Our Last Time: A Novel

by Poplin, Cristy Marie

  “I think about death all the time, Tamara. I know it’ll be a lot worse once Willow leaves. The pain will be amplified. I’ll feel alone. I’ll only make my momma feel even more terrible,” I said, seemingly counting the excuses - then I thought what if.

  “Tamara, are you bringing up lethal medication because you have some?” I asked her.

  She sat up straighter, and then she had made eye contact with me before slowly nodding her head.

  “I have a bottle, yes. I talked to your mom about it first. She says it’s completely up to you. It’s whatever you want to do, Kennedy. But you have to tell your mom before you do anything,” she said.

  I thought it’d be nice to have the option. I hadn’t needed to make a decision just yet. “I’m saying maybe,” I said finally.

  Then that was that, and we had both stood up before heading upstairs.

  September 3rd, 2006, 8:03a.m.

  Willow

  Annette and I had plans to go and see Trace today. She had told me on the phone that she was doing well. She still had not gotten married, which surprised me because she was a beautiful, decent human being. I told her I had something important to tell her. She told me she was free today at any time, and that she might be ready to tell me something else in return, something she had kept repressed for years. I wondered what she meant by that, but she had not given any details. I was eating breakfast with my family and Caitlyn, now. We talked on a few different subjects.

  Caitlyn had told me that she was trying to get over her college love, Brian. He had moved on with the other woman, she had said. He wasn’t trying to protect her and I also determined that he couldn’t possibly be Caitlyn’s forever. He turned out way too scummy to be blessed with her love. I told her she deserved better treatment and that she had not needed to be social if she hadn’t wanted to. In a week or two, I’d tell her she’d find the real thing someday.

  I had been shoveling grits in my mouth when my mother smiled warmly in my direction, and then told me I needed to pick vegetables with her, and take some home. I told her tomorrow morning would be a good time for that.

  My dad was just glad we were there. He had been refraining from leaving the house to go to the golf course or the bar, because we were finally here again. I loved my father’s smile. He had a good smile, and I had missed it. He still called me kiddo, and I knew that I’d never mind it.

  I figured Annette and I would leave right after breakfast. I had known Trace would be awake. She hardly slept from what I remembered, but she was always awake in the early morning. I thought we’d be knocking on her door as she was sipping on her coffee, unfolding the newspaper.

  We finished our breakfast as everyone parted ways. Annette and I went outside, and had approached our extra bicycles that we had brought from home last year, when we had driven to visit. I told her I needed to tell her something before we left, and she nodded as she looked up at me. I grabbed her hands.

  “So, there isn’t really an easy way to tell you this,” I had begun.

  “Is it good or bad news?” she asked before I could continue.

  “Good news,” I smiled as she did. “I just made the mistake of not telling you sooner.”

  “What is it, mommy?” she pushed.

  I sighed. “You have two grandmothers. Trace is-”

  “Trace is my nana, too?” she squealed, interrupting me. “That’s really good news, mommy.”

  “I knew you’d think so,” I grinned. “I have to tell Trace, too, so keep this a secret for mommy to tell.”

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  “Pinky swear?” I released her hands, and then held out my pinky.

  She crooked hers over mine, and then shook. “Pinky swear,” she promised.

  We had gotten on our bikes, and rode off.

  9:02a.m.

  We arrived at Trace’s home, and the view of the house had taken my breath away. This was one of my favorite houses. It was big, but it had a there’s no place like home feel to it. Annette and I sighed before walking up the porch steps. I rang the doorbell after I had knocked once.

  She swung the door open, and Annette was the first to hug her - she had jumped in her arms, really.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, bug!” Trace squeezed Annette.

  Four years ago, Trace nicknamed Annette ‘bug’. Annette had always liked nature, but she had collected bugs for a little while. She had gotten tired of the caterpillar’s pooping on her hands and stuff. Caitlyn had always told her it was unsanitary to bring bugs in the apartment, too, so she had dropped the habit within a year.

  Annette released Trace’s waist before backing away. She was smiling. Trace opened the door wider, and said to us, “Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.”

  Annette eagerly moved past me, and into the house. I walked in slowly, and then closed the front door. Trace had her arms at each side, smiling brightly at me. I hadn’t hesitated to hug her tightly. “I missed you so much, Trace,” I whispered.

  “I missed you, too, Willow,” she whispered in response.

  We walked towards the living room together as I heard a female voice I hadn’t recognized coming from the second floor. “Who’s here?”

  “Willow and her daughter, Annette. I told you they were coming,” Trace responded to the voice, seemingly annoyed the person had spoken.

  We paused in front of the organized couches as Annette plopped down in the leather recliner.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Trace, my voice hushed.

  Trace sighed. “I’ll get to that, I promise.”

  My eyes widened. “Is she your…” I trailed off. I had no idea who the person could be and I wanted Trace to just tell me who the woman was right then.

  Trace sighed again, but louder this second time.

  “Annette, why don’t you watch TV in here while your mother and I talk in the kitchen?” Trace asked Annette, but Annette hadn’t cared about what we had to talk about.

