Bryce isn’t here for Meredith’s ribs or her cobbler or to talk about ASMR with my mom; she’s here for me.
Bryce left Los Angeles on an extended vacation after Kyle died. Stayed with me for a month. Worked from my living room. Though I don’t remember much. My grief kept me in my bedroom. Pacing hallways. It kept me from showering, eating, talking. Dr. Elizabeth classified it as shock. Grief. Depression. Things I already knew. The first year after Kyle’s death, I just shuffled through life in a fog.
“Meredith?” My dad stares blankly. It’s the stare that tells us what’s about to come from his mouth is questionable. “Where’d you put my good pants?”
“What do you need your good pants for?” She rests her hand on the table, almost bracing herself for the blow that will come at any moment.
“Work tomorrow.”
There it is.
She stalls. But I’m not sure if it’s for peace of mind or sadness. “Honey, you’ve been retired for three years. Remember?”
My dad tilts his head and sets his fork down. Thinks. “I have?”
My mom inhales and slowly lets it out. “Yes.”
She starts to clear the table, as if it doesn’t bother her. As if it’s just another day at the Fishers’. But it does bother her. It isn’t the fact that he can’t remember. It’s the fact that we’re running out of time with him.
Bryce and I exchange glances. I stand and begin to help my mom.
“Dad, I need help with putting together the entertainment system. Can you come up and help?” I look down at his sullen face as I pick up his plate.
“Absolutely, Gidget.” He gives me a pat. “Absolutely.”
I follow my mom into the kitchen. She quietly sets down a plate on the island, her back to me. I see the weight of our family resting on her shoulders. Gently, I take my arms and fold them around her. I feel her take a big breath in and then let it out.
“It has to be all right, Mom. It doesn’t have to feel okay. It shouldn’t. But it needs to be all right.” I rest my cheek against her back as we hear Bryce and Philip laugh from the other room.
My mom turns to me. “You don’t need to worry about this, Alex. You need a break from all this. You need to start on your writing again.”
“Mom—”
She holds up her hand. “Hear me out.”
I lean against the counter. Because the truth is, I don’t have a plan. I need a plan. I want a plan, but I don’t have a plan. The panic starts to gather in my chest.
She hesitates.
“Meredith Fisher, you just hesitated.”
She tilts her head. “I did not.”
“You did.”
She reaches for something next to the house phone.
A postcard.
My heart seizes.
I grab it from her hand.
“Where’d you get this?” I look up at her.
“It came for you yesterday. Who’s Eli?”
Slowly, I meet her gaze. The postcard I’d received earlier said the same thing.
Alex,
Granite Harbor, Maine, welcomes YOU.
Please come.
Love,
Eli
I shake my head, willing the words to come out. “Mom, I don’t know who Eli is. I-I’ve never met an Eli in my life.”
I closely examine the postcard. Postmark out of Brooklyn. In pristine condition, just like the one I received.
“That was a delicious dinner, Meredith. Thank you so much,” Bryce says, carrying in the rest of the dishes into the kitchen.
Meredith is at the sink, starting the dishes.
“Nope. You remember the rules. You cook. We clean. It’s only fair.” Bryce softly pushes my mom out of the way with her hip.
I slip the postcard into my back pocket.
As if the postcards weren’t enough, why are they written in my dead husband’s handwriting?
Bryce is crawling into bed, her lavender-colored sleep mask plastered to her forehead. Her long dark red hair, tied up in a knot, sits on the top of her head. Her slender frame and tight abs are exposed under her silk top. I don’t remember the last time I went to the gym.
“Listen, I’m going to be totally frank with you. I need to. As your best friend, it is my duty to be honest with you.”
“Is this one of your speeches about the recycling program here?” I laugh, turning to my side, staring at Bryce.
Larry is curled up at my chest.
“No, but you guys need one—and an escape plan when there’s a zombie apocalypse. I’ll let you in on my plan for a low, low fee.” She smiles.
