You and Me and Us

by Alison Hammer

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  “I have something for you,” Abigail says. “It’s not much.”

  I watch as she hands my mom a rolled-up sheet of paper.

  My mom’s back is facing me and I see her shoulders fall as she unrolls it. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I walk closer. When I see what she’s holding, my stomach drops. It’s a drawing of my dad and it looks so much like him—the real him, not the sick him—that the hole in my heart grows even bigger and emptier.

  “It’s beautiful,” I tell Abigail.

  Mom wipes a tear from her eye and looks at me. She smiles as if I said something to her and not to Abigail.

  “I hope you like it,” she says.

  “Sweet girl,” Mom says, pulling Abigail close. “I love it. And I love you. Thank you so much.”

  Abigail blushes and steps back, behind her mom.

  Our moms hug and cry as though we’re going across the country and not just five hours away. “I miss you already,” Aunt Jill says.

  “I couldn’t have survived any of this without you,” Mom tells her. “I love you so much.”

  I haven’t heard “I love you” come out of her mouth this many times in my entire life.

  “Say goodbye, CeCe,” she says, climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “Goodbye, CeCe,” I mutter under my breath.

  But since this really is goodbye, I give Aunt Jill one more hug and even give Abigail a quick one. Saving the best for last, I turn toward Beau, who is standing there suddenly looking shy, with his hands in his pockets.

  I slip my arms through his and squeeze him tight. He doesn’t reciprocate and I know it’s because my mom is watching us in the rearview mirror.

  In spite of that, or maybe because of it, I go up on my tippy toes, giving Beau one last kiss. And not a platonic one, either. I can feel his face getting hot, his cheeks flushing as he steps away.

  “Don’t forget about me,” I whisper before walking around to the passenger side of the car.

  Through the window, I see Mom lifting her purse off the passenger seat, putting it on the armrest. If she thinks I’m going to spend five hours sitting next to her, she’s crazier than I thought.

  I open the door to the backseat and climb in.

  She might be the parent, but she’s not the boss of me.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Alexis

  Five hours have never felt so long in my entire life. If the government needs a new form of torture, I’d be happy to lend them CeCe. Because a road trip with a sulking teenager refusing to talk even if it’s just to answer a simple question like “Are you hungry?” or “Do you have to go to the bathroom?” is just about as bad as it gets.

  At least we’re almost home. Depending on traffic, we’ll be there in somewhere between five and twenty-five minutes. Of all the things I missed about Atlanta, the traffic is not one of them.

  I glance in the rearview mirror: CeCe is curled up, looking down at her phone. Texting Beau, I bet.

  “Imagine me and you, I do.” The familiar song comes drifting through the speakers.

  CeCe hears it, too.

  She looks up and her eyes meet mine for a millisecond before she looks away and puts her headphones back on. I don’t blame her; I’m not ready for this song yet, either.

  I turn the volume knob all the way to the left. We were happy together.

  The silence is even louder than the music had been. I focus on the wind whirring outside the car and not the beating of my heart, echoing in my chest and in my ears. Better listening to that than the doubts that keep circling through my head. How am I going to do this? I don’t think I can.

  Turning onto our street, my heart skips a beat when I see a bunch of red balloons tied to a mailbox outside the Murrays’ house. As much as I wish they were a sign from Tommy, I know they’re probably just a sign that Dylan or Alex is having a birthday party.

  Still, I watch the red balloons wave in the wind until they disappear from my view as I turn into our driveway. Without Tommy, our house feels like it’s just a building where three people used to live. Now two.

  The willow tree in our front yard seems sadder than normal, its branches bowing in reverence to the man of the house, who didn’t come home. We’re all in mourning.

  I turn the car off but don’t move to get out. I’m not quite ready. Neither is CeCe, apparently, because she’s still sitting there, so quiet and still that if her eyes weren’t open, I’d think she was asleep. It’s like we both know that once we open the front door, it will feel like we’re moving on. And neither of us is ready for that.

  But I have to pretend like I am because I’m the grown-up. I open the door and pop the trunk. I grab my suitcase but leave Tommy’s where it is. I’m not sure why I packed all his things to bring home. Maybe because I couldn’t bring him home.

  I turn the key and push the front door open. The floors are shiny and there’s an essence of lemon in the air. Someone must have let Effie know we were coming back. I close my eyes and brace myself.

  CeCe’s watching me.

  I can feel her eyes on my back, so I lift the suitcase and step inside, one foot after the other. That wasn’t so bad.

  I set it down just inside the door and turn to give CeCe a small smile to let her know it’s okay. There’s a bouquet of flowers on the hallway table with piles of mail on both sides.

  Becky must have been here. I can picture her letting herself in with the spare key she’s had for years but until a few months ago never used. The mail looks organized: one stack for the bills Tommy used to take care of, another stack of magazines and catalogs, and finally, a stack of what looks like sympathy cards.

  I recognize the Dox Pharmacy logo on an envelope on top of the pile. The address label reads: To the loved ones of Thomas Whistler. I slide my finger under the flap and pull out the card. Our thoughts are with you, it reads.

