You and Me and Us

by Alison Hammer

  “It’s Dad’s favorite color,” she says, defending her choice.

  “You look beautiful,” I tell her. “Zip me up?”

  I turn and she closes the distance between us. She slides the zipper up and hooks the clasp at the top.

  “I just got off the phone with Grandma and Grandpa,” she says. “They feel bad they aren’t here.”

  I nod, pretending to seem disappointed that my parents were halfway around the world on a cruise of the Greek Islands when it happened. They offered to catch a flight from Crete, but I told them it was silly. Tommy would want them to enjoy themselves, and even if their flight got them here in time, they’d be so jet-lagged they wouldn’t really be here anyway.

  Secretly, I was a little relieved not to have a reminder that they’re the ones who get to grow old together when they don’t even really like each other all that much.

  “You ready?” Jill asks, glancing down at her watch.

  “As I’ll ever be.” I take her outstretched hand and follow her out the door, grabbing CeCe’s hand with my free one: a chain of love and support that I can feel coursing through me.

  I climb into the front passenger seat of Jill’s car and CeCe gets into the back, where Abigail and Beau are waiting. We drive the few blocks to Tommy’s favorite spot on the beach and walk down to where a modest crowd is waiting.

  I’m surprised but happy to see that Becky is there. So are Jack and Blake. Even Brit and a few other people we know from Camille’s. Lou is there; she makes eye contact for a second before looking away. I see Dolly and Sandra from hospice, which means so much. I know attending funerals isn’t in their job description. There are a few other faces I recognize but don’t have the energy to place.

  I do a double take when my eyes lock with Adam’s. He looks older, and not better. His skin looks rough from years in the sun, his face is ruddy, and I notice he’s got an old-man beer belly.

  “Lexie,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

  I nod and force a smile. As much as I despise the man, I know Tommy would tell me he has a right to be here. There was a time when he was an important part of all our lives.

  I glance behind me and see Beau glaring in his dad’s direction. In an attempt to set an example and be the bigger person, I give Adam a kiss on the cheek before going to find the retired minister.

  I’m grateful he’s dressed casually and not in the traditional minister garb. I’m sure he picked up on my resistance to organized religion when we met yesterday to talk. Still, there’s something comforting about being in his presence and I’m glad he agreed to do this. He and Tommy would have liked each other if they’d ever met.

  I look up at the sun breaking through the clouds and feel the warmth on my face. I don’t know what I believe in as far as the afterlife goes, but I hope that wherever Tommy is, he’ll be able to give me a sign that he’s watching over us.

  “We are here to celebrate the life of Thomas Jacob Whistler, Tommy to his friends and family,” the minister says. “Tommy wasn’t a religious man, but he cherished his wife and their daughter, he was a good friend to all he met, a confidant, a good listener, and according to his treasured daughter, Cecelia, he was the world’s best advice-giver.”

  A few small chuckles come from the crowd and I, too, have to smile. I look over at CeCe and squeeze her hand, but she stays stoic, staring out at the water in the distance.

  “I chose a passage from Ecclesiastes that I think Tommy would agree with, and I hope it brings a little comfort to those he has left behind. ‘For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, a time to die, a time to plant and a time to pluck up what is planted. A time to break down, and a time to build up. A time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance. For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.’

  “Lexie, did you want to say a few words?”

  I nod and open the wrinkled sheet of paper that I’ve been folding and unfolding since I put my scattered thoughts down in the dark hours between late last night and early this morning.

  “Over the last decade,” I begin, “Tommy left me little love notes, almost every day. I’d find them in a drawer at home, in the visor of my car, tucked into a notebook—once, he left a note that a babysitter found in the refrigerator. That took some explaining.”

  There are a few laughs and I smile, feeling less and less like I’m giving a eulogy and more like I’m telling a story about the man I love.

  “Even though all of those love notes were stolen words from other writers, lyrics from songs, quotes he googled, Tommy never let a second of the day go by without me knowing how much I was loved. And I only hope that he knows, that he knew, how much I loved him, too.”

  I put the paper down—I don’t need help remembering the rest; it’s the story of us. I look down at the inside of my wrist, at the xx in his handwriting. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, and the look on Tommy’s face when I showed him made it all worth it. The skin around it is still red, but seeing those two letters, the ones he used to close all the love notes over the years, gives me the strength to go on.

  “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know Tommy Whistler. He was the sweet boy with a stutter, and one of the best parts of the summers when I came down here to visit with my grandmother. He was always there with a smile and a kind word that made you feel like you were special.

  “Then I grew up, life got in the way, and it took twenty years for me to find my way back here. I remember running into Tommy again for the first time. We were at Publix and I almost didn’t recognize him, the man he’d grown up to be.

  “It didn’t take long for us to fall back into our old friendship. And then it grew into so much more. My story and Tommy’s story shouldn’t be over. I shouldn’t be standing here, talking about him in the past tense. And there won’t be a single second for the rest of my life that I won’t feel like a piece of my heart is missing.

