Chapter Five
Micah
TANYA’S STREET IS DISTURBINGLY QUIET WHEN I PULL onto it.
I used to say that Tanya picked her house because the neighborhood was as loud as she was.
Now, there’s nothing. Not a single neighbor outside mowing their lawn or smoking.
No kids riding their bikes up and down the hill.
No music drifting out of various windows.
It’s like she took all the energy of this place with her.
I pull into her driveway, leaving enough space for Dani to park beside me when she gets here. After she finally texted me back the other day, we made a plan to start cleaning out Tanya’s house.
She claims she doesn’t have a problem with me, but we both know that’s a lie. When we’re in group settings, she can pretend with the best of them, most of the time opting to pretend I’m not there at all. It’s the rare moment we’re alone that she can’t get away from me fast enough.
Moments later, her sleek black car pulls up.
When she steps out of the car, her greeting is short—not rude per se, but clipped. She rubs her palms against her jeans three times in quick succession and her bottom lip holds a permanent position between her teeth. Facing this house and its memories isn’t going to be easy for either of us.
We both stop in our tracks the moment we step inside. Tanya never let anything be out of place when she was alive, so it’s not like I was expecting the place to be in ruins, but this is like stepping into a time capsule.
Absolutely nothing has changed since the last time I was here. Her keys are still hanging on the rack by the door. The Moroccan rug she had in the entryway is still rolled up and sitting in the corner because after insisting on having it, she decided she didn’t like how it looked on her floor.
I feel like I’m trespassing. Like I’ve disturbed the peace of a sacred shrine. My feet itch to run out of here. The sensation rises up my leg, making it impossible to stand still.
The door to the den is open and I can make out the corner of one of her many paintings. A sad smile creeps across my face, as I know I’ll find all of her favorite artwork in there, but that she won’t be there to talk about them with me for the hundredth time.
A loud gasp from Dani shakes my thought away. She’s staring at the den as well.
Is it because she knows the piece that started us on this path is in there?
Does she think about that day as much as I do?
“Are you okay?” I ask. I shouldn’t have asked. I can see the moment her walls go up, locking me on the other side.
“I’m fine,” she mutters as she heads upstairs.
“Whoever’s up there, please give me strength,” I whisper as she disappears from my line of sight.
The portrait I made for Tanya follows me around the den as I go through boxes and make note of things I think she would want auctioned off, donated, or thrown out.
I’ve come a long way since I did this painting. I’ve come into my own as an artist and as a man, but looking at this portrait reminds me of all the mistakes I’ve made getting here.
As I make my way upstairs, I catch a glimpse of Dani sitting on the floor in one of the bedrooms. She’s looking through a thick book and rubbing her finger back and forth across her brow.
If you look at Dani on social media, you’d think she’s incredibly put-together and that she eats, sleeps, and breathes her brand.
You’d think that nothing and no one affects her, that she’s a one-woman army who doesn’t need or want anyone to stand behind her.
Maybe those things are true now, but I remember a different version of her.
I remember the Dani who felt deeply. The one who was unapologetic about who and what she loved. The one who appreciated adventure.
When I see her with her girls, I know that version still exists, I’m just not privy to it.
It shouldn’t eat me up inside. I’ve been outside her circle of trust for far longer than I was ever inside it. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
It bothers me that we never had a real chance.
Tanya’s letter said that I don’t feel I deserve good things.
It’s hard to feel deserving of good things when the people ten times better than you get cut down.
My aunt had her life snatched away by a reckless driver.
One of my best friends’ life was cut short by a stray bullet.
An autoimmune disease forced my sister to reimagine her dance dreams. And then there’s me.
I fucked up when I was younger, and Tanya handed me a second chance.
I took the risky route in school and pursued my art dreams instead of the guaranteed future, yet I still ended up being successful enough to ensure my family’s comfort for life.
It doesn’t seem right. Why me? Why not them?
If there’s any real justification for how fortunate I’ve been, I’d say it has to be because life is making up for playing the cruelest trick it could: putting Dani in mine before either of us was ready.
Watching her now, uninhibited with her emotions, feels like a rare gift.
You didn’t earn this.
That realization hits me like a ton of bricks. This peek behind Dani’s curtain wasn’t given, it was stolen. Shame washes over me as I purposefully slam my hand against the railing, wordlessly announcing my presence.
Dani snaps up from her bent-forward position. I catch the look of indecision on her face. She can’t hide what she was looking at and wipe away her tears at the same time. She has to choose one: hide her memories or hide her emotions.
Her decision is made when I enter the room, her hand already lowering from her face back to her side, the book still in her lap.
“What’d you find?” I ask.
“It’s, um”—she pauses to clear any sign of emotion out of her voice—“it’s a photobook. I found it on her desk.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Can I look at it with you?”
