All That's Left of Me

by Janis Thomas

  “I have one wish left,” I tell her.

  “First things first,” she replies. She gestures to the small dollhouse on the display counter, the one-story prewar with the picket fence. “That was my life. Until I wished it away.” She looks around the shop, at the antiques and knickknacks and furniture, suddenly covered with a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. “Now I’m surrounded by ghosts.”

  Dolores locks her gaze on mine, then stretches out her arm. It reaches past me from where she stands, twenty feet away. I’m hallucinating, but I keep my eyes open.

  “Why don’t you take a look inside?” She stands beside me. She is twenty years old and looks like Greta Garbo. She moves to the front window display, within which sits the dollhouse, my house. She unlatches the back door of the display window, and points to the step stool on the floor beneath it. Inside the display case, there is a small area behind the house, just wide enough to accommodate a very small person.

  “Go on,” she urges. She is my mother. I want to hug her. I want to yell at her for leaving me. “You better hurry, honey. They’re almost gone.”

  I stagger to the display window, grab the sides of the door frame to steady myself, then climb up the step stool. I am small enough to fit in the space behind the house. There’s room to spare. The house looms before me. It looks larger than it did, but then, I’m smaller, and growing smaller still.

  The back of the house is cut away, and I stare inside. My house. I see the cracked tile on the floor, the broken banister, the smallish, fat television on the stand in the living room. Through the front window I see the gnarly tree, the crooked unlevel pavers, the Civic, the van.

  Inside the house, on the second floor, in the room at the end of the hall, the figure of a girl with red hair lies on a pink floral duvet, talking on a miniature cell phone. In the kitchen, the figure of a man stands at the counter, a demitasse in one hand, a pipe in the other. In the family room, the figure of a boy with dark hair sits in a wheelchair, staring at a computer screen, his expression thoughtful, delighted.

  My breathing is labored; my lungs have shrunk. I don’t have much time. The muscles in my arms have shriveled. I dig down to the deepest part of myself, to my core, and raise my trembling arms up, up, up. I lower them around the house, grasping the eaves on either side with my bony fingers. I press myself against the jagged wood of the cutaway, lay my head against the roof tiles.

  I close my eyes. Darkness engulfs me. I submit. I go.

  I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish I wish . . .

  EPILOGUE

  Monday, August 15

  I awaken to a ray of sunlight slicing across my comforter through the curtains in the window. Glorious sunlight washing over the flowers of the precious quilt my mother made. The quilt is not tired, just well used, loved because it was made with loving hands. The room around me hums with energy, as though it has come alive with my presence, as though it has been waiting for me. The many imperfections—the scuffed furniture, the tired landscapes, the beige walls, those things I resented—are all meaningless now. I am home.

  The aroma of espresso wafts up from downstairs, the strong, bitter scent arousing my senses. I hear the soft voices of CNN from the TV in the kitchen and the sound of the shower from the bathroom down the hall. I hear the loud, rhythmic breathing from the monitor on the dresser, and I think there has never been a sweeter sound in all the world. And above that, high and insistent, is the furious, incessant bark of the neighbors’ puppy.

  I sit up in bed as that not-right feeling comes over me.

  I wait a moment, listening to the house around me.

  Then I smile to myself as I throw back the covers. Because I realize that the not-quite-right thing about this morning is that everything is just right.

  I pull open the nightstand drawer and root around for my journal. There it is, under a magazine and a worn copy of Gone With the Wind. My fingers tremble as I unlock the clasp and open the journal and gaze down at the pages. All blank, not a single word written upon them.

  These last several weeks, disorientation has been my constant companion, and it visits me again, although only for a moment. I don’t know what happened to me, whether I am waking from one long horrible, wonderful dream, or if I actually possessed the power of wishes for a short time. But as the disorientation lifts, and the world around me returns to its usualness, I realize it doesn’t matter.

  What I do know is that my checklist still exists, although it has altered. I grab a pen from the nightstand and place the tip against the top of the first page of the journal.

  To do:

  1) Report my boss no matter the consequences

  2) Look for a new job that makes me proud of myself

  3) Counsel my daughter and connect with her

  4) Open my heart to my husband and let him in, allow him to know me.

