He + She

by Michelle Warren

  Dr. Leevy says she’ll be my first customer. My dad says she’ll have to fight him for the honor. I’m not sure which badass will win.

  In March, I take the next step and begin to teach myself how to make chocolate-covered fortune cookies. If this business is going to succeed, I need to become an expert.

  “Look what just came for you.” Mom walks back from the front door with a large package.

  “What’s that?” I look up from mixing my fortune-cookie batter.

  “FedEx just dropped it off. Has your name on it.” She sets it on the kitchen table.

  I wipe my hands on my apron and cross the room to investigate. There’s no return address. Mom appears with scissors, which I remember were in fact invented by Da Vinci. I looked up the fact to see if it was true. With the blades open, I swipe at the seams of the box, slicing and releasing the tape. I set the scissors on the table and open the flaps. Inside, foam peanuts are packed to the brim.

  “Who’s it from?” Mom asks.

  “Not sure. No note.” I dig, sifting my fingers through the peanuts until I find something hard. I lift the heavy object from inside as Mom holds the bottom of the package down. When the peanuts fall away, I see what I’ve pulled out—a birdhouse. But this is not any birdhouse; this is my house. The one that Hew promised to build me.

  “How beautiful!” Mom gushes, but she can’t possibly understand the meaning or know how incredibly confusing this is to me.

  I set the birdhouse on the table and drop into the seat next to it to stare at it, unable to take my eyes from it. As I examine it, I realize with sadness that every detail of the birdhouse represents something from the trip Hew and I took together.

  This birdhouse is designed like my dream house. It’s a San Francisco painted lady, a Victorian with gingerbread details, yellow with white trim. The door is purple with a hand-painted plaque on it with the words HE + SHE. Like, Hew + Shea, a strange coincidence, considering our fake names. The roofing is layered copper pressed pennies that give the appearance of shimmering fish scales.

  I turn it. On one side of the house, a vintage-style billboard sign painted on the exterior wall reads, NAPA VALLEY WINE AND FORTUNE COOKIE COMPANY. Hew designed a logo for the company and it’s perfect, exactly what I would choose.

  My mom reads it out loud and turns to me, her eyes wide. “Isn’t that what you want to call your new business?”

  “Yeah.” I gulp. “Do you see this, too? You’re seeing this, right? It’s not just me, is it?” My gaze rises to hers.

  “Of course. Don’t be silly,” she says, and grabs my hand. I had to check, even though I was pretty sure. I’ve developed a paranoia about my everyday life being a hallucination. “I didn’t know you told anyone about your idea yet,” she goes on, saying what I want her to, but I remember that’s how my delusions work. They make you believe with absolute certainty.

  “Just you and one other person,” I mumble.

  “Then I guess we know who sent it.” She pulls the box away and peeks inside.

  “Yeah,” I say softly, and spin the house to the back. On an open deck sits a mini bird Jacuzzi. Around the rim in tiny letters, it reads, FOR OUR FLAT ASSES. A burst of laughter escapes my lips and I cover my mouth, immediately angry with myself for letting it slip. I still want to hate him.

  “Look, an envelope.” Mom pulls it out, wipes off the peanuts clinging to it, and hands it to me.

  I stare at it, unsure if I’m ready to deal with whatever it says. It’s been five months since Hew came here to apologize.

  The oven beeps, and Mom jumps up without a word to open the oven and check on dinner.

  I decide that nothing can be worse than what I already know, what I’ve had to live with for months now. I turn the envelope over and slide my finger under the flap, then rip it open. Inside, there’s a note that says, “For your zombie birds.” There is also a plane ticket, some other smaller tickets, and an itinerary.

  Mom turns back around and leans against the counter, watching me. When I look up at her in shock, she’s already watching me with a smirk. I look closer at the envelope’s contents.

