“Did you actually talk to Taylor? How have you never told me this before now?”
“I mean, no, but she said ‘Hi’ to Charlie right before the shoot. Of course, who could resist his handsome face? She probably wanted to date him.”
“And then write a song about him.”
“She probably kissed him!”
“And then wrote a song about said kiss.” Ben slid a shot glass of rum in my direction and plowed forward. “Sister dear, you’re looking a bit green, and we are getting off track. Speaking of dating, are you and Charlie snogging?”
“What, are you Harry Potter now? And is this rum?” My nose touched the glass. “You know I hate rum.”
“Then drink it fast. One, two, three, go.”
“No, I’m not dating or snogging Charlie! No. Not then. Not now. Wow, I’m feeling the gin.”
“Are you sure it’s not the rum?”
“He’s adorable. Brilliant. Hilarious. Too much to handle. My best friend. Gorgeous. Have you ever noticed his lips? Of course you haven’t. Well I have, and Charlie Beck has great lips. Not that I’ve ever touched them. But they sure do look nice on his face. Only it’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like? I’m not an idiot. I know there’s always been a little something between you two. You’ve loved him forever; I knew it after that Halloween party when the three of us dressed as the Three Amigos and sang ‘My Little Buttercup.’ I was Chevy Chase playing the piano and you two were Martin Short and Steve Martin singing. I saw you fall in love with him that night.”
“Sure, Dr. Phil. Sure.”
“Reese, mine eyes have seen the glory.”
“Maybe I have thought about settling down in a cottage built for two with him. So what! But Charlie will never, and I mean never like me like that. We are Snoopy and Charlie. Period.”
“Wait, are you Snoopy or are you Charlie?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Okay, okay, Snoopy, I didn’t mean to ruffle your fur. But speaking of drinking…”
“I said nothing about drinking.”
“Here’s your Scotch. Drink it like a good girl.”
“He’s too busy becoming famous to think about love anyway. At least that’s what he tells me.”
“But you love him.”
“I mean, whatever. We’re best friends. You’re best friends with him too—does that mean you’re going to marry him? So you have noticed his lips. I’ll need another Scotch when I break the news to Maya; make it an entire bottle.”
“Your belligerence has earned you your fifth shot. Dealer’s choice. There’s a lot more where this came from. Ah, the Irish whiskey, an excellent choice. Speaking of the Irish, how are things in Ireland these days?”
“Oh, ya know. Green and magical, as always.”
“So. Did you make any friends while you were over there? Anyone to write home about? Anyone special?”
“You are spectacularly annoying.”
“The fact that you enunciated ‘spectacularly’ correctly lets me know it’s time for our next shot. Let’s go for the bourbon and save the vodka for a clean finish. So what’s up with Irish men sending you packages?”
“Oh wait, that’s from…He’s this guy I met when I was there three years ago. It’s not a big deal.”
“Sister, Irish Santa Claus beamed you a package from halfway around the globe. That’s not nothing.”
“Is it going to sound bad if I say we met at a pub?”
“Only if you had six shots with him. Keep going.”
“Well, he’s nice. And gentlemanly. Our age. He studied his undergrad at one of those proper schools, Oxford or Cambridge or something.”
“Oh, you mean Hogwarts?”
“He’s getting his Master’s in writing at some fancy university, and he lives on a sheep farm with his grandpa and dad.”
“You’re making this up. A sheep-farming writer? Yeah, right. Take a shot. Take two for that matter.”
“Whatever, Ben. He’s a really, really nice guy. A good guy.”
“He sounds boring.”
“Right? Only he’s hot. I mean not.” I blushed. “He’s smart, but he never talks down to me. He’s quirky and witty in an understated way. We hung out every day for two weeks straight when Charlie and I were there assisting for that shoot three years ago.”
“I’m sure Charlie loved him.”
“Well, they never met. Charlie doesn’t know about him. It never came up. He was busy during the trip, so I was busy. Blake and I only got to hang out a couple of times on this past trek to Ireland before you called me back to the home front. Thanks for that, by the way.”
“You’ve been dating an Irish guy for three years, and you’ve never once mentioned him to me or Charlie? Drink this vodka, and tell me exactly how hot he is.”
I took the glass and threw it back. “Ugh, no, we’re not dating. We’re letter writing. We’re friends. We’re nothing.”
“You’re letter writing?”
“Like I said, he’s clever and wants to write for a living. You know how much I hate social media, so when we met three years ago, he asked if we could write letters, and I agreed. He said, ‘I find handwritten epistles of this variation modish in a manner little else in this frenetic world is.’ I didn’t understand half of it, but it sounded like fun.”
“Really, it did?”
“It is fun. Remember having pen-pals from South Africa in third grade? Blake and I have never even exchanged numbers; we thought it would be more real this way. And Blake is one of the nicest things in my life right now. It’s simple. He’s simple.”
“Can you use the word simple one more time? And there’s no love there? Reese, people don’t just write letters. Tell me you’ve kissed.”
“Well, don’t you ask a lot of questions?”
“So that’s a yes.”
I avoided eye contact, only smiled.
