The Summer of Lost Things

by Chantele Sedgwick

  He surprises me by pulling out a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket. He waves it in front of my face. When I try to grab it, he pulls it away and shoves it back in his pocket.

  I laugh. “You really made one, and you’re not gonna tell me what’s on it?”

  “Did you tell me everything on yours?”

  “Well, I guess not.” I laugh. “I can’t believe you actually made one. I’m so happy right now.”

  “I crossed off a few this week. Including . . . reading a book.”

  I stare at him. “No way. What did you read? Wait. You read comics at the library.”

  He shrugs. “Those don’t count because they were short. I wanted to read a full length novel. So I chose Jurassic Park.”

  “I love that one!”

  “I do love the movie, but the book was pretty awesome, too.”

  I wrap my arms around him. “This is the best day ever.”

  He laughs again. “So, how many more things do you have to do on your list?”

  “Two.”

  “What are they?”

  “Go to an outdoor concert and visit Susan’s grave.”

  He nods. “We can look up some outdoor concerts around town. There’s always something going on in the summer. And I can take you to Susan’s grave whenever you want. It’s just down the street. Want to go now?”

  “That sounds great.” I start to stand. “Actually,” I hesitate, thinking of Mom. I need to talk to her. To understand. “I need to talk to someone first. Can I call you in a bit?”

  He glances at the house as if reading my thoughts. “Yes.” He gives me a quick kiss and I hurry inside.

  Mom’s in the garage, painting shutters a pretty turquoise blue. Her dark hair is pulled in a messy bun and she has paint on her cheek.

  “Need help?” I ask as I come inside.

  She looks surprised, but nods. “That would be awesome. Grab a brush.”

  I do.

  I kneel next to her and start painting the shutters closest to me. “How many coats do they need?”

  “Two. At least, that’s what I’m planning on. It’s not too hard to cover up white.”

  I paint a few strokes. I don’t let the silence linger, though. Too much is waiting to be said. “I know about Susan.”

  She glances up with wide, shocked eyes. “What?”

  I’m surprised she’s not angry at me for bringing her up again. She’s actually keeping her cool this time. “I said, I know about Susan. Your best friend from high school. I know what happened to her. I looked her up at the library.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t talk about it and I had to find out who she was. Oh, and she’s Jack’s aunt. I could have asked him the whole time.”

  She doesn’t say anything, just stares.

  “She was your best friend. The one you wrote your summer list with.”

  She’s quiet as her eyes fill with tears. “Yes.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Please, Mom. You can talk to me about anything. You can’t keep holding it in. It’s not healthy and I see what it does to you. You need to talk about it.”

  “Where did you find the list?”

  I hesitate. “In your Anne of Green Gables book.”

  “Can I see it?”

  I nod then hurry upstairs to get it. Once I get back downstairs, I hand it to her.

  She doesn’t answer for a moment, just touches the penciled handwriting with such a sad look on her face. Then she takes a shaky breath. “We wrote this list right after graduation.”

  “Did you do a bunch of them before . . .?”

  “We did. We finished all of them, actually. We were going cliff jumping to celebrate finishing the list the day she . . .” She shakes her head. “We wanted to do something fun. Something with our friends. Susan and I had been swimming and jumping many times. She wasn’t feeling great that day, said she had a headache, but I told her to come anyway. We were celebrating the beginning of our new adult lives after all, since we’d just completed our list.” She smiles, then shakes her head, her eyes cast down. “At first, we just swam. We hung out with our crushes and just had fun. Then I said we should try the cliffs.”

  She shakes her head again.

  “She still wasn’t feeling well but came anyway.” Another shaky breath. “I jumped first. I waited for her at the bottom and when she jumped . . .” Her voice catches. “She never came back up.”

  “Mom,” I whisper.

  “It was my fault. I made her do it. By the time we were able to get hold of the police, it was too late. I tried and tried to find her. I almost drowned myself, but her brother saved me. He tried to find her, too.”

  “Wait . . . her brother was there?”

  She shrugs. “We were dating at the time.”

  Mike. She was dating Mike. I knew it.

  She keeps talking and I don’t interrupt. “After Susan died, though, I broke it off. Then I moved out, much to Gran’s disapproval. She and I were so close and I’m the youngest, so she had a really hard time when I left. But I couldn’t stay here. Not after Susan, and with all her family living all around me.”

  She smiles softly. “Mike came after me, but the guilt was too much. I couldn’t be with him anymore. So, I told him to leave me alone and never contact me again.” A tear slips down her cheek. “I had to.”

  I’ve never thought about her being with anyone but Dad. Even since the divorce I haven’t thought about her finding someone else. It’s just been us three. But now that Dad’s gone, she deserves to be happy again.

  “Mike,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “That explains why he was so weird when I met him the first time. He’s . . . actually quite handsome. For an old guy.”

  She chuckles, wiping away tears. “He was.”

  “He is. And he asked about you.”

