Better

by Carey Heywood

  I look down at the ground as the feeling of vertigo comes over me, the sway of the swing aggravating it. I lean forward, reaching out with my hands, until I am on my hands and knees in the grass in front of the swing. I pant until the dizzy feeling passes before I stand back up and head inside, brushing dirt from my knees.

  My dad is on the phone. He walks from one room to another as he speaks. I hear bits of his conversation.

  “Of course. Monday. Good.” He walks by, still talking. “I don’t...” He trails off. “Read it.”

  I sit in the living room, flipping absentmindedly through a cooking magazine. When he hangs up, he comes and sits at his desk.

  “That was our lawyer. He’s coming Monday to read Ally’s will.”

  I look up. “Her will?”

  He nods.

  “But I thought...it’s not like there’s anything left.”

  He shrugs. “I’m not sure, sweetie. I don’t have a copy of her will.”

  No one makes dinner that night. My dad and I just nibble on leftovers from the memorial. My mom stays upstairs, and my dad takes her a plate.

  When he comes back downstairs, I ask him how she is.

  “It’s been a rough day. Ask me tomorrow.”

  He turns on the TV. There’s a marathon of The Big Bang Theory on. I laugh at something Sheldon says, and I immediately feel guilty. Ally has been gone for less than a week. How is it even possible for me to laugh?

  I excuse myself and go upstairs to my room. I pause when I pass Ally’s room. Instead of continuing on to my room, I gingerly open her door and walk inside, closing it behind me. I rest there for a spell with my back pressed against the door and my hand still on the knob.

  With the exception of the bare bed, it still looks and smells the same. Ally loved the smell of vanilla. There are candles and scent sprays on top of her dresser. Her favorite cardigan hangs from the corner of her headboard.

  Feeling a chill, I pluck it from its perch and put it on. I curl up on her bed and cry. Slowly, I begin talking to Ally as if she were there. I’m careful not to speak too loudly because I don’t want anyone to hear me.

  I tell her how angry I am at Dr. Julian and how uncertain I am with what I should do with my life. I bathe, I dress, I feed myself, and I talk with my parents on a daily basis. I have no desire to do anything more than that. Will I always feel this way? I feel guilt from not knowing what to do about school. I know I’m currently incapable of absorbing anything school-related.

  I can imagine myself never leaving our house again. I get that it seems extreme and probably not normal. It still doesn’t seem real. I spent the last six years certain that she was going to get better. Then, the day the doctor told us otherwise, she died.

  I had no time to mentally prepare for the difference. I’m sure people who have lost their loved ones in an unexpected way feel the same way, only not. They are just living their lives like normal until it happens, and then it’s a shock to their systems.

  I have forgotten what normal is. I do not know how to live anymore in a world where Ally isn’t fighting.

  At some point, I drift off only to awake in a dark room, unable to remember where I am. Since my room faces the street, there is always a trickle of light that makes its way past the seams of my wooden blinds. There is no filtered glow from our lamppost in Ally’s room.

  I’m cold, my legs are bare, and Ally’s cardigan—while on the long side—does not make a good blanket. I go to my own room and change into sweats and a T-shirt, pulling Ally’s cardigan back on before I crawl into bed. The glow from the lamppost is a comforting nightlight to aid my return to sleep.

  I’m uncomfortably warm when I wake up, still wearing Ally’s cardigan. I shrug it off only to then feel chilled, and I put it back on, hugging myself. I’ve slept in. It’s past ten.

  On my way to the stairs, I peek in my parents’ room, wanting to see if my mom has gotten out of bed. Seeing the bed is empty and made, I head toward the kitchen. I pass the living and dining rooms on the way. Both are empty. Now in an equally empty kitchen, I wonder where my parents are. It’s then that I hear voices from our back deck.

  “She needs to go back to school.” My dad seems annoyed.

  I pause at the back door now that I know they’re talking about me.

  “We need to give her time.”

  “I think it would be good for her to get out of this house.”