  “Okay,” Annette nodded. She grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels as Trace and I then walked towards the circular dining table. There were no walls separating the kitchen from the living room, so we were able to see Annette from where we were at.

  Trace had taken the seat in front of me, and we paused with our hands clasped over the table.

  “That was Tamara, my girlfriend,” she admitted immediately. Her face hadn’t expressed fear of judgment, but more of confidence, and I had respected that.

  “Oh…” I paused. “How long have you been together?” I asked curiously.

  I never suspected Trace to be interested in women. She might have preferred to be with a woman all this time I’d known her, though. I had never seen her with a man.

  She sighed. “We had a secret relationship for seventeen years. It started off long distance. She moved here nine years ago from Oregon, but we have only been publicly together for two years. I’ve been in love with her since I was in high school.”

  That had been a lot for me to take in all at once. Trace hid this for so long, and I couldn’t help but wonder how or why, because Trace was usually the one person that cared less about irrelevant opinions.

  “Can I ask why you kept it a secret for so long?” I asked slowly.

  “That would be fair,” she exhaled. “It’s not a reasonable excuse, but it’s all I’ve got. I didn’t accept my sexuality up until two years ago, Willow. I didn’t want Kennedy or you or your parents to know that I am a lesbian. I didn’t want anyone to know or to find out. I would always think about my parents, and how they’re traditional people. I’d tell myself I wasn’t ready for my loved ones to push me away for being who I am, but it was all just me pushing away myself. If that makes even the slightest bit of sense,” she went on.

  I grabbed both of her hands, and I squeezed them. “I love you no matter what. We’re human, Trace. We don’t choose who to love. We just love whenever our heart tells us to,” I said, and she smiled at that.

  “We just love wh
enever our heart tells us to…that’s the truest statement,” she agreed.

  “I’m learning to live by it,” I responded.

  She scrunched her eyebrows, suddenly.

  “There’s something else I need to say,” she announced, her voice hushed. “Kennedy doesn’t have a father. I gave birth to him, but I was impregnated by a donor’s sperm. I have never had sex with a man in my life.”

  I exhaled, deeply. “Did you ever tell Kennedy any of this?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It was soon before he passed away. I knew I had to tell him eventually.”

  “That’s good that you told him.”

  “It was important for him to know,” she shrugged.

  “Well, since it’s ‘reveal your secrets’ day…” I trailed off. “There’s a particular secret I need to reveal to you.”

  “And what would that be?” she followed.

  I tried not to pause before answering. “Annette is one-hundred-percent your granddaughter.”

  She nodded, simply. “I kind of figured. You would have done away with me a long time ago if she wasn’t.”

  “Ugh,” I released her hands, grinning. “Everything about you reminds me of him.”

  She smiled warmly in return. “He would have made such a great father, despite my feminine teachings. I’m surprised he didn’t turn out to be a softy.”

  I laughed lightly. “I miss him every day.”

  “I tell you, Willow,” she sighed longingly. “Everyone that knew him misses him every day.”

  I agreed with her by nodding, because it was definitely true.

  “Willow, this might be none of my business, but have you found someone yet?” she asked cautiously, yet curiously.

  “Um, kind of,” I said, my words fumbling.

  She giggled. “You did. You found someone. I know you did. What’s the guy’s name?” she asked intrusively. She held her chin with her hands as she rested her elbows on the table.

  “How do you know it’s a guy?” I questioned teasingly.

  “You’ve hated girls ever since you were little,” she insisted.

  She had a valid point.

  “I don’t know if he’s someone, but I hope he is,” I admitted stubbornly. “His name is Wyatt Blanquette. He was one of my patients at the hospital. He’s also Annette’s third-grade teacher.”

  “Whoa, the chances,” she said in awe.

  “Exactly,” I nodded. “I don’t think you’ll find any more details interesting, so I’ll stop talking now.”

  “Hey, hold on!” she had given me a look. “Do you love him, or not?”

  “That hasn’t been determined yet,” I groaned.

  “How long have you been seeing him?” she asked.

  “I have no details, Trace. We’ve been on zero dates. We haven’t even had sex yet.”

  “Who knew sex came before love, dates, or otherwise,” she laughed. “So you’re smitten with him? Is that all?” she continued digging.

  “Trace, I’m not quite in love with him now, but I know I will love him hard eventually. It might not take much more time at all. Love could take its placement the day I return to Illinois. He could spontaneously show up in Nolensville, and command love to take its placement here. Does that answer your question?” I breathed.

  “Calm down before you knock the wind out of yourself,” she crooked a smile. “I assume you’re still working on facing your feelings. You’re still young. In time, Willow, you’ll be comfortable. Just hope he’s running at the same level as you, or else you might experience trouble along the way. Tamara resented me for a while because I wasn’t willing to hold her hand or kiss her in public. I think what you’re experiencing with this Wyatt character falls across the same line. Just be careful.”

  “Of course, Trace. Thank you.”

  “Just come and see me when you figure it out, okay? I have something to give you, but I can’t give it to you until you fall in love. Whoever the person may be,” Trace finally said.