  “A plane ticket to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, a train ticket to the south of France, and an itinerary for a week of classes to learn about wine at a French winery.” I look at her again and she looks away, as if she’s trying to ignore me, which makes me highly suspicious. “What do you know about this?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She pivots to the sink and begins to fill it with hot water, then carefully squirts in a little dish detergent, as if washing dishes is the most important thing in the world right now.

  I stand up and go to her. She can’t lie without doing this weird thing with her facial muscles around her eyes. It’s one of her tics. I know, because it’s one of my tics, too. “Mom.” I wave the ticket at her face. “What have you done?”

  “All right!” She throws her sponge in the sink and splashes the water. “I told him I wouldn’t be able to keep it from you forever. You know how awful I am with that.”

  “Keep what from me?”

  “Shea.” She still stumbles over the new name, just like Dad. She shakes her head and grabs my hand. “Sweetie, that boy has been trying to apologize to you well before you even met him. He had been here three times before you ever left for California.”

  “What?”

  “Your dad ran him off every single time, angry at the sight of him, but thinking you were too fragile to speak with him.”

  “That doesn’t change what happened. Hew was still involved.”

  “Yes, he made a mistake, a huge one. But at the same time, I’ve also never seen you as happy as you were the day he appeared here. You love him. He loves you.”

  “He stole my love from Bren!”

  “Bren’s gone. Hew is here.”

  My eyes burn and begin to blur at her words.

  “Sorry,” she says and rubs my arm, but doesn’t take it back.

  “Have you been talking to Hew?” My lips quaver.

  She shrugs again. It’s her go-to, her easy way out. “He made me promise not to tell you lots of things.”

  “Spill.”

  She sighs. “I met him in the hospital in California. I arrived at your room first. Thank God your dad was parking the rental car. He would have killed that boy if he saw him there.”

  “What was he doing when you found him?”

  She tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Praying and crying. He was praying to God that you would forgive him. And crying that he was the one responsible for—” She turns away, uncomfortable just like she is every time she’s forced to talk about my issues.

  “And?”

  “And when he saw me, he jumped up like I had caught him doing something wrong. I told him to leave before your dad showed up. I knew who he was from his attempted visits, and following some of his trial. You were in the hospital, and we cut you off from everything related to the accident then. There’s no way you would have recognized him, unless you remembered anything about that night.”

  I shake my head. I did feel I recognized Hew in the beginning, which made me say hi to him in the first place, but I could never place him in my mind. Maybe I had somehow seen him the night he fished me out of the water. I can’t know for sure; I was in and out of consciousness when it happened.

  “Anyway, he left,” she continues. “At the time, I didn’t quite understand how you had finally met, but he contacted me a few months ago to check on you. He said that he had moved to San Francisco for a new job, and told me about your time in California and how he fell in love with you . . . and that he was still in love with you. He wanted to know if I thought you could ever forgive him.”

  I shake my head. “How can I?” Tears spill over my lashes and pour down my cheeks.

  “I know, honey. Only you know what you can forgive and what you can’t. In your heart, I know you’re a forgiving soul. It’s who you are. And even if you can’
t love him again, you can give him your forgiveness and let him know so he can at least move on with his life, even it you aren’t in it.” She rubs her thumb on my chin the way she did when I was little.

  “I don’t understand how you can even think I could consider this?” Somewhere deep in my heart, I hope she offers me the answer I need to get past this. Help me make sense of the confusion.

  Mom’s eyes fill up with tears. “I can’t hate him completely when he kept my little girl alive. I owe him because if you would have died that night, your father and I would have died, too. You’re our only baby.” Her voice cracks, setting off a wave of tears. We both cry. She hugs me and speaks low in my ear. “Now you can live a beautiful life. It may not be exactly what you planned for, but it can still be something—something extraordinary. Bren would have wanted it that way. He was a good guy. He wanted you to live.”

  She does it. She says exactly what I need to hear her say. I could have died that night. But Bren reached out to Hew, and they both worked to save me. Together.