  She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Does it matter that he’s single?” I don’t know why I say it. It’s not like I’ve thought much about Mom dating anyone new. But seeing her happy again? Maybe with her high school sweetheart? It’s like a movie. Or a love story in a book.

  Really weird though.

  She stares at me but says nothing.

  I sigh. “Mom. I just want you to be happy. Susan didn’t die because of you. She made the choice to jump. You didn’t make her do anything.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way.”

  “I know, but still, she’s the one who jumped. Just like you jumped. It was her choice. It wasn’t your fault. You have to let it go. And I know you’ve been overprotective with me because of her. You’re allowed to worry because you’re my mom. But you can’t stop me from doing everything because of it. I’m almost eighteen. I need to learn to take risks. Do things without you. Find my own way. My own job that I actually want.”

  “I know,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She glances around. “This place. I didn’t want to move back here, but since I didn’t have a lot of options, I had no choice. It was so hard for me to come back. To remember everything. To think about you being the same age. I just got carried away, I think. I’ll try to be better, Lucy. I promise.” She closes her eyes.

  “Thank you.”

  She nods and glances up at me. “I still haven’t visited her grave.”

  I grab her hand. “I can go with you, if you want. When you’re ready. Jack knows where it is.”

  She nods and gives me a small smile as she squeezes my hand.

  “And I’m sorry about Dad. He’s disappointed you so much. Both of us. It’s not fair.”

  “I still love your father. The part of him I fell in love with, anyway. I tried to work things out. But sometimes people change too much and you never know if they’ll ever come back. That’s why I left. I couldn’t change him back. He’s the one who needed to choose to change.”

  “
And he didn’t.”

  “No,” she says.

  “Do you think he’ll ever be the same as he once was?”

  “I don’t know. I just want him to be a father to you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

  “Kind of hard if I can’t even see him.”

  “I know. But you can do something about that.”

  “What?”

  “Write him back. Oakley told me you read his letters. Now you just need to answer him. Start a relationship. Forgive him.”

  “I know.” I fiddle with my paint brush. “And I did write him back. I just need to mail it.”

  She blinks in surprise. “Really? You did?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll mail it tomorrow. If you’re okay with that.”

  I let out a breath. “Yes. I think I am.” She reaches for my hand again and gives it another squeeze. “So, no dating for you then?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Not now at least.”

  “What about me?” I smile.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he good to you?”

  “Yes. Too good.”

  “Then go for it.”

  “Maybe you and Mike can double with us one day?” I hesitate. “That would be super weird. My mom dating? Gross.”

  “Yes. It would.” She rolls her eyes, then pulls me into a hug so fierce that I know I’ll never doubt how much she loves me ever again.

  CHAPTER 38

  “It’s in vain to recall the past, unless it works some influence upon the present.”

  —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield

  The cemetery is quiet as Mom, Jack, and I make our way down the path toward Susan’s grave.

  Mom’s quiet.

  I’m thoughtful.

  It’s been so long since Susan died, but by the look on Mom’s face, no less difficult.

  We walk up a small hill and see a person standing near a tree, looking at a small headstone underneath. It’s not showy or extravagant, but small, clean, and cared for.

  “I didn’t know Mike would be here,” Jack says, watching his uncle bend down and scrub something off the headstone.

  “Mike?” Mom says.

  He looks up, his jaw dropping slightly as he sees us. He sets the cloth down in the grass and stands, stepping toward us.

  “Jack, Lucy,” he nods toward us, then his eyes linger on Mom. “Ana,” he says, soft, unsure.

  “It’s been a long time,” Mom says.

  He nods. “It has.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off her, and I swear she hasn’t blinked.

  I glance between both of them, since the silence is deafening. It’s a little uncomfortable seeing her stare at him like that, so I pretend to clear my throat. “Um, my mom wanted to see Susan’s grave. She still hasn’t seen it.”

  He nods again and steps back, letting Mom have access to it.

  She doesn’t move.

  “Mom,” I whisper, nudging her to take a step forward.

  She shakes her head, her breathing heavy. “I . . .”

  I shoot a worried glance at Jack. I’m not sure what to do. I can’t force her to walk over there, but I don’t want her to just stand here either.

  As I raise a hand to touch Mom’s shoulder, Mike steps forward, holding out a hand. “It’s okay, Ana. It’s okay.”

  She stares at his hand and shakes her head. “It’s not,” she whispers.

  He takes a step closer to her, then another, until he’s standing right in front of her. “Come on. You don’t have to go alone.” He’s so kind. So gentle. So patient. He reminds me a lot of Jack.

  “Ana,” he says softly. Mike holds out his elbow, and after hesitating only a moment, Mom slips her hand through it. Her knuckles are nearly white as she hangs onto his arm. Mike doesn’t seem to mind, though, and leads her to the grave.

  As I watch them, Jack’s hand finds mine and he pulls me back a few steps, allowing them some space.

  They stop. Mom lifts a hand to her mouth as she reads the headstone’s inscription and lowers herself to her knees. Mike kneels down next to her, his arm still around her as her silent cry turns to a sob.