  When I wrote the copy for this sympathy card, I never expected to be on the receiving end of it. I remember knocking out the project in less than an hour. I didn’t think about how it would feel to get this card in the mail. I’ll talk to Becky about coming up with something better. Something more heartfelt, more authentic and real.

  The front door opens and closes. CeCe walks past me and up the stairs toward her room without saying a word. I know I should try to get her to talk to me, but she can’t stay mad forever.

  I wish there was a way I could make her understand that I was trying to protect her, not hurt her. That even though she may not realize it now, it’s for her own good.

  There’s a part of me that knows I’m being selfish. But it’s not just about Monica. I’ve been on the other side of that casting couch at commercial auditions—I know how tough it can be for an actress.

  It’s not that I don’t believe in CeCe, I do. I know she’s talented, but the teenage years are tough enough without constantly putting yourself out there for rejection. And when she comes home disappointed like she inevitably will, Tommy won’t be here with the words of wisdom to help her get through it all. And I don’t have it in me. Even if I knew the right words to say, I won’t be able to lift her back up on my own.

  Putting the card back down, I’m not sure what to do next.

  The house feels like a museum, each room an exhibit, a memory of us. I walk through them, one at a time. Through the den, where we watched movies and played Scrabble. Where we set up the Christmas tree and watched CeCe open way more presents than any one child needed. Where CeCe, always the performer, put on one-girl plays for us. The kitchen, where CeCe cooked and Tommy did the dishes, where I sat drinking wine and watching them work. The dining room, where we dined only on the rare occasion we had people over. Tommy’s office.

  I walk inside the room where he spent so much of his time. I wonder if anyone let his patients know he’s gone. I would if I could, but Tommy would be the first to remind me about doctor-patient confidentiality.

  Sitting down in his chair, I close my eyes,
trying to feel close to him. But all I feel is the cold leather of the chair sticking to my skin, damp with sweat. I open the left-side drawer and find a folder with my name on it. The papers. He mentioned papers, but it’s too soon.

  I close the drawer and open the datebook he insists, insisted, on keeping even though everyone else on the planet has upgraded to a digital version. I flip to today’s date. It’s blank. And so are all the pages that come after it, except for the odd reminder to pay recurring bills. Credit cards, cable and electric on the fifteenth. Mortgage and insurance on the first.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out to see Becky’s face flashing across the screen. “Hey, Becks.”

  “Hey, yourself. Just wanted to make sure you made it back okay.”

  “A few minutes ago.” In the background, I can hear the bustle of the office. It’s good to hear things sounding busy there. I’m anxious to get back, to feel normal again. “I might come in tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t that too soon?” Becky asks. “I mean, you don’t have to, if you aren’t ready.”

  “I think it might actually help, to get my mind focused on something else.”

  “But CeCe—”

  “Still isn’t talking to me,” I say. “I don’t think it matters to her if I’m here or not.” Becky sighs and I know she’s struggling to find the right words to say, so I change the subject for her. I used to be good at that. “But if any projects come up that have to do with cancer or terminal illness . . .”

  “We’ll have someone else cover them, don’t you worry. It’ll be good to have you back, it hasn’t been the same around here without you.”

  “It’ll be good to be back.”

  From what Becky finally told me, things at the agency have been going well. The Dox chief marketing officer seems to have had a change of heart. Apparently, he’s been acting impressed, even appreciative, of our work, so there hasn’t been any more talk about putting the account up for review.

  Even if they do, I know we’ll be okay. Win or lose. It’s funny how differently I see my dad’s advice now—the advice I held on to, the advice that influenced so many decisions over the years. I was gone long enough for everyone at the agency to realize they don’t need me—but it was also long enough for me to realize they would be okay without me. The world won’t stop turning if I go home on time, if I don’t go in at all some days. They’ll be okay, and so will CeCe and I.

  “Alrighty, my dear. I have to go settle a typeface dispute. Call me later if you want a distraction.”

  “Thanks, Beck. Love you.”

  She hangs up and I feel a little braver having talked to her. I’ll have to remember that the next time things start to feel like they’re spinning out of control.

  I decide to take advantage of this feeling before it fades and finally open the envelope Jill handed me before we left. The envelope with my name on it, written in Tommy’s familiar, scratchy handwriting.

  Standing up, I roll the chair back and put the planner down where Tommy left it. I close the door behind me. Maybe I can trick myself into thinking he’s in there, busy helping a patient.

  The envelope is sticking out of my purse, taunting me. I bring it outside to read. The porch swing looks inviting, but I wonder if it’s wrong to sit there. In the place where Tommy first told me he was sick.

  I can do this. I take a seat and pull my legs up underneath me, finding comfort in the slight sway of the swing. I hold the closed envelope over my heart for a second until I’m ready. It’s sealed so tightly the flap on the back rips a bit when I try to open it, so I stop. I know it’s just an envelope, but I don’t want to tear it, or God forbid, the letter inside.

  I bite my lip in concentration and slowly peel the flap open, one millimeter at a time. I reach inside for the letter. Two pages, the front and back filled with Tommy’s handwriting.

