keeping him alive is causing him pain. With his paper-thin skin, hollow cheeks, and suddenly deep-set eyes, he doesn’t look like himself. It hurts seeing him like this, but it will hurt even more having to say goodbye. I’m not ready.
I hiccup back a sob and Dolly lays a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“We could use some air in here,” she says. “I know Tommy likes the breeze.”
As Dolly opens the window, I hear the familiar creaking of the porch swing swaying back and forth on the other side of the wall. CeCe is out there, strumming Tommy’s old guitar.
The breeze carries her soft voice to us. “Saying I love you,” she sings, her voice wavering.
A tear slides down my cheek and I don’t bother wiping it away. I look down at Tommy and let go of his hand just long enough to lie down beside him. I wrap an arm around his chest and bury my face in his side. I try to keep my eyes open because I don’t want to miss even a second. But my eyelids are so heavy. I’ll just close them for a minute.
“LEXIE, LEX.”
My eyes fly open; it’s dark and I have no idea what time it is.
“Lex,” I hear again.
I prop myself up on an arm and look down at Tommy, whose eyes are open. He looks alert and lucid, focused clearly on me for the first time in days.
“Hey, you,” I whisper back.
His lips look so dry and chapped, they can’t not hurt. I reach for the side table and take an ice cube from the bucket Dolly’s made sure has been full all week. The ice is cold on my fingers, but Tommy smiles when I bring it to his lips.
“Thank you,” he mumbles.
“Want another?” I ask, my hand already reaching toward the bucket.
“Not for that,” he says. “For everything. For marrying me, and making me a dad.”
“Not in that order,” I tease. My eyes well with tears. I’ve missed this—our banter and the sound of his voice. He’s still here, but I already miss him so much it’s hard to breathe.
“Will you tell them for me?” Tommy asks.
“Who?” I whisper.
“We should have danced more,” he says.
I nod, grateful that Dolly warned me it might get like this. I remember her advice: just let him talk, don’t try to make sense of it all. It might not make sense, and that’s okay.
“You made me happy,” he says.
My heart swells. “Not as happy as you’ve made me.”
“Monica’s not so bad, you know,” he says.
I grimace at the mention of her name. She doesn’t belong here, not now.
“We don’t have to talk about her.”
“The baby,” he says so quietly I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or himself.
“Shhh.”
“No,” he says with more force than before. “I want to tell you.”
“I know,” I tell him, kissing his forehead. “You don’t have to tell me again.”
“Our baby. CeCe.”
I take a deep breath, relieved. His lips still look dry, so I bring another ice cube to his lips. Once it’s melted, he looks up at me, locking his eyes with mine.
“I know you think I should hate her for hurting me.” He pauses to take a rough, shallow breath. “I’d go through it all again because it brought me to you.”
He looks at me intently to make sure I’m hearing him, and I am. I’m focused on every word in case this conversation is our last. I don’t want it to be our last.
“I’d go through it all again because it brought me to you.” Tommy pauses for another moment to catch his breath. “I wouldn’t trade our life for anything in the world.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I know.”
“Of the two of us, me and Monica, I’m the one who won.” He inhales sharply and I worry this is too much for him, but he presses on. “Her life hasn’t been easy, and it’s not as perfect as it looks from the outside.”
“Shhh,” I say, partly because I don’t want him to wear himself out, and I don’t want him to waste any more energy on that woman.
“I forgave her a long time ago.”
“We both know you’re a better person than I am,” I tell him.
“Let me finish.”
I nod and take Tommy’s hand in mine, waiting until he’s ready to continue. “There’s been enough sadness. If she can help CeCe, promise me you won’t hold the grudge for me. It was mine, and I let it go.”
I nod, relieved that it’s CeCe, not Monica, who was so important he woke me to talk about. Still, for him, I’ll try not to hate her so much. If he could forgive her, at least I can try. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Tommy Whistler, but I’m so glad you married me.”
“You know,” Tommy says, his voice soft and low, “I used to think you didn’t want to marry me so it would be easier to leave if you needed to run.”
“Never away from you.”
He smiles through the pain of his ragged breaths. “Stay with me tonight?”
“Always,” I promise.
Tommy smiles and as his face relaxes, his breathing does, too. He closes his eyes and I kiss them both before giving the love of my life a kiss good night.
Chapter Fifty-Four
CeCe
It happened.
Mom woke me up at 5:23 this morning to tell me. She didn’t have to say the words; I knew as soon as I heard the handle on my door turn.
Even though I knew it was coming, it still caught me by surprise.
I already miss him so much it hurts. It’s like there’s a big dad-shaped hole in my heart and I don’t think it will ever be whole again.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Alexis
My closet has so much black in it, but nothing seems quite right for today.
I pull out a short black dress that has lace on the top and an A-line skirt that makes a perfect halo around me when I spin around—too much for a funeral. People would say I was being disrespectful.
I toss the party dress on the bed and pull another black dress out of the closet. This one is long and simple, one of my favorites. With flats or sandals, it’s perfect for a day of running errands. With wedges and a statement necklace, it can do the trick for a night o
ut. I wear it all the time.
As perfect as it would be for today, I toss it on the bed with the others. Because I know whatever dress I choose, I’ll never be able to wear it again. It will always be the dress I wore to my husband’s funeral.
Three more black dresses. One at a time, I hold them up in front of the mirror. The first one is too short, the second is way too fancy, and the third, there’s just something about it that doesn’t feel right. They all end up in the pile on my bed.
There’s a knock at my door. “Lex? You almost ready?”
“Come in,” I say, even though I’m standing there in a black bra and underwear. Jill opens the door, slipping inside and closing it behind her after she sees my state of undress. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
She looks over at the dresses thrown across my bed and her eyes go straight toward the one with lace. She lifts it up. “Tommy loved how you looked in this one.”
I smile and nod.
“You should wear it.”
“It’s too much. People will think—”
“Today isn’t for other people. It’s for Tommy. For you and for CeCe. Wear the dress.”
I nod and wipe a tear from my eye. I take the dress from Jill’s outstretched hands and hold her stare, hoping she can feel the gratitude I haven’t been able to find the words to express. Without her, none of this would have come together.
Since I’m Jew-ish and Tommy was raised Christian-ish, religion never really played an important part in our lives. So it was hard to figure out how much of a role it should play in his death.
Having a ceremony in a church felt hypocritical. The funeral home was an option, but the room they showed me was ugly and cold.
It was Jill’s idea to ask a retired minister who’s a regular at the café to help us out. Once they started talking, plans fell into place to have a small ceremony on the beach. And since Tommy wanted some of his ashes spread there, it made sense.
“We’re going to be late, Mom,” CeCe says, opening the door without knocking. She’s wearing a red dress that’s not exactly funeral-appropriate, although mine isn’t either. I don’t say anything, but I can’t stop the look of surprise on my face.
You and Me and Us Page 27