Chapter 4 #2
Comment: IN CASE YOU DON’T REMEMBER ME, I WAS WEARING A TRULY HORRID ANEMIC GREEN SKATER DRESS WITH ILL-FITTING CAP SLEEVES AND AN EXCESS OF TULLE.
YOU MIGHT REMEMBER THAT I WAS CRYING, AND YOU NEVER ONCE TRIED TO MAKE ME STOP, AND THAT IS INCREDIBLY RARE IN MY EXPERIENCE, SO I WANTED TO THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR BEING SO DECENT.
I’D ALSO LIKE TO APOLOGIZE FOR MY MOTHER’S CONDUCT.
BECAUSE I AM AUTISTIC (AND HAVE A FEW OTHER COMORBIDITIES), SHE AND MY FAMILY CAN BE REALLY OVERPROTECTIVE TO THE POINT OF RUDENESS.
I WAS ACTUALLY VERY IRRITATED WITH THE WAY SHE SPOKE TO YOU AND HOW SHE INTERRUPTED OUR CONVERSATION BECAUSE I DON’T USUALLY ENJOY TALKING TO NEW PEOPLE SINCE THEY DON’T REALLY UNDERSTAND HOW MY MIND WORKS AND THEY GET UNCOMFORTABLE SO THEN I GET UNCOMFORTABLE AND EXHAUSTED.
BUT I WASN’T EVER UNCOMFORTABLE WITH YOU, AND THAT IS REMARKABLE.
I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME, BUT I AM HARRIET ELOISE MERCIER, BUT EVERYONE CALLS ME HATTIE, WHICH I MUCH PREFER TO HARRIET. I DON’T CARE FOR MY MIDDLE N
It takes me a second to realize that she reached the form’s 1000-character limit and just pressed SEND. And then I Iaugh. I laugh so hard I shake the bed. I honestly can’t tell how much of it is from amusement—the thrilling carbonation of reading words and hearing them in her voice—or from relief.
Because even though she may be the only person like her in existence, the woman behind these words knows her own mind.
It wasn’t wrong of me to stand in her presence and only want more.
And because she found me. Even without making introductions, she must’ve seen and remembered the logo on my truck.
Thank God.
I reread her message again, disappointed this time that I haven’t accidentally skipped over her phone number. But, luckily, the contact form captured an email address. And my smile grows when I read it.
HATTIEBOBBIN@
“Hattie Bobbin,” I say with a chuckle. “You sound like you’re from The Shire.” And, oddly, that fits. Because she has a rarity that seems both familiar and a little otherworldly. The way it feels to pick up a well-loved novel and slip into a world with elves and hobbits and be at home in it.
I open a new email and copy her address. I stare at the screen for a long moment and then dismiss my hesitation. She didn’t hesitate. Why should I?
To: hattiebobbin@
From: beckett@
Hi Hattie,
I don’t know where to start. Of course, I remember you.
I couldn’t forget meeting you if I tried.
(Hint: I might have tried hard the last couple days.
No luck.) I really liked talking to you, too, and I was sorry it ended so fast. Which is why I’m glad you found the website and reached out. Thank you. Really.
My name is Beckett Jeansonne Olivier, but everyone calls me Beck. I’m grinning over here because I usually don’t give my full name in introductions, but you were kind enough to tell me yours, so fair is fair.
I think you were about to tell me that you don’t like your middle name?
Is that so? Mine is my mother’s maiden name, and she was the gentlest, most patient person I’ve ever known—while also possessing a wicked sense of humor, so I’m glad a part of my name is hers.
It reminds me to try to live up to her example (but I don’t always succeed).
You described your dress as horrid, and I remember that you said you hated it. That it was like wearing a cheese grater. You’re very funny. Is it okay to tell you that even if you had been wearing an actual cheese grater, you still would’ve been the prettiest sight I’ve seen in a long time?
I might be pushing my luck here, but I’d like to hear from you again. If you want to text or call, here’s my number: 337-555-8712.
Still staring,
Beck
My chest and face are on fire, but I’m grinning wide when I press send.
It’s incredible how one message from her and I’m frickin’ wide awake now. I snap the laptop shut, set it on the floor beside my bed, and switch off the lamp.
Maybe she’ll see the email tomorrow. Maybe she’ll text.
Something to hope for.
I shut my eyes, and I let out a huge fucking sigh of relief.
Because I can think of her now—remember how brilliantly beautiful she was, how bubbling over with life and spirit—and not feel wrong.
“Thank fucking God,” I mutter, willing my body to relax, hoping I can get seven hours of sleep because tomorrow is going to be just as long as today.
I yawn. Then mumble another, “Thank fucking God.”
Ding!
My phone pings with a message, and I reach blindly for it, aiming to set it to sleep mode so Apple News and Instagram alerts don’t wake me.
But my index finger hovers over the screen when I see the message from the unfamiliar number.
(337) 555-4234: DID YOUR MOM DIE???
The text is a punch to the adrenals. I bolt up in bed, snap the light on, and only then does it occur to me.
It’s her.
Me: Hattie??
The message dots do their dance for a while. And then a while longer. But now, I’m pretty sure it’s her, so I switch the lamp off again and settle back onto my pillow. Waiting.
