What Remains True

by Thomas, Janis

  I rushed downstairs, just as Auntie Ruth came in. And when I went out to the porch, I saw that Gigi, the cat from across the street, was pawing at the katydid. And I screamed at the cat, which was kind of mean ’cause she’s a cat, and eating bugs is sort of what she’s supposed to do. And then Shadow rushed outside and went after Gigi, and the cat sort of scooped up the katydid in her mouth and ran away, and Shadow chased her, and then so did I, ’cause I didn’t want her to hurt the katydid.

  Shadow was barking and running, and I know you thought I was chasing him, Auntie Ruth, and that it was your fault for leaving the door open for him to get out, but I wasn’t paying any ’tention to Shadow, Auntie Ruth, ’cause I was chasing Gigi and the katydid.

  Gigi raced right across the street. And I know I’m supposed to look both ways before I cross the street, but I wanted to get to the katydid so bad, I just forgot.

  When the car came, I felt a big bump, but it didn’t hurt at all. I felt floaty almost as soon as it happened.

  And that’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me. I promise, Mommy.

  Shadow, you’re a good boy. Auntie Ruth, don’t let yourself be lonely. Eden, you will always be the best sister ever. Daddy, keep making funny faces. Mommy, I’ll need you forever. I love you all so so so much. And I’m taking that love with me.

  Sweet dreams.

  PART SEVEN: ANOTHER DAY

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Sam awakens early, before seven. He rises from the couch and stretches. The rest of the house is still asleep, even Shadow, who is curled up on his bed. The dog chuffs in his sleep and wags his tail as though he is having a good dream. Sam smiles. He had a good dream, too.

  He folds up the blankets of his makeshift bed and sets them on the chair, then carries the sheets to the garage, where he drops them into the washing machine. He feels well rested for the first time in ages.

  He can’t quite grasp the dream. Jonah was in it. Usually, when Sam dreams of Jonah, he awakens feeling drained, anguished, his insides twisted into knots. But not this morning. This morning he feels a sense of peace, of calm.

  He gets dressed in the garage, as is his habit of late. It’s Saturday, and he throws on jeans and a long-sleeved Nirvana T-shirt that he refused to part with despite Rachel’s repeated entreaties.

  Sam knows what he has to do. Has known since the moment he opened his eyes. He grabs the spare set of keys for the minivan from the drawer in the kitchen and quietly lets himself out of the house.

  Eden lingers in bed for a while. She stares at a spot on the ceiling and thinks about her little brother. She doesn’t know why, but she feels her love for him so strongly this morning, and it doesn’t hurt like it did before. In her mind, she tells him she’s sorry for all the times she was ever mean to him, and suddenly her mind is filled with all the times she helped him, all the ways she was there for him, all the things she did to protect him, like a big sister is supposed to, and she feels like he kept those times with him and that’s why he thought she was the best sister ever.

  She throws back the covers and gets out of bed. It’s Saturday and she doesn’t have to get dressed, but she does anyway, pulling on a pair of leggings and a T-shirt with a big purple cicada on it. She goes to the bathroom and brushes her teeth and pees, then walks into Jonah’s room through the adjoining bathroom door, something she hasn’t done since the very bad day.

  Eden stops just inside his room and looks around. The bug encyclopedia is still on the floor. She kneels down and gazes at the open page, at the picture of the katydid. She dreamed of Jonah and a katydid last night, but the details of the dream elude her. She closes the book and sets it on the bottom shelf of his bookshelf.

  She gazes at his bed, stands, and walks over to it. Marco the Monkey lies haphazardly across the pillow, where Sam threw him so many nights ago. Eden picks him up and holds him to her chest for a long moment. Then she carries him back through the bathroom and into her room and tucks him into her backpack. Mrs. Hartnett might not want him anymore, but it’s time to take Marco back to school.

  Ruth sits up and pushes herself to the head of the convertible sofa bed. She gazes at her surroundings, the small guest room in her sister and brother-in-law’s house, with its beige walls and sand-colored blinds. This is not her home. Over the course of the past year and a half, she has never felt a longing for her one-bedroom apartment with its outdated appliances and shabby furniture. She longs for it now.

  Her joints don’t ache this morning. She doesn’t question it. She pushes herself out of bed and heads for the guest bathroom. She does her business, and as she washes her hands, Ruth lifts her eyes to her reflection. And what she sees surprises her.

  She is not the frumpy hag she thought she’d become these last months. She is an attractive middle-aged woman in desperate need of a dye job, but otherwise somewhat fetching and alive.

  She takes her time getting dressed. She has few choices here, in her sister’s house, but she chooses an ensemble that she has yet to wear since staying here, a cotton floral skirt and a pink blouse, the same color as the flowers on the hedge in front of the house.

  Ruth stands for a moment, letting her thoughts wash over her. She grabs her purse from the side table and pulls out her cell phone. She swishes the screen open and finds the number of the man she’s been thinking of for a while now, the number she has never used. Before she can stop herself, she dials the number. Waits, holding her breath.