There’s a long silence that separates us. I know this talk she wants to have, and it’s not the lack of ease with Belle’s Hollow recycling. I’m not sure I want to hear it, but Bryce came all this way, so I need to give her space and time to talk.
“You go down to your parents’ house on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. You go to the store on Mondays. You stare at your computer every single day during the hours of six in the morning to two in the afternoon, hoping for inspiration. You watch two shows on Wednesday nights and Thursday nights. Both romance. You haven’t been on a date at all since Kyle died. I don’t remember the last time you wore heels. Your outfits consist of leggings or yoga pants. Kyle’s ashes sit by your bed. His pictures, your pictures together, still blanket your house.” She looks down at my wedding ring. “You still wear your wedding ring.” Bryce pauses. “This is an intervention. You need to do something different. Completely different, Alex.” Her voice is quiet as she strokes Larry’s thick coat. “The postcards.”
“What about them?” My head snaps to Bryce.
She sighs. “Look, you know how I am. Concrete evidence. Research to back up decision-making. But what if they’re a sign that you need to get out of this old routine? Find a new one. Find your passion again. Not just for writing, but for life.”
“So, I’m just supposed to follow advice from a postcard I received in the mail from a stranger named Eli and travel over two thousand miles across the country to find out who he is? Do you realize how crazy you sound right now?”
Bryce shrugs. “Yeah.”
“Bryce, what if he’s a serial killer? And this is a trap? And he lures women to his lair to kill them?”
She toys with Larry’s tail. “There are no serial killers in Maine. Except for Stephen King.”
“How do you know?”
“I Googled it.” She laughs hysterically.
“I’m sure you read a bogus article that was written by the same guy who wrote the postcard. And I’m sure the article’s title was ‘State of Maine Free from Serial Killers.’”
This makes us both laugh.
But is Bryce right? Has my life come down to my parents’ house, television, and yoga pants?
“Promise me something,” Bryce whispers as she strokes Larry.
“Remember the last time you said that?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh God, Alex. For the record, I thought he was six foot four, and his teeth were straighter than the picture showed. At any rate, we got the whole thing annulled anyway.”
Bryce got drunk in Vegas. Sent me a picture of a guy who seemed rather … well, like God probably gave him a great personality.
Her text said: Promise me something. You won’t be mad when I tell you I got married.
“Promise me that, no matter what, you’ll find happiness. Whatever it looks like, without Kyle, without the extras that we get in life. I don’t care what you do, Alex. I just want you to be happy again. Go join the serial killers in Maine. Don’t go.” She toys with my right hand. “Belle’s Hollow is blanketed with memories of you and Kyle. When he died, you did, too. The light, the spunk, the zest for life left you, too. Your words, written for the world to see, the romance you created in your books could only have been inspired by the love you and Kyle shared. That much is true. Hang on.” She sneezes. Bryce sneezes when she’s tired. She rubs her nose in an effort to shoo away the next sneeze that is
always inevitable.
“Truth?” I whisper.
Bryce holds back a sneeze. She nods, pulling her mask over her eyes.
“I’m not sure how to start over.” My heart starts to pound. My face grows hot. “I’m confident I know how tomorrow will end because I do exactly the same thing I did the day before. I do exactly everything the same, except without Kyle and without the writing. And, to be honest, Bryce, I’m lost. I can’t seem to see my way out of this.” I swallow air to push down the lump in my throat that’s buried behind my loss of life.
Bryce pulls up her mask. She peeks out through the bottom and stares down at me. “Baby steps. Do something different. It’s like the definition of insanity, right? What is it?” Bryce taps her fingers on the down comforter. “Doing the same thing and expecting different results.”
“You think I’m insane?” The question is serious, and it comes out as if I half-believe I might be insane.
“No.” Bryce laughs. “If you want something different, do something different.” She sneezes again.
I look up at my best friend.