(337) 555-4234: GAH! YES, IT’S ME. HATTIE MERCIER. SORRY! I SHOULD’VE SAID IT WAS ME BEFORE ASKING IF YOUR MOM DIED, BUT WHEN I READ YOUR EMAIL AND SAW THAT YOU REFERRED TO HER IN PAST TENSE, I FREAKED OUT A LITTLE AND NEEDED TO KNOW. BECK, DID SHE DIE???
I smile at the glowing screen, a rush of something warm and aching hitting my bloodstream.
Me: Yeah, she did. Two years ago. Breast cancer.
I press send and then save her contact. Another text chimes.
Hattie: NO. THAT’S AWFUL. PLEASE DON’T THINK I’M RUDE IF I DON’T SAY I’M SORRY.
I blink at her words, confused but curious.
Me: What do you mean?
I have to wait a few minutes, watching her dots.
Hattie: I WISH SHE WOULD NOT HAVE DIED OR EVEN GOTTEN SICK.
THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE REALLY MEAN WHEN THEY SAY THEY ARE SORRY THAT SOMEONE DIED, EVEN IF THEY ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE.
I’M NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MOM’S DEATH OR ANYONE’S—AT LEAST I HOPE NOT—BUT I WISH YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO GO THROUGH THAT.
I HAVE LOST THREE GRANDPARENTS AND THREE DOGS, AND I WISH I HADN'T HAD TO GO THROUGH ANY OF THAT EITHER.
I let out a long, slow breath, thinking about Mom. About the journey of her illness. A troubling mammogram back when Griffin and I were seniors in high school. The biopsy and lumpectomy. A round of radiation that she handled like a champ, never breaking her busy stride. An all clear.
Six months. A year. Then two years. Still, all clear.
If Mom and Pop thought about it, perceived her cancer as a looming threat, they never acted like it.
So when it came back after four years and she acted like it would be okay again, for a while, we believed her. How could it not be okay again?
But this time, even from the start, everything was worse.
The surgery more radical. The chemo and radiation more devastating.
She lost all her hair. She lost so much weight.
Each round of chemo sent her back into the hospital for two or three days, her blood pressure bottoming out, her white blood cell count plummeting and leaving her battling fevers.
When she’d come home, Pop would have to carry her upstairs.
Then spots showed up on her bones.
Mom wasn’t just Pop’s wife and our mother. She worked the farm. She ran the house. She used to drive deliveries. Lift crates and sacks every day. She was strong. Tireless.
When she died, she weighed eighty-nine pounds.
I swallow the stone in my throat and resist the urge to pick over my words. I just go with what’s in my head.
Me: She’s been gone two years, and it still feels like we’re going through it. Like the shit that started when she got really sick never stopped.
I don’t share that Pop’s tremors started when Mom decided she’d had enough of chemo and was ready to stop fighting it. She wanted him to see a doctor. He said it was the stress.
It wasn’t.
She was in the ground two months when we learned it was Parkinson’s.
Hattie: I GET THAT PEOPLE DIE ALL THE TIME, BUT YOU’RE TOO YOUNG NOT TO HAVE YOUR MOM.
For some unfathomable reason, a single chuckle rises through me like a soap bubble.
Me: I think so too. Though I thought 26 would feel younger.
Hattie: YOU’RE 26??
I narrow my eyes, wondering why the double question marks. Did she think I was younger? How old is she? Too young?
Me: Yep. What about you?
The dots bounce, disappear, and then bounce again.
Hattie: I’M 23.
I sigh in relief. Yeah, she’s younger, and she sees the world differently from most twenty-three-year-olds, but, again, it wasn’t wrong of me to notice her.
It isn’t wrong of me to be talking to her. And I do want to know more.
Me: Do you always write in all caps?
I press send and then wonder if asking about it is a bad idea. But her response is almost immediate.
Hattie: NO. ONLY WHEN I AM FREE TO.
The corner of my smile lifts. I like that she feels free right now.
Me: When aren’t you free to? At work? At school? What do you do?
The dots take a long time.
Hattie: ARE YOU ASKING IF I HAVE A JOB? BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE A JOB.
I DO HAVE WORK THAT I HAVE TO DO AND WORK THAT I WANT TO DO.
I DON’T PHYSICALLY GO TO SCHOOL BUT I AM IN COLLEGE AT THE UNIVERSITY OF LOUISIANA-LAFAYETTE.
I TAKE ONLINE CLASSES. I ONLY TAKE THREE CLASSES A SEMESTER BECAUSE SCHOOL IS VERY BORING AND STEALS MY WILL TO LIVE. DID YOU GO TO COLLEGE?
I have so many questions. I don’t know where to start.
Me: I did go to college. I went to UL. I studied agribusiness, but I didn’t graduate. When my mom got really sick, I attended part-time so I could work more on the farm, and then after she died, I dropped out to farm full-time.
Me: Tell me, what is the work that you “have to do” and what is the kind that you “want to do?”
Hattie: WORK I HAVE TO DO:
WATCH CLASS SLIDE PRESENTATIONS
RESPOND TO THEM
RESPOND TO TWO OTHER STUDENTS’ RESPONSES
GO TO CHURCH
STAY FOR FELLOWSHIP
BE SOCIABLE