She rushes to stand and practically slams the book against my chest. “Yeah, here you go. I’m gonna look at the other rooms.”
She brushes past me, and I sigh in frustration. “Dani. Stop.”
Surprisingly, she does, but she doesn’t turn to face me.
“We don’t have time for this. Tanya meant too much to both of us for us to fuck this up over our shit.”
“Our shit? We don’t have any shit.”
“So you keep telling me,” I counter.
She spins around, meeting my vexed expression with her own indignation. “What is it you want from me?”
She’s definitely not ready for that conversation.
“I know we don’t have the best track record, but I’ve never had animosity toward you. If I’ve done something to you, can you please put me out of my misery and tell me? Give me a chance to make it right.”
She doesn’t slap me or turn and run away, so I take a small step forward, and then another.
It’s a desperate move but that’s exactly what I am—a desperate man wanting to understand how we got here.
I’m not without fault for our missed opportunities, but she was the one who reduced us to strangers three years ago.
Why am I being punished for her decision?
Her eyes soften, but I don’t dare make a move. She put us here, so she needs to be the one to set us right.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice softer than a whisper.
“That I feel that way?” I question.
She lets out a soft chuckle. “No. I’m just sorry. It’s not you.”
I take another step closer and another until our breaths mingle as one. “You wanna tell me what it is, then?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. And being here without Tanya didn’t help, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
I nod slowly, taking in her words. Curiosity eats away at me as I wonder what it is that she’s handling on her own and why she feels she has to do that. “It’s all good. We all got our ways of dealing with shit. But let’s make a deal?”
“What kind of deal?”
I hold out my hand to her. “Let’s be partners in this.”
She takes my hand in hers. Her posture is always perfect, but she somehow manages to stand even straighter. “For Tanya?”
“For Tanya.” For now.
She lets our hands linger for a moment longer before she breaks our connection and steals the photobook still clutched in my other hand. “You should see this.”
She flips past pages of Tanya in different stages of childhood.
One particular photo catches my eye. It’s a black-and-white one of her, looking no older than six, sitting on the hood of a Chevy convertible while fist-bumping an older man.
I assume from the similarity in their noses that the man was her dad.
It’s good to know that she’s always been the star of the show.
Dani keeps flipping through Tanya’s memories until she gets to the one she wanted to show me.
Tanya stands with Barack and Michelle Obama.
While amazing, it’s not surprising. Tanya lived an adventurous life, and those adventures got her in the room with a plethora of big names.
What is surprising is that if you look closely at the photo, you can see that in Tanya’s hands she’s holding pictures of Dani and me.
Dani’s picture looks to be one of her magazine covers while mine is a snapshot in front of Spring Hill.
“Please tell me she didn’t meet the Obamas and pull pictures of us out of her wallet.” It’s not a real question. We know that’s exactly what she did.
“It’s the printed photos for me, though. Like, Tanya, I know you had your phone on you,” Dani adds.
We laugh and it feels good to laugh like this with her again. Another moment Tanya gives to us.
“She would’ve had them there for hours if she had pulled up pictures on her phone,” I say through my laughter.
“Oooh, you’re right. She would’ve hated being called any kind of grandma, but that’s such a grandma thing to do. Carry pictures of your kids in your wallet.”
Dani’s chortle grows louder as she lets her chin fall to her chest, but when the rhythm of the sound changes and her shoulders start to shake, I know her laugh has morphed into tears.
The first choke of air from her prompts me to wrap my arms around her without question. If she doesn’t want me touching her, she can push me away and I’ll go, but I need the anchor as much as she does.
“It should’ve been us,” she cries.
“What should’ve been us?”
“We should’ve been the ones taking care of her in the end.” She looks up at me, the tears bubbling up but refusing to fall. “Who was there for her? Who cleaned up for her? You know she was big on cleaning. Who cooked her meals?”
“Well, not her, but it never was,” I interject, wanting to take some of the weight off her shoulders. It works, if only for a moment, but I’ll take it.
“Who held her hand when she took her last breath?”
These same questions have tormented me since learning of Tanya’s death.
Did she suffer for long? Did she get treatment, or was it too late?
Was she alone when she died? So many questions that we may never get the answers to, unless Mr. Townsend can provide them.
And even if he can, will it make us feel better to know or will it just add more fuel to the flames of our pain?
“I think that it would’ve hurt her more to see us see her that way than for us to not be there at all.” It’s the only solace I can offer.
“It’s not fair.”
Cancer never is.
“It’s not.”
She looks up at me, finding the same hurt in my eyes that lives in hers, and falls into me. Her body is overcome with sobs, my body the only thing keeping her off the ground.