  “Hi, it’s Ruth—hi. Yes, it’s me. Sorry to call so early on a Saturday.” She listens to a voice that is both foreign and familiar to her and smiles.

  A few minutes later, she sets the phone back into her purse.

  She strips the convertible bed. For the first time since the very bad day, she folds it up, replacing the cushions on the couch until the bed is merely a memory.

  It’s time to go home.

  Ruth emerges from the guest room just as the front door opens. Sam stands on the threshold, house keys in one hand and a tall bar stool in the other. He sets the bar stool just inside the entry. His eyes meet Ruth’s. She walks to the front door and wordlessly follows him to the minivan. He hands her one of the three remaining stools, grabs the others, and the two of them return to the house.

  The stools are simple, cloth-covered cushions, wicker backrests, metal foundations, Target price tags. They fit perfectly at the kitchen counter, two on one side of the L, two on the other.

  As Sam goes about removing the plastic packaging, Ruth moves to the pantry and pulls out a box of pancake mix. Normally, she eschews premixed anything, but the mix will be just fine this morning.

  By the time she’s whisking the batter, Sam has finished with the stools. He heads for the coffeemaker, fills it with grounds and water, and presses the button. He glances at Ruth as she readies a pan with butter and heat. She looks at him and smiles. Their silence is amiable.

  The coffee percolates. Shadow shuffles into the kitchen, sniffs the air. Ruth leans down and pats his head. His tongue lolls to the side in appreciation.

  First dollops of batter hit the pan, sizzle. Eden wanders into the kitchen, absent her usual morning crankiness. She takes in the new stools without comment, then walks to Sam and slips her arms around his waist, lingers. He kisses the top of her head. She shuffles over to Ruth, dips her finger in the batter and sticks her finger in her mouth. Smiles at her aunt.

  Eden goes to the cupboard and pulls out plates, sets them on the counter. One, two, three, four, along the L. Adds napkins and forks. She fetches maple syrup from the fridge as Ruth flips the pancakes.

  Twelve golden, steaming disks aligned on a serving tray. Sam sits on one of the stools, on the far end of the L. Ruth sits opposite him on the other side of the L. Eden takes the stool next to Ruth. Sam and Eden fork pancakes onto their plates. Ruth follows suit.

  The three of them sit for a long time, not eating, pancakes cooling on their plates.

  They glance at one another. A silent agreement
is made. Forks rise simultaneously.

  Then lower simultaneously as Rachel appears at the archway of the kitchen. Showered. Hair combed. Clean shirt, stretch Levi’s, black sneakers. Clear eyes.

  She allows Shadow to lick her hand, scratches him under the chin, calls him a good boy. Then glances at her family, first at Eden, then at Ruth, and finally at Sam. She looks at the bar stools, her gaze landing on the empty seat beside her husband. She slowly makes her way toward the empty stool. She stops at Ruth, lays her hand on Ruth’s shoulder, squeezes gently. Ruth smiles at her. She moves to Eden and cups her daughter’s chin in her hand, kisses her forehead, her nose, her lips, wipes a tear from Eden’s face with a fingertip.

  She lets go of Eden and stares at the empty stool, looks up at Sam. Sam pulls the stool out and Rachel perches upon it. She reaches out and touches the spot between her husband’s eyebrows, perhaps wondering at the smoothness of the skin, the softening of the crevasse.

  She holds up her index finger and presses it to the tip of her nose. She knows that Jonah has moved on, that he’s no longer here to see their secret gesture. And she isn’t fine, not yet. But for the first time since his death, she knows she will be.

  She lowers her hand to Sam’s and interlocks her fingers with his.

  “Good morning,” Rachel says softly. She clears her throat and takes a deep breath. “Something smells good.”

  EPILOGUE

  MADDIE

  I’ve been seeing the Davenports for six months. After two months, I reduced our sessions to bimonthly, although they are free to come in more often should the need arise. So far, it hasn’t.

  Ruth Glass has returned to her own therapist, although she checks in with me from time to time. She is doing well. Apparently she is seeing someone, her neighbor. They are taking it slow, according to her, but she smiles when she speaks of him, and her demeanor has transformed from bleak and resigned to confident and hopeful.

  Eden is in the sixth grade now and is taking middle school by storm. She has a new group of friends who are supportive and loyal. They know about Jonah, but they see the tragedy only as a part of their friend, not the whole person. She likes a boy named Kevin, although she refuses to admit it to me. But a girl can tell. She still brings Shadow to our sessions, and I have grown very fond of him, so much so that I’ve given serious consideration to getting Cleopatra a canine sibling if I can work out the logistics.

  Sam’s business is thriving. He and his partner expanded and have turned over a lot of their work to the junior partners, freeing up more time for Sam. His new assistant is male. His old assistant is working for another firm. He wrote her a glowing recommendation and hasn’t had contact with her since.

  Rachel is completely off her meds and is facing her life with a renewed sense of clarity and purpose. She grieves. She admits to drinking occasionally. But she monitors herself closely, and I see no warning signs at this point. She has resumed her blog and is active in the parent-teacher association at Eden’s school.