  I look up to see Colin standing at the bedroom door. My breath hitches at the sight of him.

  “Good morning,” he says. His voice is apprehensive. Why wouldn’t it be? He fears my mood because I’ve given him every reason to. I smile at him as tears slide down my cheeks. He looks at me with concern and crosses to the bed. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just had a terrible dream.”

  He sits beside me on the end of the bed. “What was it about?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. His shoulders slouch. I think about my new checklist—let him in—and reconsider my answer. “You were gone. You and Josh and Katie. You were all gone. And I was alone.”

  His expression saddens, and he gazes down at his lap. “Sometimes I think that’s what you want,” he says quietly.

  It’s difficult for me to admit, but I do it anyway, because this is what my husband needs. This is what I need. I reach out and take his hand. “Sometimes I did, too. But I don’t anymore. You guys are my life. And what a great life it is.”

  Slowly, his lips curve into a smile. “That must have been one hell of a dream.”

  I nod. “It was.”

  He kisses my cheek, then gives my hand a squeeze. He glances at the monitor. “Want me to get him up?”

  “No. I’ll do it,” I tell him. “I want to take him next door to meet Charlemagne.”

  Colin chuckles. I like the sound. “The yapper?” he asks with a mock frown.

  I match his laughter. “He’s just a puppy. He’ll outgrow it. Anyway, I’m finally going to taste Louise’s Peruvian coffee. I think I might like it.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The idea for All That’s Left of Me came to me after my mom died, and it bounced around in my head for a long while. Her passing inspired me to ask those universal questions we all ask at some point: What’s it all about? Why are we here? Am I living the life I should be?

  I still don’t have the answers to the first two questions, but as for the third, the answer is definitely yes. My life is perfect as it is. Well, imperfectly perfect. I don’t always do the right thing or make the right choices—tragedy strikes, losses occur, and challenges confront me—but I am richly blessed with an amazing family, friends, loved ones (you know who you are), and countless gifts, and I wouldn’t change a thing. (Except, perhaps, my waistline!)

  As always, I must give praise and thanks to the many people who made this book possible.

  First and foremost, thank you to my fantastic agent, Wendy Sherman. Her feedback, guidance, and unwavering support are the reasons you are holding this book (or e-reader) in your hands.

  Thanks to my developmental editor, the wonderful Melody Guy, whose insightful questions, comments, notes, and suggestions—once again—made this a better book.

  Thank you to Kelli Martin, who championed this book to Lake Union. Thanks to Danielle Marshall, Alicia Clancy, and the entire Lake Union team. My experience with your imprint has been unparalleled. Thank you for your meticulousness, and your commitment to publishing the best books possible.

  Thank you to my writing family: Michael Steven Gr
egory and Wes Albers and the entire Southern California Writers Conference community; Maddie Margarita and Larry Poriccelli and the Southern California Writers Association; my Novel Intensive teaching partner, Ara Grigorian—I’ve listened to your lessons how many times and I still learn new things; my online writing friends, including Melissa Amster, Julie Valerie, and Samantha Stroh Bailey.

  I would not have been able to write about Josh’s medical issues without the help and expertise of Linda Sanfillipo. Thank you, Linda, for your invaluable input. If there are any mistakes or misrepresentations regarding Josh’s condition or care, they are mine, not hers.

  To my readers, I know there are a great many choices out there. Thank you for choosing this book. I hope my stories touch you in some way and that you’ll keep reading them, because I write them for you.

  Finally, while creating a character challenged with cerebral palsy, I learned a great many things and gained tremendous respect—and awe—for those persons challenged by this disorder. You and your families, and the courage you display on a daily basis, are an inspiration to me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Janis Thomas is the author of What Remains True and three critically acclaimed humorous works of women’s fiction—Something New, Sweet Nothings, and Say Never—as well as the mystery Murder in A-Minor. She has written more than fifty songs and two children’s books, which she created with her dad. Janis is a writing advocate, editor, workshop leader, and speaker. When she isn’t writing or fulfilling her PTA duties, Janis likes to play tennis, sing with her sister, and throw lavish dinner parties with outrageous menus for friends and loved ones. Janis lives in Southern California with her husband, their two beautiful children, and two crazy dogs.