Anywhere With You (8 page)

Jack

It felt like losing her all over again.

Amelie and I were cleaning out my dad’s house when I found the letters. It happened quite by accident as I hadn’t known there’d been more aside from those I had in the book that Amelie had made me way back when. And judging by where they were stashed, I’m not so sure my dad knew about them either. But he’s no longer around to ask, so who knows?

I’ll never forget what it felt like pulling that first one out of the box and seeing her handwriting. It socked me right in the throat. When I opened it up, it gut-checked me.

Dear Jack,

I write these letters to you while you’re napping, or at preschool, or sometimes, you’re just sitting on the floor playing, the way you are today. Maybe it’s silly, I don’t know. Your father seems to think it’s a bit overboard, and my friends think I’m crazy, and still, I don’t stop. The truth is writing to you makes me feel better—which seems really odd given that you’re only three. But the tests show cancer and even though my prognosis is good—well, I just can’t help but think, ‘what if?’ There are all these things I want to tell you about and there’s so very much I want to teach you yet. Things other than writing your name and learning using the potty. Bigger things, Jack. And it terrifies me that there’s even a possibility that, no matter how small the possibility is right now, I might not be around to teach you these things. I might not get to see you grow up. I don’t like to plan for the worst—but then again, death is inevitable, so I figure no matter what anyone else thinks, these letters are important. They’re important to me. And hopefully, they’ll be important to you.

Love you always,

Mom

I fold the letter up, return it to its envelope, unfold the next one, and read it, too. All of a sudden, I just couldn’t stop reading her words. I felt like for reasons I couldn’t—or didn’t—yet understand that I really wanted to know her. For the most part, I had always felt such a sense of remorse when it came to my mother. But now, something seemed different—even if I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what that thing was.

Dear Jack,

You’re sleeping now, your head nestled into my lap. You’ve come down with chickenpox and you’re absolutely miserable. I feel very much the same.

I hate it when you’re sick. It’s the worst feeling in the world for a mother to watch her child suffer and not be able to fix it. I would do anything to take your misery away and yet I can’t. I know this is just a typical childhood illness and that it’ll pass, but it makes me think of all the mother’s out there who don’t get to be so lucky.

Watching you suffer makes me consider my own illness and how there are some things in life we just can’t fix. We can only make the best of them.

Someday, and it isn’t a matter of if—but a matter of when you’ll come across something you want to fix but can’t. Maybe it’s a friend or a girlfriend—or maybe it’ll be your own babies getting sick. So, I want to give you the same advice I need to hear right now. Just sit with it, Jack. Just be there and make the very best of whatever shitty situation it is you can’t fix. Sometimes just holding that person in your arms is the very best answer.

Sometimes, this will fix it—but often it won’t. Hold on anyway. Because what else can you do? Having you has taught me this. It has taught me so many things—and the very best of all of them is the power of love.

Love you,

Mom

P.S. Hopefully I don’t sound like I’m rambling. This is what tired parents do.

Somewhere around the fourth letter or so, Amelie came in and sat down beside me. She handed me a glass of water, and she didn’t say anything, which I appreciated.

We just sat there in silence for a long while and stared at the contents of my parent’s lives.

Eventually, I drank the water, laid my head in her lap, and cried myself to sleep.

And I’m not a crier.

“There are all of these letters my mother wrote,” I told Amelie the following day, as I flipped through the box I’d just carried from the bedroom to the kitchen. “I found dozens of them I didn’t even know we had.”

She cocked her head to the side and studied me. She’d been out of the hospital for two days and the color was finally starting to reappear in her cheeks. “That’s amazing, Jack,” she eventually remarked as she looked through old photos. I’ve seen them but I’m not ready to really see them.

“I guess,” I told her. “But in some ways, it’s like losing her all over again.”

She nodded, studying a photo. “I can imagine.” I watched her face as she moved from photo to photo and I’m worried. I don’t tell her this—but I was afraid she was going to leave. I mean, I knew she was going to leave. It’s just that I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“You’re looking better,” I told her in an attempt to fish for the answers to the questions I had, but without having to actually ask them. She looked at me then. “Are you feeling better?” I asked.

She looked away. Maybe she knew me better than I thought she did. “Yeah, I am... Much better…” She sighed, setting the stack of photos on the counter. Then she propped herself up on top of the counter next to the photos.

My dad’s kitchen was a wreck by this point. There was food the neighbors had dropped by and neither Amelie nor I seemed to be hungry, so it just sat there. There were half empty boxes and unopened mail. The funeral was to take place the following morning and all I wanted to do was sleep. I didn’t want to pack up my dad’s things. I didn’t want to deal with well-meaning neighbors. I just wanted to be alone with her.

“Hey, Jack,” Amelie called and I looked over at her, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was focused on something outside the kitchen window. “I know there’s a lot going on, and I just want to apologize. I really didn’t mean to come here and add to your troubles.”