  Chapter 57

  He

  The first time I came to AA, I didn’t even have the balls to say I was new and introduce myself. It was court mandated back then, and though I did want to be there, I was embarrassed for everything I had become. Two and a half years later and twenty-four weeks dry, I know the preamble and the twelve steps and twelve traditions book by heart, but I still, after all this time, have yet to share my story or my name with anyone. Even when I was sure the group wouldn’t judge me, I haven’t because maybe if I admitted everything that I had done, all the mistakes would make me feel more guilt.

  But today, for the first time, I only feel like the truth could set me free.

  The group sits in a circle. Most everyone holds a Styrofoam coffee cup. When the chairperson asks for volunteers to share their story, I stand up with confidence, give my name, and admit that I’m an alcoholic. Everyone collectively responds as they always do with “Hello!”

  I have to give the CliffsNotes version of my story because my five minutes of sharing ends quickly. When I’m done everyone thanks me, and for the first time in years, I’m relieved. After I sit, I reach to my side and grab my mom’s hand. She tears ups, her smile reaching her eyes. She insisted on coming today, and I insisted on her being here for support.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she whispers and squeezes my clammy hand.

  Mom appeared at my door on New Year’s Eve with a suitcase. All she had to say was “I’m sorry” for me to fall into her arms. She said Christmas wasn’t right without me there, and she would be here for me from now on.

  This is her second visit since then. This time she spent the weekend trying to “fix” my apartment and make the five hundred square feet “livable.” Now I have curtains, throw pillows, and towels. Okay, I needed the towels, but not the other stuff. I’ll leave it out when Ashley comes next week, and maybe longer if it grows on me.

  Layne and Dad are not as easily persuaded, but Mom promises that they’ll come around eventually. I hope she’s right.

  Chapter 58

  She

  It is April first—my birthday—a cruel joke of destiny for a girl who has a hard enough time deciding what’s real and what’s not. My mom is standing behind me with her hands covering my eyes. I’m waiting for a surprise, but I have no idea what they would be giving me that I have to see from the backyard.

  “Can I open them yet?”

  “Not yet,” she says, but I hear the sound of Dad’s truck. The roar of the engine is unmistakable as it drives past us, coming to a stop. The dogs bark, freaking out the way they always do when he returns home. I try to peek through Mom’s fingers, but they’re clamped tight.

  The truck’s door squeaks open and then slams shut.

  “Go ahead and let her see,” Dad yells from across the lawn.

  They shout, “Surprise!” at the exact moment Mom lifts her hands, revealing my birthday gift.

  “Oh my gosh!” I run to the little beat-up white camper hooked to the back of his truck. “It’s exactly like the one I saw in the paper!” I open the door and a cloud of mold and dust hits my face and I cough.

  “It looks like it because it is, sweet pea.” Dad lifts his baseball hat from his head.

  I turn and grab both my parents in a hug. “This is so awesome, the best gift ever!” I pepper them with kisses, and we all giggle with happiness.

  I had clipped a photo of this exact camper out of the paper and pinned in on my new company’s vision board, a bulletin board of inspirational quotes and photos to keep me focused on my new endeavor. I kept thinking back to the Feng Shui Taco truck in San Francisco, and how I could sell my fortune cookies the same way.

  “I can see it already. I’ll paint it a banana color, and put the logo on the side. Right here!” I stretch my arms, gesturing to the size and location.

  “Well, that’s a good color choice, since I already bought the paint.” Dad pulls two buckets from the bed of his trunk, lifting the cans by their wire handles.

  “You two are so sneaky! I love you!”

  “We’re just so happy to see you so passionate about this.” Mom can hardly contain her smiles.

  “And thank goodness the cookies are good, too,” Dad says, then grimaces. “Except for those key-lime-pie-flavored ones.”

  Mom hushes him and smacks him on the arm.

  “Thank you both, I love this!” I turn, taking in the whole thing.