  Rachel and Sam are working through their marital issues. Much of our counseling focuses on their relationship, both as it pertains to the loss of their son, and independent of that. I offered to refer them to a marriage counselor, but they opted to work with me, as I have gained their trust and am privy to the entire picture. I see them together and individually.

  That they love each other is not in question. Whether their marriage will survive? They are beginning to see themselves as more than grieving parents. Their grief will always be a part of them, but like Eden, it is not the whole. As to their personal interaction, they are rediscovering each other as people, as a man and a woman, rather than as husband and wife and mother and father. I give them trust exercises. I give them journaling assignments. Along with family dinners, I prescribed a date night for them once a week. They both enjoy date night. Sam likes the trust exercises while Rachel is less enthusiastic about them. Rachel has taken to journaling, Sam not so much. But they are both working hard, and the rewards are already evident. If they make it, and I honestly believe they will, their relationship will be even stronger than it was before Jonah’s death.

  I am but a facilitator. You can lead a horse to water, right? But I also know that things began to change drastically for the family after I urged each of them to talk about that day. It was like a switch was flipped. As if by finally talking about it they had opened a floodgate of healing. Suddenly, they were all able to let go of their guilt and allow for the fact that bad things happen to good people, to good children, and more often than not, no one is to blame.

  I’d like to take credit for their dramatic turn, but I’m not certain it belongs to me. I think the credit belongs to Jonah. I don’t know why. I just do.

  That night, after Ruth and Eden and Sam and Rachel unburdened themselves, I dreamed of Jonah. I couldn’t remember the dream the next morning, although I tried desperately to reconstruct it. All I remember is awaking with a sense of rightness, serenity. And an overwhelming feeling of love.

  Jonah has not returned to my dreams since. But whenever I see a katydid, for some reason I think of him and smile.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am a writer. I write funny. I write mystery. Lately, I write serious. With each book, whether humorous or tragic, I try to write stories that touch people, make them think, make them laugh, cry, feel. Because these emotions are what bind all of us. In these times of division, I feel compelled to use my gifts to bring people together in whatever way I can. What Remains True, at its core, centers on the idea that when we are united, we can overcome any challenge life puts in our path. I have experienced several major losses over the last few years, and I know this to be true. We are better together.

  The publication of a book is also a communal experience, and What Remains True is the perfect example. It would not be the book you are reading without the input of so many incredible people.

  Thank you to my amazing agent, Wendy Sherman, who has championed me and my work from my first book deal. For several years thereafter, she patiently waited for me to bring her something of value, never losing faith that I would. Thanks for hanging in there, Wendy!

  Thank you to Kelli Martin at Lake Union for falling in love with What Remains True, and to the entire Lake Union team for so graciously and enthusiastically welcoming me into your family. Kelli, you are a dream come true. I look forward to many more two-hour phone conversations with you.

  Thank you to the tremendously talented Melody Guy. Her insightful notes, thoughtful suggestions, and editorial wisdom have made this a better book. Melody, your loving care of What Remains True shines through from beginning to end.

  Thanks to the Fab Four, who are not only my primary readers, but the women I love and admire most in the world: Shoney, Hilary, Linda, and Penny. Couldn’t navigate this life without you.

  Thanks to my partner in crime, Ara Grigorian, who boosts my ego and keeps me honest. It’s a privilege and an honor to teach Novel Intensive with you.

  Thanks to Michael Steven Gregory for your unfailing support, your sharp wit, and your impromptu lounge act. And thanks Wes, Chrissie, Melanie, Rick, Linda, Cricket, Laura, Matt, Jean, Jennifer, Claudia, Marla, Gayle, and the entire Southern California Writers Conference community.

  Thank you to Maddie Margarita (yes, that’s her real name!) for your love and encouragement, and to Larry Porricelli and the Southern California Writers Association.

  Thanks to my brother, Mark, for reading my books, despite the fact that they are considered women’s fiction. Love you, bro.

  Thanks to the rest of my crazy, wonderful extended family: siblings, cousins, aunts, nieces, nephews, in-laws, friends—both near and far, off-line and on.

  Thank you to Sharon and Lenerd, my mom and dad, the two extraordinary people who made me who I am. I miss you both more than I can express, but I feel your love every single day.

  To my husband, Alex, and my children, AJ and Elle: everything starts and ends with you. I love you three with
all my heart.

  I am grateful to you, my reader, who takes the journey with me every time you read one of my books. I’m blessed to be able to do what I do. And you are the reason I do it. Thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Janis Thomas is the author of three critically acclaimed humorous women’s fiction novels—Something New, Sweet Nothings, and Say Never—as well as Murder in A-Minor, the first book in her Musical Murder Mystery series. She has written two children’s books with her father and more than fifty songs. As well as being an author and musical performer, Janis is also a writing advocate, editor, workshop leader, and speaker.

  Janis likes to hang out with her two amazing children, play tennis, and sing with her sister. She is also an admitted foodie. Along with her husband (a former chef), she likes to throw wild dinner parties with outrageous menus for friends and loved ones. Janis lives in Southern California with her family and two crazy dogs.

  Learn more about Janis at www.JanisThomas.com.