  “But if Tommy taught me one thing, it’s that you can’t run away from the hard things in life, because you might end up missing the beautiful moments. And every moment I spent with him was beautiful. I love you, Tommy Whistler, now and forever.”

  I fold the paper back into my hand and walk back to take my spot next to CeCe.

  She looks up at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Would anyone else like to say a few words?”

  “I do,” CeCe says.

  “You don’t have to,” I whisper. When we talked about it yesterday, she said she didn’t think she’d be able to make it through saying anything without falling apart, which she didn’t want to do with people watching.

  “I know,” she says. “But I want to.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  CeCe

  I wasn’t planning to say anything, but now that I’m here, I can’t not say something. I don’t have anything written down or prepared, but it’s not like I’ll ever have this chance again.

  “Everyone thinks they have the best dad,” I say, pushing my glasses up. “But mine really is the best. Was the best,” I correct myself. “I’m a teenager, I’m supposed to hate my parents—most of my friends do. But my dad, he was my best friend. He got me like no one else did. He knew when I needed space, or when I needed a hug. He gave the best hugs.”

  I look up and Mom is ugly crying. I know I’ll lose it, too, if I keep looking at her, so I find Beau’s eyes and hold his stare. He smiles and I’m ready to go on.

  “He was nice to strangers, he always gave a dollar to the homeless people when he saw them on the street, he was good to animals and the environment and to me and my mom. He taught me to treat others the way I wanted to be treated. I know that sounds like cheesy advice, but when he said it, you just believed it.

  “I know there are going to be times in my life when I’ll see my friends with their dads and I’ll be jealous. But none of their dads are like mine was, and I’d r
ather have fourteen years as his daughter than a hundred years as someone else’s.”

  My eyes scan all the sad faces standing in front of me and I decide I’ve said all that I needed to say. But I’m not sure how to end this, so I just stand there like a moron and start to cry. Once the tears start falling, I can’t stop them.

  Mom holds out her arms, so I walk toward her and let her hug me. She whispers in my ear, her voice loud and fierce, “You’ll always be his daughter, and he’ll always be your dad.”

  The minister says some other stupid religious stuff that’s supposed to be comforting but is really just annoying. Then he hands my mom the canister that’s full of what they claim are my dad’s ashes. But for all we know, it’s a scam and they just scoop a bunch of dust into a fancy bucket and put a lid on it.

  Mom reaches for my hand and I let her take it in case it makes her feel better. But it doesn’t help me. None of this is helping me—I just want to be alone.

  She told me yesterday that after the service we were going to walk to the edge of the water, just the two of us, to spread a handful of the ashes. I agreed, but I hadn’t really been thinking about how strange it would feel.

  Mom takes the lid off the canister that looks kind of like the one we keep flour in back home. She reaches inside to take a handful of ashes then offers the open container to me, but I jerk my hand away.

  “I know this feels really weird,” she says.

  I look at her, surprised. She was the one who wanted to do this in the first place.

  “This wasn’t my idea,” Mom says. “But it’s what your dad wanted, and that’s all the reason I need.”

  I take a deep breath and reach my hand into the pile of ashes. If it’s what my dad wanted, then I don’t want to let him down. The ashes feel kind of like sand, but softer and finer.

  “Think we should say something?” Mom asks.

  I shrug. I said all that I wanted to say up there.

  Mom smiles at me and then looks down to her hands, holding what’s supposed to be my dad. “I love you, babe,” she says as she tosses her handful into the water.

  I watch the ashes swirl, mixing with the water before disappearing as a wave pulls them back into the surf. Mom looks over at me, her eyes all shiny. She doesn’t bother to wipe away the tear that slides down her cheek.

  My lips move to say the words “I love you, Daddy,” but no sound comes out. I open my fist and let the wind carry the pieces that may or may not be him out into the ocean.

  This time, I’m the one who reaches for my mom’s hand as we start what feels like the world’s longest walk back up to the rest of the group.

  “You’re all invited to join us back at Lexie and CeCe’s house for some light refreshments,” Aunt Jill says. “But first, if everyone would please take a balloon.”

  A balloon? This isn’t a birthday party.

  Abigail and Lou start walking around with two of the big black trash bags we use at The Broken Crown. They open the bags for each person to take an inflated red balloon, tied at the bottom with a long, white ribbon. This has Pinterest written all over it.

  Even though it seems completely stupid, I take one when Abigail walks up to me.

  “I have markers if you want them,” Aunt Jill explains, “to write a message or a prayer on the balloon, then we’ll all send them up together.”

  Everyone takes a Sharpie and starts writing on the balloons as if it’s a totally normal thing to do, like Dad will actually be able to read them. I look back to my own blank balloon.

  I pull the Sharpie cap off, feeling empty and out of words. I close the marker back up. This is stupid.

  Mom and I make eye contact and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing. But then she bows her head and starts scribbling something. I sigh and take the cap back off. I put the tip of the marker on the balloon, hoping words will come to me, but they don’t.

  I write I love you, Daddy. But I need something more, just in case he does see it. I close my eyes and hear a song playing somewhere in the distance, as if the wind is carrying it to me. I know what to write.