  What? Now, I’m moving?

  “So soon?”

  “Claire, think about it. If she had gone away to school, she would have already graduated and would probably be living on her own right now.”

  I know he’s right, but I am about to have a panic attack from just thinking about leaving now.

  “What if I’m not ready for her to go?”

  I don’t need to see her right now to know she’s crying. My father is comforting her now.

  I only hear, “Shh…shh.”

  I feel guilty for eavesdropping, and I hurry to make a plate of leftover fruit and cheese for breakfast. I take it outside to join them.

  My mom waves my dad away and tries to act like she wasn’t just crying. He gently squeezes my arm as I walk past before he walks farther out into the backyard and inspects one of his birdhouses.

  “You slept in.” She remarks.

  I nod. “Yesterday was…”

  She puts her elbows on the table and places her chin on top of her hands. Her hair is long enough that she has it pulled back in a ponytail. A breeze makes my hair swirl around my head and sometimes into my mouth as I try to eat.

  “I know, sweetie.”

  “How are you doing?”

  She gives me a tight smile, lowering one of her hands to pat my forearm. It’s then that she notices I’m wearing Ally’s cardigan. Her fingertips ghost over the weave. She pulls her hand back and wipes her eyes before standing. Then, she wipes her hands on her pants.

  I hesitate, before asking, “Is it okay?”

  Her tight smile is now more a grimace. She nods quickly, leaving her plate on the table, and she hurries inside. I glance over at my dad to see he was watching us.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, walking back over.

  I roll my lips between my teeth, pushing them together.

  “Aubrey?”

  “I’m wearing Ally’s sweater, Dad.”

  His shoulders sag. He pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “I’m going—”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” I know he’s going to go check on her.

  We have spent the last six years with a common goal—helping Ally get better. Now that she’s gone, I’m not sure any of us know what to do.

  Do I go back to school? I’m not sure if I want to go back. So much feels pointless now. What hurts the most is the person who always gave me the best advice is gone.

  When I overheard my mom say she isn’t ready for me to leave, I felt my own agreement. I’m not ready to leave either.

  There isn’t a way to reclaim my college experience. I don’t see myself being a senior living in a dorm. I also cannot picture myself in an off-campus apartment either.

  I look down at my plate. The slices of cheese have warmed. I wrinkle my nose. Unless it’s queso or fondue, I do not like warm cheese. I push away from the table. I’m done eating, but I’m not ready to go inside yet. I walk out into the middle of the yard and sink down, Indian-style.

  After a moment, I lie back in the grass, closing my eyes. When I feel a shadow pass over me, I blink my eyes open. A large cloud has moved in front of the sun. The cloud is more gray than white. Its bottom is an even darker gray. I wonder if it will rain. The idea is a pleasant one. A sprinkle, not a downpour. It makes me think of an expression or saying I’ve heard. Something about rain at a memorial or funeral means God is crying. It sounds romantic—the concept that God would share in our grief.

  I know it’s bullshit though because there wasn’t a cloud in the sky during Ally’s memorial. People say things that aren’t true to make themse
lves feel better. It’s a lie though, and all it does is make people desperate to latch on to something in a time like this.

  So, before I dismiss the idea as being stupid, I waste the time, thinking, Wow, it didn’t rain. That must mean God doesn’t care about Ally.

  That is even worse for me since I’m not even sure I believe in God. These expressions mean nothing. They serve no purpose. Rain is rain, no matter when it falls. When the cloud passes, I stand and make my way back inside, collecting my plate on the way.

  After putting it in the dishwasher, I take a lap around the first floor. No sign of Mom or Dad. Knowing that wearing Ally’s cardigan sent my mother back to bed crushes me. I take it off, rolling it into a ball in my hands, and I walk upstairs.

  Once I’m in my room, I put it in the back of my closet, covering it with an old sleeping bag. It bothers me that a sweater that gives me comfort can cause my mom pain. I want to feel closer to Ally, but hurting my mom is the last thing I want to do.

