3. Jillian
THREE
Jillian
The moment he leaves and the bell above the door goes silent, I explode into tears. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I cave into myself. The floor meets my knees, and not for the first time, I wish there were no ground. I long for an infinite abyss to swallow me whole and put an end to this never-ending pain. I want to rip the hollow space in my chest where my heart used to be.
But I can’t give in. Jamie needs me, and I don’t want him to see me like this. God knows he’s seen me cry too many times already. I allow myself another ten seconds of weakness and then drag a breath in, and another, and another, until I’m dizzy. I grab a wad of tissues and wipe at my face. Get up and walk to the sink in my working area, then wash my face with cold water. Dry myself and walk to the small kitchen in the back of the store. Plaster a smile on my lips and hope my too perceptive son won’t see the hurt I try so hard to hide.
“Okay, honey. I’m all done with that customer. What are you hungry for?”
Jamie peers at me from behind the book he’s reading. He doesn’t respond.
I wait, give him a few seconds to answer me. Silence. Not today then. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe. Even in my head, the argument sounds forced and weak. “How about I make us both a nice grilled cheese?”
He nods.
“Want some avocado slices on yours?”
His face scrunches like it always does when I suggest he eats anything green.
After turning the griddle on, I busy myself slicing fresh-baked bread from the corner bakery, cutting cheese, and cutting half an avocado. “What do you want to do tomorrow? It’s supposed to be nice. Do you want to go to the park?”
He shrugs, his face hidden by the open book he’s been obsessed with for months now.
Regret wells up in my throat. I fill two glasses with orange juice and drain half of mine, intent on pushing the growing knot down. It doesn’t help.
The panini machine beeps. I remove our sandwiches and put them on paper plates, then add a handful of chips.
Jamie sets the book down and eats. I watch him as he nibbles on the chips. Even those bites are silent.
I miss the sound of Jamie’s voice. The giggles and laughs, the loud squeals when we tickled him. I miss the life we had before, when CJ was still with us and silence was never this deafening and filled with pain.
Touching my tattoo, I trace the spot where the initials lie. Jamie’s gaze fixes on my hand and I drop it to my lap. “Why don’t you take Daisy upstairs and go watch some TV while I clean down here? I’ll be closing soon.”
My cell phone rings while I’m closing the cash register. My mother’s face shows on the screen. God. I don’t need this right now. I let the phone ring and debate not answering, but I know she’ll keep calling and it can only go downhill from there.
“Hi, Mom.” I try to make my voice sound cheerful, but I fail miserably. I could never fool my mother.
“Is Jamie next to you?”
Not even a hello. “No, he’s upstairs.” I sigh. I know what’s coming next. The tone of her voice gives it away. We’ve had this conversation dozens of times. She’ll go for weeks without bringing it up, but she can’t let it go. She hates that I moved to the city. Hates that I was with CJ. Hates that I didn’t run back home when we lost him. Does she even remember what today is?
“Did you receive another offer?”
I regret the day I told her about someone trying to buy the building and their offer to buy me out so Leonora would not have a reason to hold out. “No, Mom, no new offers,” I lie. The unopened envelope has been staring at me since the mail came this morning, waiting to be added to the other dozen I’ve received over the last year, in addition to the phone calls and in-person visits.
“Maybe I should give Leonora a call?—”
“Mom, you will do no such thing. It’s her building, her choice. And you know damn well that she’s my partner and owns half of the store. I’m very grateful for all Leonora has done for me and I will not have it thrown back at her because you don’t like where I live.”
She huffs. “Watch your language and tone.” Then silence. I wait. I know she’s not done. “Did you lock the door?”
“Yes, Mom. The door is locked, and the alarm is set. You don’t have to call to remind me. I can handle the store. I’ve done it for years.”
“But you don’t have to. I don’t understand why you have to be there in that horrid city all alone. You have a home here with me and your father.” Her recycled words grate, the condescending tone like a fork scraping against a porcelain plate.
“I’m not alone, Mom. I have Jamie. And I have friends.” And I have this place. The last place I was happy in. The apartment above the store where CJ and I lived for nine years. The place where we first made love, where Jamie was conceived. The last place CJ kissed me and said he loved me. It holds all of my happiest memories. And it’s a ghost that haunts my every step.
She scoffs. “But the city is dangerous.” She goes on, deaf to my words.
“It’s New York, Mom. Not a war zone. It’s safe. There’s a police station two blocks away. Look it up if you don’t believe me. It’s the 34 th precinct.”
“What about Jamie? Don’t you think he would be better here? With a big backyard? Maybe if he was in a different place, he would tal?—”
“Don’t go there.” My tone drops to below freezing. “Jamie is a content and healthy boy. He’ll talk when he has something to say. I don’t need you trying to make me feel guilty.” I can do that all on my own.
