by Becky Monson
I’ve had a hard time getting Chase off my mind since we texted yesterday. I never heard from him again. There were quite a few times throughout the day that I found myself picking up my phone to text him back, but I stopped myself. It would be one thing if Chase were a long-lost friend of mine or even an acquaintance. But he’s a stranger. A stranger who now has my mom’s phone number. That’s our only connection. That and now I guess the fact that we’ve both lost our moms.
My mind keeps going back to him, though. Back to his texts. It’s hard to keep myself in the present.
But I need to because I can see that today my dad is antsy. He seems jittery … possibly hopped up on caffeine? And Chelsea looks like her head might pop off at any minute.
Which means everything is going as expected.
My dad’s office is just down the hall from mine. But, unlike mine, his has papers all over his desk and also a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in plastic that I’m pretty sure was from yesterday. Thank goodness there’s plastic on it. This is Arizona, for crap’s sake. Ants are a continuous problem.
My mom used to clean up his desk, stating how symbiotic they were. Dad, with his constant stream of thinking and the clutter that comes with it (he might be a tad ADHD), and Mom, with her organization and planning skills. Chelsea is like our mom, I’m a mix of the two, and we’re not sure what Devon is.
It’s been twenty-five years since Cooper’s opened. My dad started the shop when Chelsea was four and I was barely a year old. It’s been a part of my life since I can remember. I took my first steps in the front room of the small building my dad rented when he was getting things started.
As I grew up, so did the shop. We went from just my dad doing all of the work to a staff of thirty-five. Devon, Chelsea, and I run the day-to-day now, and my dad can just sit back and watch the well-oiled machine he built from the ground up do its thing.
If only that were the case.
Our dad is supposed to be traveling the world right now with Mom, visiting all the things they’d planned to see. Fulfilling so many lifelong wishes. But a large wrench was chucked into those plans when my mom got her diagnosis. They stopped looking toward the future and instead had to react to the present. Hospital visits, specialist calls, hours of research. There were lots of ups and downs and some promising outcomes that then turned out to not be promising. When they both realized that this was their future—and how little time was left—it became more about time, comfort, and long bouts of just being together.
Luckily, my dad had this totally organized business that stayed afloat during those times. Even Chelsea, Devon, and I were able to spend more time away from the shop and with our mom during the last part.
But now that our mom is gone, instead of finding a hobby or taking up golf, my dad has stuck his nose back into the shop.
He’s a questioner, my dad. Lots and lots of questions. Even I, his most even-tempered kid, have felt my patience run thin with his questions.
“How can we make this party even better?” he asks, his head moving from me to Chelsea to Devon, and then back to Chelsea.
“We’ve got it all covered, Dad,” Chelsea says, her face and voice indicating that she feels like this is a personal attack on her. Which, of course, it isn’t. But Chelsea has headed up most of the decisions for this party, and Devon and I have let her because we know our roles. And also, neither of us wanted to do it.
“I know, Princess,” my dad says, and Chelsea visibly relaxes, her shoulders falling just slightly. “I’ve just been looking forward to this.”
“It’s going to be great. I’ve rented the tent and ordered the food, and the DJ is scheduled. There will be an open bar and lots of opportunities to mingle.”
All the employees are invited, as well as many of our clients. It’s going to be quite the deal, with a big tent set up out in our parking lot. We’ve also asked some of our clients if they’re willing to display some of their cars we’ve worked on around the outside of the tent. The Lamborghini that is my dad’s pride and joy will be front and center. It’s currently wrapped in a bright apple-green color with the shop’s logo on both doors, the hood, and the trunk.
The ridiculous car was a “business investment.” I believe those were the words my dad used when he had the harebrained idea to buy it. I think he just always wanted a car like that. He got a killer deal on a two-year-old Huracán. He’s now had it for two years. He still sighs when he looks at it.
It does look great for the business, even if it’s the most uncomfortable car I’ve ever been in. It was not designed for a woman like me, who needs space for her purse and also doesn’t have the thigh muscles to get out of the thing without looking like a clumsy child just learning to walk. Let’s just say a fairly tall girl of five foot eight plus heels is not a fit for a Lamborghini.
It’s not like I use it. It’s my dad’s baby. Sometimes he’ll let Devon take it out or let him race it when we do our charity race, Drives for Dreams, but it mostly stays at the shop, parked up in front of the store. We regularly change out the wrap for clients to see how easy it is and how safe it is on the paint.
“Sounds great,” my dad says. “What about a comedian?”
We all look at him.
“You know,” he says, looking at each of us in turn. “Someone who can make us laugh. Couldn’t we all use a laugh?”
I look over at Chelsea and see her throat bob.
“I thought we were just going to keep it casual,” she says.
“Yeah, Dad,” Devon pipes in. “It’s just supposed to be relaxed. No agenda. No big speeches or anything.”
“What about a juggler or … maybe a clown?”
This time Chelsea gasps and covers her mouth with her hand. We’re supposed to be dressed up for this party. Jugglers and clowns probably wouldn’t fit into Chelsea’s expectations.
I clear my throat. “I think we’re running out of time for all that,” I say. “It’s in ten days.”