  I nodded before I said, “Noted.”

  We retreated to the living room, and Trace had soon called Tamara to join us. She was beautiful and blonde, and a lot more social than Trace was with strangers. Her green eyes were kind. I decided I liked her. We ate lunch and dinner together, and we played a few games. It was refreshing.

  4:53p.m.

  Annette and I were leaving Trace’s house, now. I asked her to get on her bike, and follow me to the abandoned home in the woods. I just wanted to finally show her where I used to be. I had spent a lot of my time there, and with the first man I loved who was also her father. My and Kennedy’s home was rotted to the point where it wouldn’t be safe to enter, but it was still standing. It was still beautiful and it was still my favorite place. I told her it was. I told her that her daddy used to meet me here every day. She had said that she wanted to know what her daddy looked like. And so, she followed me back to my childhood home. We walked into the kitchen, hand in hand, and I pointed at a picture on the fridge. It was my and Kennedy’s prom picture. She took the picture in her hands, curious – her eyes huge. “That’s you and daddy?” she asked softly.

  “Yeah, sweetie. Me and daddy,” I exhaled, my hand placed on her shoulder.

  August 17th, 1997, 8:34a.m.

  Kennedy

  I had fallen asleep crying, and had woken up with the tears branded on my cheeks, dried. I had started crying again, and I pictured Willow’s face. She was distraught and miserable last night.

  Yesterday, I had said Hello to Willow for the last time. I hadn’t wanted to get out of bed. I was lying on top of my bedsheets, thinking to myself: what if I could end it all in the matter of just a few hours?

  I couldn’t stoop to suicide. I couldn’t cower into death. I wanted to be strong. I hadn’t wanted to end my life with pills. I wanted to believe I had a reason to continue while I could.

  When I returned home last night, I wrote a poem-like-thing to Willow that I had known wouldn’t be delivered to her by me. It was my explanation for saying Hello for the last time sooner than later.

  Tonight you told me

  you couldn’t let me die alone.

  Because we’re in love,

  through days we drone,

  we don’t lose track of our place

  and we don’t try to find a new home.

  The truth is I have cancer,

  but you just want to see me.

  There’s a thing about illness,

  it breaks into your body and it creates a disease.

  I’ll soon lose track of my thoughts,

  and I won’t be put at ease.

  It will constantly eat at me,

  it will slowly take over me,

  and eventually, it will become me.

  My mind will no longer be operable,

  and I won’t recognize the people that I used to know.

  Not you, not even you.

  If you were there at that time and place,

  I wouldn’t remember why I ever loved you,

  I wouldn’t smile at the view of your face.

  Foreign love isn’t pretty,

  no, it’s unusual and manipulating.

  You’d kneel at my bedside, feeling pain and pity.

  I’d feel alone, so unaware.

  I can’t let you see me alone and unaware,

  no, it would be selfish and wrong.

  To you it’d be unfair.

  I can only tell you I love you now,

  because I mean it now

  and I say it proud.

  Just this one time,

  Willow Renee Monroe.

  I’ll tell you I love you,

  because I do.

  I love you more than I love myself,

  and I will love you with my heart

  even when my mind doesn’t think I do.

  Loving you is like brain cancer,

  but less traumatic to the brain.

  You took over me like an illness,

  you drove me insane.

  - K
ennedy Danes, August 16th, 1997

  P.S. When you feel it burning in your heart, let yourself fall in love with someone else. Tell them you love them, so they know for sure. Don’t let the story of us be the end for you. You were my forever. I was your beginning.

  I hadn’t considered myself a poet by any means, but I had known she’d love my words anyway, and I had known she would take my conclusive advice. She wouldn’t be ready to read it for a while. She’d have to move on to a new life before reading this. I hadn’t wanted her to read this while being in a state of misery, and missing me to the point where it’d hurt just to breathe. If she loved me as much as I loved her, and I had known she had - she’d be broken for a long time. She’d be broken for years.

  I had forced myself to get up, so I could tell my momma and Tamara that I was not going to take the lethal medication. I hadn’t thought it would be the best way out. I wanted to leave at my own pace. I hadn’t wanted to force an end, even if it’d be less painful.

  They understood. My mother was relieved, and I had known she would be. She hadn’t wanted me to take that medication. She wanted me to stay strong, and I told her I would try. Death was a natural thing, no matter how ugly. I couldn’t rush it or change its ways, and I hadn’t wanted to.

  “I want to flush the pills, Tamara,” I told her.

  She grabbed my hand, and squeezed it. “They’d be better off out of sight,” she said.

  I nodded, then said, “And out of mind.”

  Tamara retrieved the bottle of pills from her nightstand, and I then followed her to the bathroom. “Would you like to dump them in, or shall I?” she asked me gently.

  “I’ll do it,” I replied.

  I grabbed the bottle, took the cap off, and dumped all of the pills out into the toilet bowl. I pulled on the handle, and watched as they swirled around before disappearing. “I feel better, now, somehow,” I sighed. I handed her the empty bottle after capping it. “I don’t care where you put the bottle.”