  To my wife,

  My wife. How cool is that?

  There’s that smile, I hope. The one that lights up your beautiful eyes and my world. I think your smile was the first thing that made me fall in love with you all those years ago. How lucky am I that I finally got to marry the girl of my dreams?

  You were worth the wait, my love.

  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say from here—words are your forte, not mine. But I wanted to leave you with one last reminder that I love you with all of my heart and my soul. That even though I’m not physically there with you, I’m with you.

  I know you don’t think you’re strong enough for this, but Lexie, my love, my life, you are the strongest, bravest, most wonderful woman I have ever met. I only wish that you could see yourself the way that I do. Then you would have no doubt.

  Be easy on yourself, my love. This is not an easy hand you have been dealt, but you aren’t alone. Don’t try to do it all alone. There are so many people around you that love you as much as I do, that want to help. Let them.

  I have so many things left I want to say to you, but I know in my heart of hearts that you already know them all.

  Thank you for loving me. Thank you for giving me a daughter who is so much like you, and not just in the way she looks. I know you worry about her, but she’s strong like her mother. And if she has you in her corner believing in her, there’s nothing she won’t be able to accomplish or overcome.

  I hope that one day you can forgive me for not fighting harder. Believe me, it was the hardest decision I ever had to make, and I’d be lying if I said there weren’t days that I regretted it. I never wanted to leave you. You are my everything.

  And so, my dear, here is one last stolen line from my heart to yours.

  “Don’t cry because it’s over,

  smile because it happened.”

  —Dr. Seuss

  xx, Tommy

  I read the letter through two times and then a third. My fingers fumble as I reach into my pocket and pull out the piece of heavenly sky I’ve been carrying with me since I took it from the puzzle weeks ago. I rub the piece between my fingers, and suddenly, without a doubt, I know what I have to do.

  CeCe was right. It’s what Tommy would have done.

  Chapter Sixty

  CeCe

  I still haven’t read the last note my dad left me. There’s just something about knowing there won’t be another one that makes me want to save it. Once I read it, there won’t be anything else from him for me to read. Ever.

  Instead, I’ve been rereading all the notes he ever wrote me, all the ones he left in my lunch box or my backpack. There must be more than a thousand. A lot of them just say little things like “Have a great day!” or “I love you!” but others have silly advice like “Remember—never look a tiger in the eyes” or “Always say please and thank you when a monkey gives you a banana.”

  My favorites are the longer ones he wrote every year on my birthday, talking about the things I said or did throughout the year and what he was looking forward to in the year ahead. Thanks to those letters, I know I said my first curse word at three years old, that I rode my bicycle without training wheels at six and baked my first cake at eight.

  There’s something special about seeing my life through his eyes. I miss him so much it physically hurts.

  I’m rereading the letter he wrote on my tenth birthday when my laptop starts ringing with a Skype call.

  I set the letter down and click to accept the call.

  “Hey,” Beau says.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he says again and I laugh. He’s the only one who can make me smile these days.

  Mom’s been back at work since the day after we got back. I had to break the silent treatment to convince her I’m old enough to stay in the house on my own without a stupid babysitter, but I’m only talking to her on a very limited, need-to basis.

  “So how’s it being back?” Beau asks. “Because it sucks here without you.”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

  “Seriously, how is it?”

  “Fine.” I shrug. �
��I haven’t been doing much. Watching a lot of TV. Cooking. Lou has been emailing me about new recipe ideas and stuff.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “I bet your friends are happy to have you back.”

  I shrug again. If I felt like a pariah when everyone found out Dad was sick, I don’t even know how to describe how weird it is now. I’m like a leper. “I haven’t really seen them. The big show for theater camp is next week, so everyone’s busy with rehearsals.”

  “Are you going to the show?”

  “Why would I?” I ask. “To support my former best friend? She hasn’t reached out to say she’s sorry that my dad died. Probably because she knows that I know she stabbed me in the back by dating the guy that I like. The guy I liked.” I correct myself a little too late.

  “The guy you like?”

  “The guy I liked,” I repeat. We haven’t talked about whether or not we’re going to try to do the whole long-distance thing yet. But he doesn’t have anything to be worried about. “It’s not even about him. It’s about Sofia. She was my best friend.”

  “I thought I was your best friend?”

  “Stop, you know you’re different.”

  “You look pretty,” he says. I blush, even though I know he’s just trying to change the subject.

  “So do you,” I tell him.

  “I’m trying to convince my mom we should drive up to Atlanta for a weekend before school starts.”

  “That would be amazing. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.” He brings his finger up toward the camera on his laptop and I do the same so it’s almost like our hands are touching in spite of the distance. “When I get my license, I’ll drive up every weekend.”

  “That’s almost a year away.”

  “I guess you’ll have to make some new friends in the meantime. Girlfriends . . .” His smile fades for just a moment before coming back, a little shyer than before. “You don’t need any more guy friends.”

  “There is one girl, Bella. We were kind of friends before, but she’s really quiet and kind of shy.”