“How did this Blake get our Omaha address? That’s creepy, Reese. Creepy Irishman who refuses to be on the grid knows where you live. I’m imagining a hobbit looming over me in my sleep tonight.”
“Hobbits are from New Zealand and leprechauns are from Ireland.”
“Well, technically—”
“Shut up. Sending him my specific geographical location is a habit now. You know I travel a lot, so I have a stack of postcards in my purse. I send him one as soon as I land any place I’ll be for more than two weeks. I think I even mailed it on my way to the airport when I left Ireland. Like I said, it’s uncomplicated. He’s probably been the most stable part of my last three years. Hey, what’s that?”
By the time Ben turned around, my package and I shoved past Bernice, who stood like a fixture in the kitchen doorway.
“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Ben called after me.
I closed the door to my room with epic force, the noise reminding me of the headache that was slowly making its entrance. I settled into the middle of my sagging mattress and opened the package with more anticipation than I’d known in ages. A beloved black box sat inside.
As I held my camera close, I allowed myself to rest in the peace of something familiar; an old friend had come to visit. It wasn’t until I grew aware of the wet on my hands, saw it on the back of my camera, that I realized I was crying.
After a few moments, an hour, maybe two, I noticed the protruding corner of something else in the bottom of the box. I pulled out a book and ran my fingers over the front cover, taking note of the bumps and worn edges. It was Hemingway; I’d never seen Blake without it. I opened the cover and skimmed the pages. It looked tired, its pages yellowed with age. It smelled musty and keeping it flat was a chore, as its permanent place seemed to be his back pocket.
The inscription on the title page stopped me short:
To my dear, darling son,
Blake, you bring me great joy. I love you everywhere and back. A billion times forever. Never forget.
Love, Mom
P.S. Remember as Tolkien said:
&nb
sp; Not all those who wander are lost.
All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.
…
Courage is found in unlikely places.
Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate.
And deeper in the box still, I saw a note, folded. I held my breath as I opened it. The crinkle of the paper unfolding sounded loudly into my room. Scrawled in dear, familiar writing, it simply said,
Reese,
I found your camera after you left the house in a hurry. Sorry it took so long to find its way back home. Know that I am here if you need me and when you’re ready.
With hugs,
B
It was enough.
I lay back on my pillow, closed my eyes, and let my thoughts carry me to sleep.
2
Reese
When I woke up three hours later, I forgot for a moment that I was back in Omaha, that Bernice was in town, that life as I knew it was on a decided pause. For sixty seconds squished in a blissful row I was content, relishing the feeling of a lazy day and toasty covers.
And when I remembered, when it came back to me piece by painful piece, I went to find my brother.
“Want to go outside?”
We sat in our tree house until after sundown, poking sticks along the crevices of the wood. The two of us had built those four walls one summer: all hammers, nails, and heart. Charlie was away at acting camp and when he came home, we blindfolded him and marched him promptly to our new resort. It was our feeble attempt to imitate the Swiss Family Robinson, and I loved it more than I loved most people. We’d dragged an old rug out there; pieces of cloth had been hammered to the windows. I’d hung a shelf and snuck out a few of Dad’s books to brighten the space. The boys mocked my domesticity, but I spruced up our mini home with every treasure I could find. With Dad’s guidance we’d waterproofed the tree house and even after all these years, the interior was snug and dry. Now the decorations looked tired, put out, but they still added a wistful ambiance to our hideaway.
It was an hour before either of us spoke.
“Remember that time you had a sleepover up here with Sarah and Natalia, and you wouldn’t let me come?” Ben said. “So I snuck up after you were asleep and stayed to prove myself to you?”
And so it began.
“Remember that time Uncle Paul brought us a birthday cake to the family reunion, only he’d forgotten to add sugar?” We stopped going to family functions around the age of eleven. First, because Mom was too busy to make it happen and Dad didn’t even notice. Then, of course, because Mom left.
“He was always so strange. I always thought you looked like him.”
“Stop! Remember that time Bernice was so angry she threw both her shoes at the kitchen wall?”
“They were her red heels. She always had a thing for loud colors. I think the marks are still there.”
“Oh yeah, right by the hutch. Remember that time we smoked a cigar with Anne in the field before prom?” There were no parents around to take photos, but we’d learned self-sufficiency, and shot through an entire roll of film with Charlie and his tripod. That year Charlie and I attended prom together; he’d broken up with his girlfriend the week before. For the whole of the night, I hung on his arm, ignoring the glares of his ex and her friends.
“Oh, sweet Anne.” Ben sighed. “The one who got away.”
We simultaneously hushed and stared out at the stars. The luminous fireballs held our united gaze, stalwart and true. Even when the world was crumbling, falling into a thousand minuscule bits at my feet, those Midwestern stars symbolized peace. They were home. And tonight, they were exactly what we needed.
Ben coughed. “I remember our parents laughing together late at night after we’d gone to bed. I remember movies and pizzas on Friday nights. I remember Dad filling the kitchen with Mom’s favorite flowers on their anniversary every single year and taking the day off work every year for her birthday.” He ended in a whisper.