The mask up on her forehead again, she’s looking down at me. “What if you take a risk? Go to Granite Harbor. Take a vacation. God knows, you have gobs of money that you don’t know what to do with.”
I bite my lower lip. The money Kyle and I were supposed to use for vacations. Donate to organizations that meant a lot to us. Upgrade our house even though it didn’t need upgrading. Perhaps add more space. Use for the children we never had.
It’s been three years after all. At the three-year mark, what does a widow do? There’s no training manual.
“What do I do next, Bryce?”
“Tomorrow is a brand-new day. You’ll wake up at the ass-crack of dawn. You’ll take me to the airport. You’ll tell me you’re going to go online once you get home and find a nice vacation rental in Granite Harbor, that you’ll go for two weeks. Just check it out.”
“But I can’t leave Larry.” I find an excuse because, as Bryce talks about these changes, my stomach rolls, shifts, jerks with nerves.
“Turns out, cats are really independent. Larry will be fine. Meredith will make sure of it.”
What could go wrong? Maine. The middle of October. The first of November, I’ll come back.
I momentarily entertain the idea.
“Find the feisty Alex I know is in there.” Bryce takes her hand and puts it on my heart. “The one who doesn’t take any shit. The one who holds her own. Find angst that you used to put in your stories.”
“What if she’s not there anymore?” I pause. “What if I’m not the same person anymore?”
Bryce laughs. “Oh, she’s in there all right. She just needs some room to breathe. To get out of where she’s at. Find a new different. That’s what she needs.” Bryce sneezes.
I climb out of her bed but not before kissing her on the cheek. “Get some sleep.”
As I get to the doorway, Bryce says, “Alex, you’re the strongest woman I know. I’ve seen you battle hell and come back. Now, it’s time for you to take your life back.” She pauses. “Kyle would have wanted it this way.”
I nod because I know this to be true.
Kyle married me, a woman full of life, full of love, quietly confident, stubborn, and unapologetic for my empathy, for my love for telling stories. Me, the woman who dictated my own story endings has now become a woman who hides in my yoga pants, behind a blank computer screen, petting my unusually big cat, unable to find my own story because the grief has somehow stuck to a piece of me that allows me to see only with blinders on.
Will I be able to find myself? Better yet, will I be the same person?
I pad back to my bedroom, open up my Mac, and make a five thousand dollar donation to St. Jude.
Two
Alex
October 3, 2017
It’s just after nine at night. Sitting in my office, I scan through my emails. I feel the two postcards staring back at me.
Why the hell would I have received two postcards, saying the same thing, sent to my house and my parents’ house? How the hell did Eli get the addresses? I ask myself.
Now, I’m creeping myself out, glancing at the drawn shades once more.
Focus, I tell myself, looking back at the computer screen.
I delete.
I save for later.
I delete.
I save for later.
Larry’s lying on one side of the off-white fainting couch against the window, snoring. Some days, I wish I were a cat. Nap, eat, love, nap, eat, love is the cycle they go through on a daily basis, and their biggest worry is, nap on the sofa or the windowsill upstairs?
Larry perks up. Maybe he knows I’m looking at him. He yawns, exposing his fierce canines. He hops down from the couch and swaggers over to my side of the room. He sits at my feet, meows, jumps up on my large work desk my Mac sits on, and plops down next to me.
“What do I do, big guy?”
He licks his paw, ignoring me.
“I’ve resorted to talking to my cat,” I whisper as I watch him. “I’m a crazy cat lady but with one cat instead of several. I’m a crazy cat lady who talks to her cat. I should dye my hair purple and paint my house, my car, and Larry purple, and I shall call myself the Purple Cat Lady.”
Larry stops. Stares at me.
“I’m kidding.”
He goes on grooming.
I click on another email with the subject line Places to Visit.
Kauai wants you to enjoy their roosters and relax on Poipu Beach.
New York City wants you to drown in their exquisite nightlife and fine dining.
Yosemite National Park wants you to reclaim your inner child and lie in El Capitan Meadow to watch the vertical mountain climbers.