I walked over to the counter where she was perched, and I wedged myself in between her legs. “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “You haven’t added to anything.” I frowned. “You’ve actually helped me a great deal…”

She eyed me as she swept her hair up into a bun and wrapped it on top of her head. “It doesn’t feel that way,” she told me, her eyes sad.

“Well, it is that way,” I said taking her chin in my hand, forcing her to look at me.

She bit her lip, paused and then exhaled. “There’s something I need to tell you…”

I furrowed my brow, and I waited. “Ok,” I urged. Still, she hesitated. “Tell me.”

She looked away again and then back at me. As she searched my eyes, she began to smile slightly. “Ah, you know what… never mind.”

“You can’t do that, Amelie.”

She waved her hand and then pushed me backward. Then she hopped off the counter. “No, really, it’s nothing,” she assured me. “It’s just work stuff—and I just decided I don’t wanna talk about it.”

I watched her as she picked up a plate and wrapped it in newspaper. “When do you have to get back?” I asked.

She shrugged. “How long do you need me to stay?”

Forever, I wanted to tell her. As long as you can, would have been my next best response. Instead, I purse my lips and then relax. “Until you have to go.” I compromised.

She looked out the window once more, this time further off. “I told Ian I’d be a week or so, you know…” she said, chewing on her bottom lip. “He’s my boss.”

“Your work is important. I get it.”

She smiled. “I like to think so. But sometimes I wonder.”

I looked away and shuffled through the box of letters. “Well, you shouldn’t.”

“When has shouldn’t ever stopped me before?” she asked, and I heard her laugh, but I still couldn’t look at her. For the first time in as long as I could remember, maybe ever, I was scared. Scared of losing the only really good thing I had left. And yet I knew it was just a matter of time before she goes. Worse yet, if she were to stay, it would only be a matter of time before one of us would mess things up, and this time, likely, once and for all.

Amelie

What’s in a goodbye?

I was lying there in Jack’s apartment in his spare bedroom. I checked the time. It was 2:48 in the morning, and I could hear him in his office down the hall. There was a part of me that wanted to go to him, but there was another part telling me to stay put. His father’s funeral was in eight hours, and I highly doubted either one of us would sleep between now and then.

I hadn’t really slept in days, not since the hospital. The ER docs told me to discontinue the Klonopin and discuss next steps with my doctor. But I’d been so busy helping Jack and trying to recover from my near death experience, that I’d failed to follow up with my doctor. Also, my doctor so happened to be Ian’s good friend, and I really wasn’t ready to open that can of worms. Not yet. The only trouble was yesterday. The horrible thoughts I’d had once upon a time, returned unexpectedly. And all I’d been able to think about since was how my life and my career and the only stable relationship—if you could call it that—I’d ever had were all pretty much over. Ian had been fairly understanding—but he also wanted me home. The trouble was I didn’t want to go home.

Because the truth was, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to live.

I stayed at Jack’s side throughout the short service. He didn’t cry. He just sat there stoically with his hands in his lap. It didn’t turn awkward until afterward when everyone assumed we were a couple, although neither of us did much in the way of correcting them.

Following the service, we rode to the cemetery where his father was to be buried next to his mother. I stared out the window at the leaves on the trees, green and lush. As the warm sunlight poured through the tinted window and onto my skin, the only thing I could think of was who might sit at Jack’s side at my funeral. I wondered who all would turn out for the occasion. Would it be small and intimate? Or large—teeming with people and their good intentions, glad that if it had to be somebody to die, it wasn’t them? Would they be sad for an entire day—or would they pay their respects and get on with it like the rest of the world? Would the day be gray and cloudy, overcast—or gorgeous like today? Almost too gorgeous to hold an occasion with such finality. And how did one really say goodbye anyway? I wondered what I had done in my life—if anything—to deserve the grief of family or friends—or lack thereof, depending on the person, and I couldn’t come up with one good thing. Part of me considered what an odd thing this was to think.

While the other part felt nothing.

“Seriously? Why don’t you stay for a while?” Jack asked the following morning out of the blue. I was lying on his couch and he was pacing. I hated it when he paced. It wasn’t like him. “Take some time off, maybe a sabbatical,” he said. I eyed him curiously. The truth was I had already had three, maybe four shots of the vodka I’d picked up the afternoon before. I knew I shouldn’t drink, but I also knew I had to make the horrible thoughts go away. “We could go somewhere,” he suggested.

I didn’t say anything at first. I simply closed my eyes. My heart, I think, if only I could feel any sort of emotion within it, wanted to say yes. So my mind did the speaking. “How did everything get so messed up?” I asked.

I could feel his eyes on me even though I hadn’t opened mine. “I don’t know. That’s life, I guess.”

“Then maybe I don’t want to live,” I said. I didn’t mean to say it. Somehow, it just slipped right on out.

In an instant, Jack was at my side. I felt him kneel beside the couch. “WHAT the fuck are you talking about, Amelie?”

“Nothing—” I said as I opened my eyes. I shook my head. “I’m just tired.”