“Ben, don’t.”
“Why won’t you remember the happy moments from our family?”
“Because she left us, Ben,” I squinted at him, unable to move, “and never returned. Why aren’t you as mad as I am?”
Ben looked down at his hands. “I don’t understand why Mom left us, but I refuse to accept that our lives have been all bad, as if we are the victims of some poorly written novel. I remember us as a family. There were some happy times, even with Mom and Dad.”
“Maybe we were, once upon a time. But now?” I held his gaze.
He shook his head and lay on his back.
When we went back inside, Bernice was roosting atop a stool in the kitchen, Rocky dozing at her feet, and the sight of her looking so settled sent a spike of anger through my gut.
“When are you leaving?”
Startled, Bernice put down her pen. “Well, sugar, I only want to be helpful. So as long as your dad is sick, I can be here to cook or run errands or take him to the doctors or whatever.”
“Ben’s here. He can do all those things.” My arms were statues across my chest.
“Uh, well, technically speaking maybe, but also I’m working so I can’t do everything.” From his place at the fridge, Ben ignored the daggers I shot in his direction, grabbed a spoon, and dug into his cottage cheese.
“Sweetie?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It makes sense for me to be here. You both need to work. I can work from here. It’s no bother for me, really.”
As Ben inched his way closer to my side, my nostrils expanded three sizes. “It made sense for you to be here before too, but where were you then?”
“Reese, sugar, I did try, but—” her lips trembled.
“No, you clearly didn’t.” I left the kitchen before either of them could respond.
And just like that, we were transported back to square one.
As the silence grew, so did the tension. I realized the weight of why we were together in every inch between us. I stood beside Ben in the unfriendly hallway outside Dad’s hospital room, praying I wouldn’t need to ask him.
Ben held my gaze for what seemed like hours, trying to find the words.
“How bad is it?”
“We’re still waiting on the test results. But Dad’s a fighter. He’ll bounce back.” Ben was forever positive, overly optimistic. My throat throbbed from the stream of questions I couldn’t ask.
While I’d spent the morning at a coffee shop looking up tickets to fly back to Charlie, Dad passed out and fell down the stairs. And with my phone on blissful silence, it took them hours to reach me.
We weren’t yet sure if it was a full-blown relapse or something minor.
“Dad’s not invincible, Ben.”
“The Superman T-shirt he’s wearing under his gown tells me otherwise. He’s going to be okay, Reese.” Ben thought Dad looked like Superman—he did look like Clark Kent—so Superman was forever his superhero of choice and he’d even bought him the shirt. He hugged me again, but I didn’t hug him back.
I hated placation.
The air was stale and the insistent beeping of the machines annoyed me at every turn; the bustle of nurses and fellow patients up and down the hallway providing a constant hum of activity. Hours turned into days, and while Bernice and Ben went back to the house each night, I refused what felt like solace and the cowardly way out. I hadn’t left the hospital since I arrived and hovered in a timeless state of exhaustion and worry. Ben brought me my camera and some fresh clothes, and I arranged myself into the blue chair by the head of Dad’s bed as the sun set each evening. Sometimes I entered some version of sleep, other times I studied my sleeping father and asked myself how we’d gotten there.
Dad looked tiny in his hospital bed, pale and fragile, the wires across his body a neutralizer between us and our demons. The long hospital hours were easily the most time we’d shared in the last decade.
Late one night, Dad s
tirred. I was the only one in the room, and he rolled over and stared at me. He reached across the bed and grabbed my hand.
“I need a notebook.”
“Why?”
“I need to write down a few thoughts.” He coughed and rubbed the stubble across his face.
“Fine, I’ll ask Ben to grab one on his way here after work tomorrow.”
“Fine.” He closed his eyes again.
The one time Dad visited me in Atlanta, he, Charlie, and I spent the entire weekend talking about the Braves. Baseball ran thicker than blood in our family, so we went and saw a game which was the solitary highlight of my adult life with my father.
“That was nice.” Afterwards, Charlie stood with me on the street as we waved goodbye to Dad.
“Uh, were you in the same universe as me? That was ridiculous. He didn’t even ask one thing about my life or job here in Atlanta.” I crossed my arms and didn’t look at Charlie.
“Reese, I think he was trying.”
After spending all those years with my family, I was shocked at his ignorance. It was easier to talk about baseball, easier to keep the conversation light than to deal with the accretion of resentments heaped in disarray between us.
And I don’t think Dad even noticed the difference, knew there was a Before, an After.
It was as if, somewhere along the way, he’d completely disconnected the father veins inside his brain. He could have been the mailman I saw in passing every day. It was as if he’d forgotten what happened between us and was struck with selective amnesia, as if he didn’t remember how to be a dad.
When Charlie, Ben, and I were little, we played superheroes for hours on end. We made our cousin, Andrew, sit by the maple tree for hours, ropes flung all around, while we fought off the dark villains. That’s what I thought about on those days as we sat on either side of Dad’s bed, taking turns fetching the paper or helping him walk down the hall. He didn’t need both of us to help, but it made us feel better, made me feel better.
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