“It’s going to be great as we planned it, Dad. Don’t worry,” Devon offers.
My dad reaches up and swipes a hand down his face. “You’re right. I was just … trying to amp it up a bit. But let’s leave it how it is.”
Chelsea lets go of the breath she was clearly holding.
“Are you bringing anyone to the party, Devon?” my dad asks.
“I thought we weren’t bringing dates,” Chelsea says.
My dad looks to Chelsea. “Mark will be there, won’t he?”
“Well, I mean, yeah. But we’re married. He swore in his vows that he would be my arm candy till death do us part. I meant I thought we weren’t bringing people that won’t understand that this isn’t just a party—it’s also a marketing event.”
“Not for me,” my dad says. “I plan on having some fun. We all need to have fun. Let’s not get caught up in making this about sales.”
“I’m sure I could find someone to bring,” Devon pipes in, clearly getting on board with this idea.
“I was going to make Hannah come with me,” I say.
Really, Hannah insisted that she come.
“Oh, good,” Devon gives me a smirk. “Maybe I won’t bring someone.”
I reach over and grab the back of his arm and pinch him, hard.
Devon cusses, loudly, the words bouncing around the epoxy-finished cement floors of the office. He rubs the back of his arm and gives me a look that I know well. I better watch my back—revenge is coming.
“Devon,” my dad says, his voice annoyed. My dad thinks there are better words than cusswords. Our mom, however, enjoyed dropping them freely, and especially for shock value. She was, by most definitions, the quintessential mom. Caring, nurturing, loving … but with a potty mouth.
My dad takes a big breath, sitting back in his chair, he weaves his fingers together and places them in his lap. “I’m going to bring June,” he announces.
Silence lands on the room. You could hear a pin drop. Or an ant scurry.
After a moment of sta
ring at my dad, I turn my face to my left and right to see that both Chelsea’s and Devon’s eyes are wide and Devon’s mouth is hanging open.
“You—you’re bringing June?” I say after I can’t take the silence anymore. “As your … date?”
June, our neighbor? The widow?
My dad just looks at all of us. “As my friend,” he says.
I feel the tension in the room take a big dramatic breather. I reach up and grab the k pendant and run it back and forth on the chain.
My dad takes another big inhale. “She’s been very helpful with … everything. She’s been doing the widow thing for a while now. It’s been nice to have someone to talk to. So as a thank you, I invited her to the party.”
In my peripheral vision I see Devon’s back go less rigid.
“Well, I think it’s great,” I say, trying to ease the tension that still hangs in the air. I’m not sure I feel all that great, to be honest.
Just the sheer fact that he’s bringing someone to the party that’s not our mom is weirding me out. I need to get over myself, though. My dad is a grown man. He can have friends. He just can’t fall in love with said friends and then replace my mom and, oh my gosh, is the heat on in here?
“Yeah, Dad,” Devon says, his voice void of inflection. “It’s … great.”
I look to Chelsea to see her nodding her head rapidly, like she’s experiencing some sort of tremor.
We are clearly not okay with this.
“Thanks, kids,” Dad says. “For all your hard work. I think it will be a great night.”
We all say our goodbyes and file out of my dad’s office.
I nod at my siblings as we walk down the hallway and, without words, we all go to my office for another sibling meeting.
Chapter 9
Maggie: How are you doing?
It took me twenty minutes of going back and forth to decide to text Chase. I kept buffering with a game on my phone. I’m not sure why I want to. It feels … weird. But I do it anyway. His last texts still haunt me. I have this need to know how he is.
I’m sitting in my room the next Monday night, after sharing pizza with Hannah and then telling her I was going to go lie down after eating too much.
It wasn’t a lie—I really did eat too much. But I also wanted to text Chase. And I had to do it in secret, because I know how Hannah is. She has to know everything. Anytime I’m texting someone in her presence, she asks who it is. She just needs to know. She can’t help herself. I’ve even had to turn off my phone’s lock screen text preview because of her snooping ways. It’s also why I never texted my mom’s phone in front of her. I’d usually escape to my room, like I am right now.
I would totally tell her about Chase, but I’d have to explain the story behind it, and I’m not ready to tell anyone. I don’t know if I ever will be. Every version I come up with in my head ends with me sounding like a crazy person.
The three dots show up on my phone and I feel my pulse pick up from the strangeness of this entire thing.
(480)555-1058: I’ve been better
So much context in that one message. I feel that ache in my heart again.
Maggie: I understand
(480)555-1058: The funeral was yesterday. Everything feels so final.
I nibble on my bottom lip, not sure what to say next.
My mom’s funeral was a blur for me. I remember parts of it so strongly. Like some of the people that were there. And some of the things her friends told me about my mom, things that I didn’t know but wanted to remember—to tuck away for a rainy day. My most vivid memory is my oldest niece, Alice, with her arms wrapped around her dad’s legs, saying “No, Nana, no” with tears streaming down her face. I won’t be able to forget that.
But most of it is bits and pieces put together in my mind. A fuzzy puzzle. The day, as a whole, felt like one big dream. Like I was having an out-of-body experience.