  Ally would have known what to do. She had this way of knowing exactly what to say in any situation. I only seem to make things worse, no matter how hard I try.

  I don’t want to be sad all the time. That isn’t going to change anything. That won’t bring her back. I just don’t know what to do otherwise. Deciding that talking to my dad might be a good start, I take a shower and pull on some sweats before heading back downstairs.

  My dad is in the kitchen, condensing the leftovers from the memorial into fewer containers. I stand next to him and start stacking the empty trays, so they’ll take up less space in the recycling bin.

  “How’s Mom?” I ask once I’m out of trays.

  He takes a deep breath. “She’s doing the best she can. It’ll just take her some time.”

  “I feel like I’m making it worse for her.”

  He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I think you remind her of her.”

  I nod. It makes sense. Ally and I always looked like we could be sisters. Same height, build, same auburn hair, and hazel eyes. My mom must have seen her ghost every time she looked at me. I quickly brush away a tear, not wanting him to see me cry.

  “I just don’t know what to do, Dad.”

  “In what way, sweetie?”

  “I feel like I need to be doing something. I just don’t know what. I missed fall enrollment, but I’m not even sure I want to go back to school. I just don’t know what to do.”

  He pulls one of the kitchen chairs out and sits, putting his elbow on the table and resting his chin on it. “I wonder if it was a mistake, letting you stay here instead of going to Yale.”

  I start to interrupt him, but he shakes his hand to stop me.

  “It’s just that you probably would have been done with school and living on your own by now.”

  My jaw drops. “Do you not want me living here?”

  He shakes his head. “No, sweetie. I just feel like we robbed you of your independence. That the only reason you’re so unsure of what you want is because we held you back.”

  “There’s no way I would have gone away to school even if you guys wanted me to.”

  He shrugs.

  I get what he’s saying though. How can I know what I want out of life if I haven’t lived?

  My senior year of high school, I thought I had it all. I had a boyfriend. I was going to Yale. It’s six years later. I have an associate’s degree in computer science. I haven’t dated. I still live at home.

  Mike, the guy I dated in high school, is married now. I think his wife is even already expecting. Stuff like that makes me stay away from Facebook.

  I feel like I don’t fit in with the people who used to be my friends. They’re either partying or settling down. There doesn’t seem to be an in-between, and right now, I don’t fit into either category.

  Mr. Clark, the attorney handling Ally’s estate, is here to read her will.

  I talked to my dad about it earlier. He thinks it’s just a formality. Ally didn’t have any tangible assets toward the end.

  We’re all in the living room, my mom and dad on the sofa. I sit in one of the armchairs while Mr. Clark stands by my dad’s desk.

  He clears his throat to get our attention. “I’m here today to read the will of Allison Chanthom. She asked that Drew, Claire, and Aubrey Kline be here for the reading.” He glances at each of us as he says our names.

  “Ms. Chanthom requests that all her earthly possessions go to her elder sister, Claire, and Claire’s husband, Drew.”

  My dad starts to stand to thank him for coming out. Mr. Clark holds up his finger to stop him.

  He lifts another piece of paper off the desk and continues to read, “To her niece, Aubrey Kline, Ms. Chanthom leaves the proceeds of this life insurance policy. The policy is valued at fifty thousand dollars.”

  My mouth drops. She did what?

  He sets the page back down and pauses. “It is her intention that these assets be utilized to fund a trip for Ms. Kline to go to the locations on her When I Get Better board.”

  I sit there, shell-shocked, as my mom and dad both stand to read the will themselves. I half listen as Mr. Clark presents a letter my aunt wrote to my mom and my dad. My dad reads it out loud to my mom.

  “She wants Aubrey to go by herself?” my mom asks.

  “She just doesn’t want either of us to go with her.” My dad glances over at me.

  “Why?” My mom pulls the letter closer, so she can see.

  “Something about gaining independence.”