“You sound like you’ve been drinking. You smell—”

“Vodka doesn’t have a smell!” I interjected and instantly, I regretted it. But I was drunk, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. My defenses were down. I looked over at him. He’s got me and we both knew it.

“It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Amelie. Why are you drinking?”

“I don’t know, “I told him.

“Well, maybe you should give it some thought.” I watched as he stood, headed straight for the front door, and let it slam behind him.

I would’ve left, too. I would have grabbed my things and hightailed it home. If only I hadn’t had so much to drink.

I didn’t have a drinking problem. Really I didn’t. What I had was—a not feeling anything, a numbing problem that I would use drinking to fix. And if it wasn’t the drinking—then it was the medication– and if it wasn’t the medication—then it was my work—and if it wasn’t my work—then I hadn’t figured out what it was yet. Which scared me. Because I was going to have to. If I stayed in Austin any longer, I was probably going to lose my job. And my fiancé, too. Although that was probably good riddance. But, then again, Ian had his good qualities, too. I drank less when I was with him. Actually, I did all the bad things less. Which really was kind of nice.

I wouldn’t want anyone, least of all Jack, to think Ian was all bad. That’s why I hadn’t told him the whole truth. But does the whole truth always need to me told? In this case, I think not. I mean… sure, Ian was holding something over my head. Sure, I was afraid of that ‘very bad thing’ I’d done getting out. But as I said, he has his good qualities, too. And anyway, don’t we all have something we hold over our lover’s head in one way or another? We hold onto it with the very idea that if they screw up we are goners—but first, they’re going pay. My mother always said, ‘Being in love is like handing your lover a gun and expecting them not to use it.’ With Ian, he let me know the gun is loaded. Lots of lovers wouldn’t. They’d just shoot. And there is no safety in that.

Ian settled me. He loves me—even though he would show it in his own narcissistic way. I’d begun to consider that maybe there are many types of love. And perhaps these different types show up at different times, depending on what you need and where you’re at in your life. I wondered if I was at the point where I needed to settle down with someone who would keep me stable. With someone like Ian. And while I didn’t have all the answers… I was getting there.

Speaking of safety and security, Ian sent me an assignment last night. A very special one. He’s sending me to Hawaii on assignment. Scheduled to take place three weeks from now, he suggested we just get married while we’re there. I didn’t tell him yes. About eloping. But I didn’t tell him no, either. Because I really want the gig.

“I’m just going to go,” I informed Jack when he got back to the apartment. He’d been gone four hours, and by this time, I’d napped and was in the process of sobering up. I told him I was sorry. I apologized for causing him so much added grief when he’s already going through so much. He said I hadn’t added anything other than help. Then, because I felt so terrible—both about my behavior and about leaving, I leaned in and wrapped my arms around him. And that was when I smelled it. Or rather her. A woman’s perfume, and something else, too. Sex. There was no mistaking it once you’ve gotten wind of it—it is what it is.

I pulled back. “Where were you?” I demanded.

Jack looked at me funny. “I was running errands…”

“You don’t smell like fucking errands,” I said, and I was angrier than I should have been. This much seems apparent to him.

He backed away and waved his hand in the air. “What are you talking about?’ he asked and then he let out a long sigh. “Have you had more to drink?”

And this is when I lost it. “Fuck you, Jack!” I screamed. “Fuck. You.” I spat and held up my middle finger for added measure. Maybe I wasn’t as sober as I thought. Or maybe I was just enraged. I couldn’t quite tell. But the good news was, at least I felt something.

Jack put more distance between the two of us. “I don’t understand—”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Who were you with just now?’ I demanded, and I cocked my head to the side. “Where did you go?”

He appeared confused as though I hadn’t just asked very precise questions. “I went to Jane’s, why?”

“Jane’s! Jane’s…” I spat. “You went to fucking Jane’s?” I crossed the dining room toward him and he looked genuinely afraid

“I don’t understand—”

“You don’t understand?” I scoffed as I gripped the back of one of his dining chairs and watched the color drain from my knuckles. “Of course, you don’t fucking understand!” I yelled.

“Amelie,” he said, trying to get a word in. I realized that no, actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I was just pissed.

“So… let me get this straight… you went to Jane’s while I’m here, in YOUR apartment putting MY life on hold… and YOU went to Jane’s?”

I don’t see—”

“Of course, you don’t see.” I spit out like venom as I unintentionally pulled the chair. It moved. Jack eyed the chair and then me. “Where was JANE when it was time to go through your dad’s stuff? Huh? Where was JANE at the funeral?”

“Amelie, I—”

“No! No!” I hissed. “You don’t get to give me some sorry excuse this time for why you’re just another man who is full of shit.”

He scoffed then, and although somewhere deep down I could see he was a little hurt by my words, and I was glad. “Can I speak now?” he eventually said, taking a seat in the chair that put the farthest amount of distance between us. I put all my weight on my hands, leaned forward, and glared at the floor. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I just don’t like it when you drink.”

I didn’t look at him. “This isn’t about me drinking.”

“The truth is—” he exhaled, “is that I don’t know what this is about.”