I text Chase back.
Maggie: How was the funeral?
(480)555-1058: It was sad but nice, I guess. Small. How she would have wanted it.
Tired of seeing my mom’s number in my face, I click on the edit button and change the contact name to Chase’s. It feels weird to do it since I don’t know Chase, but it’s better than seeing the number that used to belong to my mom.
I stare at my phone, wondering how I should respond. Or if I should. My phone beeps before I have a chance.
Chase: How are you?
Maggie: Pretty good
Chase: That’s what I like to hear. Pretty good. It means there’s hope. I haven’t felt any kind of good in nearly a week.
Do I tell him that I cried in the shower this morning? Better not.
Maggie: It takes time
Chase: How long would you say?
Maggie: I’m on month four
Chase: And how has month four been?
I look up from my phone, at my dresser with my mom’s jewelry box sitting on it. How has month four been? I don’t really know. I’m still getting over not texting my mom’s phone anymore. That part’s been hard. It was helping, more than I think I realized.
But if I look back to the first month and how difficult that was and compare it to now, I’m definitely better. I don’t feel like myself still, and I’m starting to wonder if this is the new me. That thought scares me. I don’t want to be this new anxious/chicken me. I miss my old self.
My phone beeps and I look down at my screen.
Chase: That bad, huh?
I smile at my phone.
Maggie: I’m definitely better. Less of the super tough moments. But I still don’t feel like . . . me.
Chase: I get that. What is it for you that makes you not feel like yourself?
I look up from my screen, wondering how to answer this. I don’t want to go into details with this stranger. But also, what have I got to lose?
Maggie: I guess I’m more anxious than I used to be.
Chase: Like something else will go wrong.
I take in a quick breath. This is exactly how I feel. I keep wondering … what could be next? What other piece of bad news will come my way? And this time, will I survive? Will it crush me into tiny bits until I’m just a pile of pebbles?
Maggie: Yes! I can’t shake it.
Chase: I’ve been on edge myself, worried about that. So this is a long-term side effect, then. Good to know.
Maggie: I’m pretty sure it’s different for everyone.
Chase: Pretty sure I’m not bouncing back from this anytime soon.
Now is the time to text back something cliché like, Of course you’ll bounce back! Or Time heals all wounds, and then add a heart emoji for good measure. But those are the kind of answers someone who doesn’t get what you’re going through says.
I know. I know what he’s experiencing. The what-ifs. The why-mes. The if-onlys. I know them all.
Maggie: I’m starting to wonder if you ever fully do.
Chase: But it does get better?
Maggie: That’s how it is for me. I feel … better. Not all the time, and not with everything. But I’m not huddled in the corner of my room anymore.
Chase: How did you know that’s where I am?
Chase: Are you stalking me?
Chase’s ability to make a joke, even this small one, surprises me. Like the funeral, the first week after my mom died is a blur. But unlike the funeral, I don’t really remember much of anything. No bits and pieces to tie together. I remember the day it happened—everything about that day is clear in my head. But for the next week, I don’t have much memory of it. Maybe I did make jokes. Maybe I did laugh. But I just don’t remember.
I text him back.
Maggie: You caught me
Chase: You’re a terrible stalker, then. Totally gave it away.
Maggie: Is this your expertise?
Chase: I’ve never tried. How does one start?
Maggie: I can’t give away my secrets.
Chase: Damn
I smile at my phone. This was
not what I was expecting or hoping for when I checked up on Chase. I didn’t really have expectations. Just that I wanted to make sure he was okay.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Chase: Thanks for checking up on me. It made this day better.
Maggie: You’re welcome
I lay the phone down next to me and stare up at the ceiling again, feeling … lighter. There’s no real reason. No one thing I can pinpoint. Maybe it was just reaching out to Chase. I didn’t set out to make his day better; I just wanted to check in on him.
My mom would sometimes tell us, when we were having a hard time with something, to look outside ourselves for answers. I never quite got what she meant until right now. Being there for someone else … well, it sort of feels like a balm on my soul.
Is that what I’ve been missing? Have I been spending all this time worried about trying to find myself when I should have been looking outward?
It felt so good to check up on Chase, to do something for someone else. Maybe that’s been my problem all along. I’m having one of those moments where I feel like I’ve solved all the world’s mysteries. Like I want to share it with everyone. I could write a book. I might be asked to do a TED talk.
Or … maybe I shouldn’t put the cart before the wagon. Or before the horse … or is it the horse before the wagon? Whatever that saying is. I should probably test out this theory a little more.
I look at that heart on my ceiling. “You were right, Mom,” I tell it.
I don’t think that heart showed up only after my mom died. I’m not fanciful like that. I think it was there all along, but I was never compelled to look for it until she was gone. Maybe she wanted me to find it? Maybe she wanted me to see that she was still here, watching over me. Or maybe it’s just from a texturizing gun and there’s no significance whatsoever. But for now, I’m going to choose to think there’s a reason, that it was on purpose, and that there are no coincidences.
Chapter 10
“Why do you look like you want to throw a rock through that window?” Chelsea says, snapping me out of my trance.