  Mr. Clark is behind them, collecting his things. He leaves some forms for my parents and me before excusing himself.

  I don’t envy his job, I think as I hear him close the front door.

  I’m still trying to process the news—a trip, her trip. Ally wants me to take her trip. I’ve never been out of the country, let alone around the world.

  I look at my parents. Their heads are together as they read and reread her letter. I picture the Better board, still upstairs in her room. I don’t need to see it to remember the pictures on it. They’re etched into my memory.

  I ask to see her letter when it looks as though my parents are done with it. My dad looks at my mom, waiting for her to nod her head, before he gives it to me. It’s handwritten on simple white paper. There are no lines, and I’m struck by how level each row is. I wonder when she wrote it, and I flip it over to look for a date before I start reading. She wrote it only six months ago, while we were trying to get her approved for that clinical trial.

  “Do they sell life insurance to people with cancer?” I ask.

  My dad flips through the pages Mr. Clark left on his desk before he finds the life insurance policy. “It’s under a group plan through her work. She must have bought it before she knew.”

  I nod, looking back down at the letter. It’s weird, reading a letter written to someone else.

  Dearest Claire and Drew,

  If you are reading this letter, it means I am gone. I want to thank you for taking such good care of me. I am so lucky to have you both and Aubrey in my life. There are many times your love alone kept me going.

  I know what you all gave up to take care of me as well. I don’t have much to repay you all with. My love—please know you have my love.

  I want to try to do something for Aubrey. I have a small life insurance policy that I have named her the beneficiary of. I want her to go on my trip, the one I was supposed to take when I got better.

  There is no legal obligation. (I checked with Mr. Clark.) It is only my last wish that she do this.

  We all know how much Aubrey gave up when she stayed back to help with me. I know you both still see her as your little girl, but she’s a woman now. She needs to gain some independence away from the two of you. She needs an opportunity to grow and learn to trust herself and her choices.

  While there is nothing making her take this trip, I have one request if she does. Neither of you—I repeat, neither of you—are to go with her. Give her a chance to find
herself apart from you.

  Without this, I fear she will end up living with you two forever, and I will blame myself and be forced to come back to show my displeasure. I have no desire to come back and haunt any of you. I will be much too busy flirting with James Dean.

  Please let her do this. Let her have an adventure.

  I love you both bigger than the whole wide world.

  Ally

  As I lower her letter, I feel their eyes on me. They expect a reaction, but I have nothing to give them. I don’t know how I feel about it.

  I’m not sure I want to go. I’m scared of going. And by myself? It’s a crazy idea. I wouldn’t know what to do. I’ve been on a plane but never by myself. It is exciting though—the idea of seeing the world. I’m not sure which consumes me more, the fear or the excitement.

  Besides, her letter only asks them to let me go alone. There is no guarantee either of them will let me go alone.

  My dad clears his throat, “Well?”

  I look up at my dad. “I can’t go around the world.”

  “See.” He looks at my mom and gestures toward me.

  “Drew”—she puts her hand on his forearm—“it’s what Ally wanted.”

  He walks back over to the sofa. “But—”

  “We’ll figure it out,” she interrupts. Then, she turns to me. “I think you should do this.”

  My eyes widen. “Mom…”

  I’ve spent most of the afternoon in my room, looking at Ally’s Better board. My parents are downstairs, discussing Ally’s letter. My dad thinks the idea is crazy, if not foolish. My mom only wants to fulfill Ally’s wishes. Only yesterday, I heard my mom say she wasn’t ready for me to leave, but now, she’s pushing me to.

  I’m sitting on the floor in front of my bed with my legs crossed. The Better board is propped up in front of me. There are six pictures on it—the Sydney Opera House, Victoria Falls, Cristo Redentor, the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall of China, and lastly, a beach in the Caribbean.

  When she picked these pictures, she didn’t mean that she wanted to go to each specific place, but she wanted to travel to each region. One picture for six of the seven continents. She had no desire to visit Antarctica.