The False Flat

EPILOGUE

“YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN. AND YOU KNOW WHAT YOU KNOW. AND YOU ARE THE ONE WHO’LL DECIDE WHERE YOU GO ...”

—DR. SEUSS

Over two years. That’s what we got. Grant did better than well, especially after we’d enrolled him into a clinical trial where he was treated with a novel cancer drug. In the end, it wasn’t even the cancer that got him. He developed a “hospital-acquired, antibiotic-resistant” infection after breaking his ankle. The end came swiftly after that. In a way, it was better. We remember him exactly as he was, Grant to the very end.

He didn’t suffer; he barely declined. I’m sure the drugs had something to do with that, but I attribute most of his health to Gloria, our daughter. Turns out I was four weeks pregnant with her at our wedding.

Pregnancy equation:

Forty-eight hours with no birth control pills

+

blacking out

+

emotional overload because I’d found out the love of my life had cancer

×

a hot, sexy night when I had frizzy hair and was completely myself

=

a curly-headed, thankfully unmustached, pudgy newborn who’d turned into a spectacular little girl who loved architecture and Barbie dolls.

I was wrong when I’d said life was like a cake with all the right ingredients. Life isn’t about having the right ingredients; it’s about figuring out what to make when you’re missing some.

I’d never wanted kids, never thought I could mother anyone. But Gloria was just the person I’d needed when I didn’t think I could open my eyes the day after he died. I opened them for her. And then I kept opening them for her. The two of us had become inseparable.

And now, three months without him, Gloria wrapped her arms around my neck, her little body fitting seamlessly with mine as we walked into Deanna’s house, where Deanna was making all of Grant’s favorite unhealthy things: sticky cinnamon buns, homemade yeast rolls, pizza crust with cornmeal baked into the bottom. The warmth of her kitchen was like a hug from an old friend. As she kneaded the dough, I almost felt Grant’s arm brushing past mine to dip his finger in icing. An ache started in my toes and worked its way to my eyes, climbing out in a single tear that stung.

When Deanna saw us, she dropped to Gloria’s level and threw out her arms. Gloria promptly ran to her aunt. Then Deanna reached for me. She’d remained my right hand, before Gloria’s birth and thereafter. She’d invested with me, and her business was so prosperous that she was contemplating a second space.

Erin, my dutiful, wildly successful, and very pregnant business partner, walked into the kitchen and whisked Gloria to the backyard, where William and Beau waited on the patio.

Erin and I had our own space now with an additional staff of two, and she was just finishing up her CFP certification. We still kept in touch with everyone from WeWork. I’d taken a month off, but now that I’d gone back, needing the distraction, Gloria came with me, content to sit in the play area Erin had created in the corner of my office. I hoped, by listening to client meetings, Gloria would learn she could do anything, even when everything and everyone told her she couldn’t.

Once they were outside, Deanna picked a plain white envelope from the small desk in the corner. “Grant told me to give this to you three months after he died. I don’t know what’s in it.”

My belly tightened, and shaking, I slipped the envelope into my purse.

As Deanna finished preparing the food, I watched William toss Gloria from one side of his lap to the other while Erin and Beau laughed. Profound thankfulness settled over me. I was determined to give Gloria what I hadn’t had as a child, what her father had given me as an adult, what I was trying to give myself: presence and family.

We talked about Grant over lunch, but unable to think much past the envelope in my purse, I told them Gloria and I needed to get home. Deanna understood, as she always did, and saw us to the door.

“You’re going to read it when you get home?” she asked, tucking her arm into mine as Gloria ran out the front door and immediately bent to look for four-leaf clovers.

I nodded, my eyes already filling.

She turned me toward her. “You’re going to be okay.”

I nodded again, swallowing past the tears.

She shook her head. “Say it.”

“I’m going to be okay.”

She smiled, rested her forehead on mine, and whispered, “We’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” I whispered back.

We separated, but we grabbed each other’s hands, needing one more moment of contact.

“Let’s not find out.”