  I smile and blink to try to stop the tears from falling. I write: This time, you’re the one breaking my heart. I’ll love you forever and miss you for always.—Cecelia

  I lift my glasses up to wipe the fresh tears away. When I’m as put back together as I can get, I notice Aunt Jill looking at me as if she understands. I look away because I don’t want to cry in front of all these people again.

  “It looks like everyone’s ready,” Aunt Jill says. “On the count of three, let go of your balloon.” She looks around the group, and everyone nods in understanding. “One, two, three.”

  At her signal, everyone lets go of their balloons. I hold on to mine for a second more, giving it a kiss before letting it fly. A chill rushes through me and I wrap my arms around my shoulders, looking up at all the red balloons on their way to heaven.

  The group shifts and Aunt Becky is the first one out of the pack. She gives me a quick squeeze and whispers in my ear, “I love you, baby cakes.” She moves on to my mom and I’m standing alone for a brief moment, which is more than okay with me.

  A little old woman I don’t know comes up and gives me a sloppy, wet kiss on the cheek. “He’s in a better place, dear.”

  I force a smile and ball my hands into tight fists, squeezing so hard I feel my nails digging into my palms. “Excuse me,” I say before I explode.

  I can’t handle all these people acting like they know me, like they knew my dad. I scan the faces, looking for Beau, and find him standing off to the side. I see his dad walking up to him at the same time he does.

  Beau looks away from his dad and locks his eyes with mine instead. He moves to walk toward me, but I shake my head. He stops, pausing for a moment before turning back to the man who really does look like him. Beau might hate his dad, but he’s still alive. And he knows I won’t be his excuse for not talking to him. Not today.

  It’s easy to find Mom. There’s a crowd of people circled around her, all waiting their turn to talk. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if I were her.

  “Mom?” I ask, even though she’s clearly in the middle of a conversation.

  Under normal circumstances, she’d tell me not to interrupt, but there’s nothing normal about these circumstances. “Yeah, sweetie?”

  “Can I walk home?”

  “You don’t want to wait for a ride?” I shake my head. “Okay, we’ll be there soon.”

  I turn and start to walk down the beach, figuring I’ll walk by the water until I get closer to the beach access by our house.

  “Ceese?” I turn back around. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Alexis

  It was a nice service,” Jill says, clearing the last of the deli platters from the folding table someone set up where Tommy’s bed used to be. It’s amazing how fast they made everything disappear, how quickly everything changed. It’s like I went to sleep one morning and July had somehow turned into August and Tommy was gone.

  “Very nice,” Becky agrees.

  “Nice,” I echo with just a bit of sarcasm. It’s such a pedestrian word for something so life-alteringly devastating.

  If Tommy were here, he’d raise his eyebrows and give me a look that said, Don’t be mean. Later, in a quiet moment, he would get all shrinky and tell me everyone handles grief differently, and that no one knows the right things to say because sometimes there aren’t any.

  “I’m going to make some tea,” Jill says, moving around the house as if it’s hers. “Do you want some?”

  “She drinks coffee,” Becky says, looking up from the stack of folding chairs she’s refolding. “Well, half coffee and half skim milk with one and a half Splendas. Sometimes two.”

  They look at each other and then back at me, waiting. As if the choice of a hot beverage I don’t even want in the first place could determine which one knows me best. Really, it’s just furth
er proof that I’m like two different people—Alexis back in Atlanta and Lexie down here. Tommy was the one common denominator that bridged the gap and held the two pieces of me together.

  “Tea’s fine,” I tell Jill, who smiles and retreats to the kitchen. “Coffee will just keep me awake,” I tell Becky.

  Becky abandons her task and sits next to me on the love seat where I’ve been holding court most of the afternoon. “I bet you’re ready for this day to be over.”

  “Yes and no.” She looks at me, curious. “I was ready for the funeral. Well, not ready.” I hate when I can’t find the right words. “I knew it was coming.”

  “Too soon.” Becky sighs.

  I nod in agreement, although any time before never would have been too soon. “But after this?” I look around at the aftermath of the shiva-ish thing everyone thought would be nice to have after the service. “I don’t know what to do next.”

  “You’ll take it one day at a time,” Becky says, laying her hand gently on top of mine.

  I can’t blame her for the cliché advice—just a few short months ago, before words like “terminal” and “cancer” and “stage 4B” were part of my vocabulary, I probably would have said the same sort of thing. Hell, I’ve probably written those exact words on any number of letters and pamphlets on behalf of Dox Pharmacy.

  I know this isn’t the right time to make Becky tell me about what’s been happening at the agency, but getting back to work would help take my mind off everything I don’t want to be dwelling on. If Tommy were here, he would remind me that I was fine all summer, that I got used to not thinking about work after the first two weeks. He would tell me to be careful, not to use work as a crutch, an excuse to run away. He would tell me to be here, to be present in the moment for myself and for CeCe. Of course, he wouldn’t be wrong.

  “When do you think you’ll come back home to Atlanta?” Becky asks.

  “I just said I don’t know,” I snap. She tightens her grip on my hand, letting me know she knows I don’t mean it. “I’m sorry.”