  We spend my birthday cleaning the camper from the inside out. We open all the windows and doors, and turn on some music in the yard. Mom and I start inside, removing the cobwebs, spiders, and layers of dust. And Dad works on the outside, spraying it with a hose and scrubbing it with soapy water. Every so often he misses and sprays us through the windows, which makes my mom yelp and my dad laugh.

  The interior is in decent shape, though I’ll have to do a lot of modifying to make it work. It could take several months, but I’m happy to have something to look forward to—a project.

  By the end of the week, the camper is cleaned up enough to paint the outside. We do it as a family. It’s not only been good for me, but for all of us to connect again.

  The next day comes too fast, the day that I’m supposed to paint the logo on the side of the camper, and I’m more than a little stressed. I sit on the wide steps of the back porch, looking out at the camper, holding up two computer printouts one at a time, squinting and trying to imagine each logo option on the side. One is a replica of Hew’s logo, the one that he painted on the side of the zombie birdhouse. The other is the crappy logo that I designed, a wine bottle and pixilated fortune cookie that I found online, montaged together with some text in a paint program on mom’s old computer.

  Staring at the two on paper, I can’t help feeling that I’m not just making some kind of choice between the two logos. I obviously know which one is better and it isn’t mine, but I wonder if I’ll be able to live with the choice the rest of my life, always looking at his logo, remembering who it represents. What it represents.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about what Dr. Leevy, Mom, and I discussed over the past few months—obsessing over it, really. And I think I want to forgive Hew. I feel that if I don’t, I’ll never be able to clear the slate in my own heart and move on. We don’t need to be together, but I need closure. He wants closure. I don’t want him to live with the pain that I’ve been fighting in my heart and mind. I can’t do that to someone else, even if they took away the most important person in my life. I’m just not built that way.

  With the help of a projector shining Hew’s logo on the side of the camper, Mom helps me outline the design in pencil and then we paint the outline in black, let it dry, and then fill the shapes in with color. And when it’s done, I know I’ve made the right choice. My soul feels free.

  • • •

  It’s sunny but chilly today. From the backyard shed, I grab my new lemon-yellow beach cruiser bicycle—I needed something to match the camper—and d
rop a backpack and a bunch of flowers in the front basket. I pedal from our home down a dirt path, leading south, bumping over the rocks and potholes while listening to the breeze rush through the green spring leaves.

  I’m still undecided if I’ll use Hew’s gift, a trip to France, but I have to decide by this weekend. My dad says that Hew’s trying to buy my forgiveness. I don’t argue because I know the truth in my heart: he didn’t intend it that way. Despite what he’s done, he cares about my dreams and me, and I think, like my mom, that he wants to see me live, even if that means he’s not part of my life.

  A few moments later, I turn my handlebars down a new road and ride for several miles through the countryside until I reach All Hallows Parish. I circle the historic brick church and stop next to the back steps, where I leave my bike.

  I’m here for a lunch date. I gather my items and cross the cemetery until I reach the headstone next to a small dogwood tree that marks Bren’s grave. I remove the dying flowers from the vase at his grave and replace them with a bunch of wild black-eyed Susans.

  Then I unpack my bag, lay out a quilt, and sit down with my lunch. The only problem with this lunch date is that he doesn’t talk back. This would make Dr. Leevy happy, but not me. If Bren could answer, I would ask him what I should do about Hew. Bren would know; he was always my sounding board, my cheerleader, the person I dreamed with, and my best friend.

  I’m long past crying at these meetings. It’s been two and a half years now, and though I desperately miss him, his passing doesn’t consume my life like it did when I finally understood he was gone. He’s fading from my mind, but not from my heart. There will always be a part of him in me.

  I tell him about my week. “I’ve officially mastered fortune-cookie making. I’ve even developed a few different flavors of cookies and icing. Mom’s favorite so far is a red velvet cookie dipped in a cream cheese shell, but Dad still likes the maple dipped, sprinkled with bacon chips. I guess that’s more manly than red velvet.” I ramble on, knowing that he’s listening.