“Deal.”

“I love you, Pen.”

“I love you, Deanna.”

When other people moved on, went about their routines, and couldn’t remember how long it’d been since Grant had passed, Deanna would tuck her hand in mine and squeeze. Like me, she would always know when the world had changed.

At home, I sat in one of the patio chairs Grant had handcrafted as Gloria and our dog, Bran, ran around in the backyard.

My hands shook as I loosened the seal and opened the flap. I had a flash of my brother’s journal, the one I’d waited so long to read. I wouldn’t make that same mistake again.

The yellowish parchment was thick and heavy, and the faint aroma of trail mix and nature wafted up from the page, what was—or rather had been—Grant.

As I pulled the paper from the security envelope, a key fell from the interior and onto the ground, where I left it, too hungry for the familiar handwriting I glimpsed as I unfolded the letter.

I read the first line and had to put it down again, tears blurring the words. When I was finally able to read on, I laughed out loud at the second sentence. It was so Grant, able to make me laugh even now.

My dearest Penelope,

Hi, my love. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I hope you miss me as much as I’m sure I miss you. Since I wrote this before I left, it’s hard to say for certain. Perhaps I’m in a place where I can’t miss anyone. But it’s impossible for me to imagine a place where I wouldn’t be missing you and Gloria.

We didn’t have long, but even if we’d known each other our whole lives, from the very start, I’d still say it wasn’t enough.

I looked up the definition of “soulmate”: a person who is perfectly suited to another in temperament. You are perfectly suited to me. And though it might sound cheesy and clichéd ... you are my soulmate. Maybe it’s better said, you are my heart’s refuge.

I pushed the letter into my chest, where my own heart expanded and contracted wildly.

I didn’t have enough time with either of you. But my life ended at the time it was supposed to, when God intended. And I know you’re still shaky on the idea, but my peace is founded in this. I’m where I belong, and you and Gloria are where you belong. And though we’re not together in the way we were, we still are, my sweet Penelope. There’s a piece of me that lives on in you, and I know I took a piece of you with me when I left.

My breath caught in my throat, and I blinked several times to clear my eyes.

I have no right to tell you how to grieve, but don’t let the loss of me consume you. If the memory of me can’t lift you up, then I fear I have lived in vain. Breathe in the scent of wildflowers in the wind for me. Feel the wind on your face, in your hair, for me. Savor the banana pudding for me. Listen to the early morning’s bird call for me. Hold, hug, and kiss our daughter for me. And ride, Penelope, ride with abandon and joy, because I may not feel the burn in my thighs anymore, but I am there with you. I am now a part of the wildflower that touches your nose when you inhale its fragrance. My breath is in the wind that caresses your face. The memory of my spoon touches yours as you dip into that decadent pudding. My voice sings alongside the songbird, early in the morning when the earth is still. And my blood flows through the child just feet away from you now.

“Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking. When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.”

Life is for the living. Live, Penelope. You don’t need my permission, but you have my blessing. When you move past your grief, don’t feel guilt. You cannot erase me, but your happiness enhances my memory. Live again. Love again. And most of all ... ride again.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Yours always,

Grant

P.S. Because I know you’ll want to count them, there are ten “I love you’s” because that’s how many times you said it to me the first time. I counted.

P.P.S. Don’t take Gloria when you use the key.

My heart was ripped from my chest and put back again. This letter, this letter, was Grant, a reminder that while he enhanced my happiness, he didn’t create it, and neither did our child. The rest was on me—what I allowed in, what I allowed out—the little things, because they add up.

It was ironic; I was only able to cope with his death because of him.

I palmed the key, turned it over in my hand, and lifted the small tag attached to it. The word CUBESMART, in a red, all-caps font, was written at the top of the rectangular attachment with an address underneath. That was it. No instruction or explanation. A key and an address.

Reaching for my phone, I pulled up the map. The place was a storage facility five minutes away, one I’d probably passed a hundred times but familiarity had made invisible. My finger hovered over the figure of a little guy on a bicycle.