“Honey . . .” Her voice is appeasing now. She’s gone too far, and she knows it.
“Mom, I’m really tired. It’s been a long day. I need to go. I’ll call you soon.”
There’s a long pause on her side. The sound of her breath is the only indication she’s still on the line.
“Okay then. Give Jamie our love.”
“I will. Bye.” I hang up before she can say anything else. Before I say something I’ll regret.
I finish closing up the shop, turn off the lights, and go upstairs.
“I’m home,” I call to Jamie, my voice high-pitched with false cheer when all I want to do is scream.
He’s sitting on the couch, sharing an apple with Daisy.
She’s on the couch arm, holding the apple chunk with one leg and nibbling on it. She stops and looks at me. “Hello, my sweetheart.”
I freeze. It’s been years since Daisy said those words. The words CJ greeted me with every time he saw me. The words he always followed with a kiss.
I swallow. Hard. Glance at Jamie, but his face is buried behind that book again. The book CJ wrote and illustrated for us. Our story.
I go through the motions. Get Jamie in the bath, watch him play with boats and airplanes. Set him up with the TV, Paw Patrol keeping him company while I prepare dinner for us. We eat, I talk, he listens, but not a sound comes out of him. Not a word in two years.
The day I lost my husband, Jamie lost his voice. Traumatic mutism is the label the doctors gave it. PTSD from being in the car with CJ. I can’t even begin to imagine what he’s dealing with.
“Bedtime, Jamie. Let’s go brush your teeth and I’ll tuck you in.”
He complies. He always complies. Not a defiant bone in his body. Not anymore. Jamie comes back, book in hand. I have learned to hold back the well of emotions when he asks me to read this particular story to him.
We get into his bed, and he gives me the book.
I’ve looked at these images so many times I have them memorized. I touch the painted illustration, half expecting it to be as textured as the watercolor paper CJ used to create the original artwork. A happy image of fluffy heart-shaped clouds against a blue sky and the three people on it—a man, a woman, and a baby—graces the cover. Us . What we were. What can never be again.
“The Most Important Day.” My fingers caress the name on the cover. By CJ Heart .
Jamie taps the name.
I know what he wants to hear, and I repeat the words I’ve said a thousand times before. “You know, Daddy’s last name was Miller, but when we got married, he changed it to Heart because he said he loved me so much, he wanted to have every part of me, including my name.”
Jamie shifts next to me, and I open the book. The dedication is printed in CJ’s handwriting. I trace the letters as I read—even though the words are forged in my memory and CJ’s voice is forever silenced—I can still hear the echo of a whisper in my soul.
For Jillian and Jamie, my two loves. Nowhere in the universe exists a creature, a person, or a being more loved than the two of you. My every thought, every breath, the very essence of my soul, belongs to you. Now and forever, I’m yours.
The illustrations are done in watercolors. The story, the memories, are our stories and memories. He didn’t just write and illustrate a book for us. He created a time machine, a memory capsule. Us, forever etched on paper in the pages of this book. One of a kind.
I turn the page and read. “ Once upon a time, in a very small town in a very big state called Ohio, there lived many people. But the two most important people in this story were CJ Miller and Jillian Heart. This is the tale of their very first adventure.”
I wait for him to take his fill of the illustration—CJ and me at six years old—the painting of CJ, a blond boy with shaggy hair is a nearly perfect replica of Jamie now at the same age, and me, the girl with honey-brown hair in a ponytail wearing a purple dress. The two of us as children holding hands.
Jamie nods and I turn the page. “It all began on a very special day—the most important day of CJ’s life. It wasn’t just any day on the playground. No, it wasn’t. It was the day CJ met the girl in the purple dress, though he didn’t know her name yet. But he already knew one thing: she was going to be his friend.”
I wait for him to drink in the images—the school playground. The colors on the page matching those of my memory. An intense blue sky in the late summer day, the green of the trees and grass. The red and yellow slide. Me in my favorite purple dress running to the slide and CJ watching me from a few yards away. Other children painted in muted grays against the vivid colors he saved for us and the playground.
When Jamie nods again, I move to the next page.
“How did he know? Because his heart told him. And CJ always listened to his heart.”
He taps the book and I turn to the next page. “Now, like many schools, there was a bully on the playground. This bully was big. And because he was big, he thought he was better and smarter than everyone else. But bullies don’t know everything, and this one didn’t know that courage and smarts come in all shapes and sizes.”
I kiss the top of his head. “Another page?”
He signs no . This is what he wants. This is our routine. A couple of pages a day until we get to what happened to the bully and then we start again—he doesn’t allow me to read past that part. The part that tells the rest of our story. I run a hand through my son’s hair and lean down to kiss his forehead. I wish Jamie could tell me why.