Sonoma County wants you to take part in grape-smashing and enjoy the euphoria of good wine.
Washington, D.C. wants to take you for a history lesson.
New Orleans wants you to enjoy the culture, the crawfish, and the eclectic company in the Big Easy.
Granite Harbor wants you to sit on a front porch on Main Street, drink some tea, write a story, and get lost in the most beautiful small town since Mayberry.
What the actual fuck?
The thumbnail attached is a picture of a cat that looks just like Larry.
I shut my computer.
I bite my thumb as I glance at both the postcards on my desk and toss them in the trash next to my desk.
October 4, 2017
“Just go even if it’s for a week,” my mom says as she shuts the refrigerator.
“What if I don’t come back and I end up on a milk carton?”
She pauses and drops the deli meat on the counter. “I don’t think they do that anymore—the milk cartons.” She thinks for a moment. “Besides, those are excuses, Alex, not reasons you shouldn’t go. You have nothing tying you to Belle’s.”
“What about Dad?”
“You aren’t responsible for your dad. I am. You’re a thirty-two-year-old beautiful writer who’s had some real tough shit happen. But that doesn’t define you. What do you have to lose?”
“Who’s going to cut Dad’s hair?”
“Red Plums.” Her answer is quick, as if not allowing her sadness to escape with her words. As if it’s just another item on her to-do list. Her eyes stretch the length of the counter. A smile barely touches her lips. She grabs the cheese and puts a slice on the bread.
“Who’s going to help you help Dad?”
“Alex, I’ll be fine. You aren’t supposed to worry about your parents. He’s not dying tomorrow.”
Both of us are silent. Weight from both our worries congregate somewhere in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for one of us to speak. Because tomorrow is only a twenty-four-hour time period. It doesn’t last forever, although I wish it would. Time passes. It’s inevitable.
“It will slowly get worse—or quickly, depending on the person,” Dr. McGoldrick said. “Middle stage of Alzheimer’s
disease. Patients live four to eight years after diagnosis but sometimes twenty,” he concluded at my dad’s first appointment two years ago.
But, the way my dad’s been progressing lately, I’m not so sure twenty years is an option anymore.
Mom clicks on the television that sits on top of the refrigerator in the corner of the kitchen for a welcome distraction.
“And there you have it, folks, the tale of Andre the Seal. What an amazing little town this is. I’m Frank Burgess, reporting from Granite Harbor, Maine. Back to you in the studio, Shannon.”
My mom drops her jaw. Her eyes fall to me.
“National news?” I fight to resist the stupid idea of fate. “The story of Andre the Seal made national news? Are you kidding me? Must be a slow time of year.” I grab a piece of bread and shove it in my mouth, trying not to encourage this whole idea of twisted fate.
Serial killers, Alex. Think of serial killers.
“Who the hell is Eli?” I ask myself more rhetorically.
Mom presses her lips together and closes the sandwich. “It’s worth finding out, Alexandra. It’s worth finding out.”
“You ready, Gidget?” My dad comes in from the back door into the kitchen.
“Ready when you are.”
“Eat first.” My mom pushes a sandwich his way.
Old dad. The best dad. Philip Fisher—accountant, rancher, husband, do-gooder—has returned.
And I’m not sure what’s easier—the days where he’s himself, and I allow hope to creep back into a painted picture, only to be devastated once again when he returns from the bedroom, a blank stare asking where his pants are. I think the highs and lows are the hardest. Or the alternative, if he stayed sick, we could work on acceptance. But, as extreme as the highs and lows can be, we keep hope tied down, protected.
My dad and I drive up to my place, so he can assemble an entertainment system that he’s done a thousand times. I keep it behind Kyle’s truck in the garage.
He’ll ask for a few specific tools when we settle in the living room, and then he’ll remember he brought his own tools after I make the comment.
Peony Red (The Granite Harbor Series Book 1) Page 2