  “It’s okay,” Mike says. “She’s okay.”

  Mom shakes her head and Mike pulls her closer. She wraps her arms around him and sobs into his shoulder.

  We back away more, letting them grieve together.

  “They were both there when she died,” I say, as Jack squeezes my hand. “She’s had such a hard time letting it go. I can’t imagine seeing my best friend die.” Then I remember Jack’s best friend died. I pull him into a hug, wrapping my arms around his waist and leaning my head against his chest. “I’m sorry about Ben.”

  He strokes my hair, his voice full of emotion when he speaks. “He’s buried right over there.”

  “Do you want to visit him?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve been there a lot, but yes, I’d like to show you.”

  I step away from him but still hold his hand as he leads me to his friend’s grave.

  He stops in front of one with a bunch of flowers set around it. “His family keeps up on it pretty well. There are always fresh flowers here, almost every week.”

  I look at the inscription. Benjamin Eric Williams. He was only sixteen.

  Jack brushes a few strands of old grass from the headstone, left there by the wind. He takes my hand and stands up again. I squeeze his hand and we turn back toward Mom and Mike.

  They’re sitting in the grass now, talking softly. Mom’s still wiping her tears, but she’s not sobbing anymore.

  “He never married.”

  “Mike? Really?”

  “He always told us the one he wanted slipped away from him. He’s never looked twice at another lady. Not that I’ve noticed. And there have been plenty of women who have been interested. Some of the riding students’ moms even.” He shivers and I laugh.

  “He’s been in love with her this whole time,” I say.

  “Looks like it.”

  “That should go in a book. I mean, if they work out. My mom’s still working things out, though. She’s had to deal with a lot of hurt over the past five years.”

  “Well, he’s waited this long, I suppose.”

  “Yeah.” I stare at Mike, rubbing Mom’s back, his expression so tender as she talks. “He has.”

  CHAPTER 39

  “I’m not a bit changed—not really. I’m only just pruned down and branched out. The real ME—back here—is just the same.”

  —Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

  A letter arrives from Dad a few days later. I hurry upstairs to open it, happy with how things are going but still a little nervous of what the contents contain.

  Lucy,

  Thank you so much for writing me back. I’ve missed talking to you so much. You brightened my spirits when I received your letter and I can’t count how many times I’ve read it. Thank you. From the bottom of your old dad’s heart. Thank you for still caring and calling me Dad.

  As for your mother. She’s gone through some hard stuff. Especially with Susan. Don’t be too hard on her. She’s just looking out for you because she loves you and worries. She’ll come around.

  I enclosed a sketch of the Rocky Mountains. I’ve missed drawing and I hope you’ll send me some of your work, too. My cell is pretty dull.

  Oh, and I was going to ask you about your friends. Tell me all about them. I want to know everything.

  I hope you’re doing well. I pray for you. I love you. I miss you.

  Dad.

  I hang the drawing of the mountains on my wall and open my drawer to pull out my sketchbook when I notice an envelope peeking at me.

  From the family. The family Dad killed.

  “You still haven’t read that?”

  I glance at the door where Mom’s leaning against the door frame. “No.”

  “How about we read it together?”

  I nod, my stomach in knots.

  She sits down on my bed and pats
the space next to her. I join her and hand her the letter.

  Dear Lucy,

  I know you didn’t know my daughter and her new husband, but I know the pain you’re feeling. Your dad made a mistake and my daughter was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know you’re young. I know you’re struggling with the pain of having your dad taken from you and know that I’m struggling with not seeing my daughter again. But through all this, I want you to know:

  None of this is your fault.

  I sought your name from your mother because of how young you are and I know how young minds think. They think everything is their fault. That the actions of their loved ones are because of something they did, or something they didn’t do.

  Please know I hold no ill will against your family. This was an accident. It was not malicious in any way. I forgive your father, and if you haven’t done the same, you should, too. Addiction causes unbearable heartbreak for all parties involved, and I pray for you and your family that you can find healing, hope, and most of all, love.

  All my love,

  Cynthia Gordon

  There are no words as we finish the letter.

  All I can feel are the emotions of her words.

  Healing, hope, and love.

  CHAPTER 40

  “To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life.”

  —Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

  The waves crash onto the beach, singing their beautiful watery song. I sit in a crowd of maybe fifty, watching my dearest cousin walk down the aisle toward her true love. She’s dressed in white, a fitting dress that hugs her slim curves. It’s elegant and classy.

  Oakley gives me a wink as she passes, and I squeeze Jack’s hand. He sits next to me on one side, Mom on the other.

  Her dad walks her down the aisle, and Oakley’s mom sits in the front row next to a woman with long curly hair. I’ve forgotten how much my uncle looks like Dad. They are brothers, after all. Dad is skinnier, shorter. But they do resemble each other.

  An ache forms in my chest as I think of him. He would have loved to be here today to support his brother and his niece.

  “You okay?” Jack asks, leaning closer to me.