Once, and only once, I’d thrown my leg over my bike, in an effort to dispel grief. But the picture of Grant riding beside me had stilled my feet, and in the end, I’d sat crying beside the wheel, my bicycle turned on its side, where I’d thrown it after leaping off. And I’d declined every invitation to join the group rides since, feeling like it would be a betrayal somehow.

His letter made me feel like I could again, like I would again, but not now. I wasn’t ready.

Spring was beginning to blossom, and I didn’t mind the extra minutes the trip would take on foot. I sent a quick babysitting text, put a leash on Bran, and hoisted Gloria on my hip, ready for the walk across the street.

“Pen!” Devina’s gravelly voice came from next door. “Grant’s tree came today.”

Before Grant died, he’d signed Devina up for a tree and/or flower of the month club to match the corresponding season, the gift that continued to give ... for his chemo buddy.

I smiled and tamped down the swell of emotion that hovered just under the surface. She told me to bring Gloria over for cookies later as we hurried across the street, where my mother stood in her front yard. Yes, Aurora Auberge lived across the street.

A couple of months after the wedding, my mother had decided she wanted to be close, wanted to really work on our relationship, and had bought the house directly across from mine. She still struggled, fell back into her old ways at times, but she was trying. And to my surprise, I was happy to have her near.

“Morning Glory!” My mother lifted my daughter off the ground as we entered her yard. She was a grandmother, a real one, nothing like the mother I’d had. And she always called Gloria her little Morning Glory, from the earth, like her father.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said to my mother. Then I leaned over, kissed my daughter’s head, and told her to be good for Grammy.

Gloria kissed my cheek. “Love you, Mommy.”

“I love you too, Glory.”

Grant’s key burned in my hand, and I walked away, my mother holding my heart, a little girl in a pink tutu with a stuffed hammer in her hand, the one Grant had given to her right after she was born.

As soon as I saw the sign that matched the one in my hand, a giddy excitement flooded my abdomen.

I handed the key to the man behind the counter. “I need to find this unit.”

He typed something into the computer, then looked up, wide eyed.

“You’re Penelope! Grant’s Penelope!”

He knew Grant.

“I am. How do you ...”

“Grant told me to be expecting you.” Then his face fell. “That means ...”

My head slowly worked its way up and down. “Grant passed three months ago.”

The man exhaled, looked out the window, then turned back to me. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good guy.”

I appreciated his condolences but, at the same time, didn’t know what to do with them. I couldn’t be sicker of “sorry” and “was,” words people said because they didn’t know what else to say.

“I’ll take you to the unit.”

We walked in silence, and then the man left me alone in front of a red door that rolled up from the bottom.

I whispered, “What do you have for me, Grant?” And I put the key into the lock.

I imagined the units around me, filled with boxes and bags, treasures homes couldn’t contain. My foot tapped the pavement as the door finally ratcheted out of my way. And then I gasped.

In the middle of the unit stood the next best thing to finding Grant himself whole and well again.

“Gaia,” I whispered as I walked over to the bicycle, my new best friend.

I rubbed my hand across the smooth blue metal, tears coming to my eyes, but these tears didn’t hold sadness; they were simply the response of my body being unable to hold all my emotion inside. I recognized the pieces, the salvaged ones from Grant’s beloved bicycle, melded with new ones, until it was a seamless masterpiece, old with new, experience with what was yet to come.

All around Gaia were smaller bicycles that graduated in size as you went clockwise around the space as well as a child-size trailer attachment.

I untied the envelope hanging on Gaia’s handlebars and pulled out the simple card with a small picture of a bicycle on the front of it. Inside, it read:

Penelope,

As my Gloria grows, please give these bicycles and riding toys to her for all the Christmases and birthdays or momentous life events I will miss. When you do, let her know they’re from Daddy, the man who loves her more than she’ll ever know.

Oh, and Gaia will ride again.

It just won’t be me on the seat.

Ride, Penelope.

Into the future, with my past etched on my heart, I rode.