Chapter 18
His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
I nod and get even more honest. “Actually, everyone did, once upon a time.”
“Then why don’t you like it?”
“My mom and dad died,” I explain, “when I was young.” As I hear the words leave me, I’m pretty sure I’ve had too much wine too fast.
“Oh. Damn, I’m sorry.”
“I mean, you weren’t exactly old when yours passed away, but ...” I don’t want to imply that my losses are any worse than his—losing your parents sucks at any age.
“How old were you?” he asks.
“Nineteen when my dad died—massive heart attack at fifty-one. My mom died a year later, the winter before I graduated from the University of Wisconsin. She got an infection during an outpatient surgery and became septic before it was caught. It was too late—she passed after a week in the hospital.”
“That’s rough,” he says reverently.
I sense him wanting to reach out and touch my hand, but that’s still a bad idea, for more reasons than one. I’m not even sure why I’m spending my evening with him when I know I don’t want this to go anywhere. And I’m even less sure why I’m suddenly spilling my guts here. Other than the wine.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Only child.”
“So you went by Jessie growing up then,” he seems to want to clarify.
I nod, but tell him, “I haven’t been Jessie since .
.. since I left Wisconsin the fall after Mom passed.
As soon as I got their affairs settled, I was outta there.
And I’m ... just not that girl anymore.
” I sigh, remembering how quickly I was forced to grow up, how quickly I became the capable, independent go-getter I’ve been since arriving in Cincinnati.
“I’ve been Jessica ever since, professionally and personally.
” Even Kevin and Sydney don’t know I spent my entire girlhood as Jessie Fox.
“I guess I left that girl behind with the rest of my life up north.”
“How come? Because the name makes you think about your mom and dad?”
I sigh, weighing it. “Maybe. Maybe it reminds me of simpler days. But mostly I think it’s because .
.. I couldn’t be that girl anymore, you know?
Get left on your own that young and you have to toughen up, start over.
You have to sort of ... become someone new.
” I don’t know why I sound sad as I say it—I like myself, I like who I became. My parents would be proud of me.
But if I’m being totally real, maybe sometimes I miss that girl who didn’t feel pushed into being so strong and independent.
And maybe it’s not horrible to be reminded of who I once was.
There are good memories there. Only ...
“Jessie was ... softer than me, I think,” I hear myself muse aloud.
I’m staring off into darkness as I say it, slightly mesmerized by the fireflies.
“She sounds nice,” he says. “But you’re talkin’ about yourself in the third person, you know? You’re still her.”
I glance over at him. “What makes you think so? It’s not like I’ve been so nice to you since I got here.”
A small smile plays about his mouth. “Sometimes you have. When you forget not to be. And more lately.”
When I say nothing in reply, he adds, “I see softness in you all the time. I see it in the way you play with my dog when you think I’m not lookin’.”
It’s true that sometimes when Goldie’s running around the yard, I scratch her head or throw things for her to fetch—which she only bothers bringing back about half the time because she’s a terrible fetcher.
“And the way you care about Mabel’s lost things even though you wish you didn’t.”
Well, yeah, okay, he’s got me there.
“I see it in your eyes right now,” he concludes, and I realize I’m meeting his gaze as he talks, just taking it all in, melting in the moment a little—and now I wonder what exactly it is he’s witnessing there. Emotions, maybe. I knew the wine was a bad idea.
“You think you’re so smart—some kind of rocking chair psychiatrist,” I accuse, half teasing, half not. I’m not comfortable with this revelation of his; it feels like being unmasked, my inner self laid bare.
But he only laughs. “About time you figured out how smart I am, Jessica.”
And now it suddenly sounds almost funny to me. My own name. On his lips, in his voice. Oddly, it just doesn’t sound right coming from his mouth, even after all the correcting I’ve done. So, as much to my surprise as his, I say in a hushed tone, “You can call me Jessie if you want.”
He arches one brow and flashes a skeptical look, like maybe I’m trying to trick him. “Really? ’Cause I’m truly tryin’ to quit. I don’t wanna be annoying. Or disrespectful.”
“Well, you already failed miserably at both of those things,” I inform him, laughing. “So why change now?”
He laughs, too, but then says, “Seriously. I mean, the world’s changin’ all the time, and I’m not sure I’m always the best man, or that I’ve got my finger on the pulse of what’s politically correct, but I do try to think about ... how I want my daughter to be treated, you know?”
I can see in this moment that he really is doing his best to be a good guy, even if that comes with imperfections.
And I’m not sure it’s reasonable to ask for more.
I explain to him, “At first, when you called me Jessie, it stung. Stung some part of me deep down inside. But maybe it also reminds me of a time when life felt easier. When I didn’t have to worry about anything and was just .
.. me. Maybe it’s actually nice to be reminded of my mom and dad now when I hear it.
And nice to ... feel that part of me again.
” I stop, aware that word vomit has spilled out of me.
“Oh my God, I’ve clearly had too much to drink. ”
“So tomorrow I’m gonna be in trouble if I call you Jessie?” he ventures.
I look over, meet his gaze, and realize I honestly don’t know the answer. I’m not sure I know the answers to anything about myself right now. So I just say, “Time will tell.”
It’s another night when I fall into Mabel’s cloud bed grateful for the cozy comfort it provides. Damn you, Matthew Cordray, for being so easy to talk to.
I never tell people stuff like that. I never even think about it.
My life has always just been before my parents died and after , and I was one person prior to it and another person following it—a child who transformed instantly into an adult.
I never feel sorry for myself about it. I never reason through it like I did with Matt, recognizing that I had to change in order to get through it.
If I hadn’t, I’d have drowned in grief. Instead, I got a job and a new life and stopped the madness of all the feeling and missing.
And it’s not like I don’t think about my mom and dad.
I do. A lot. But when I sold the family store and the house I grew up in to move away, I had to pack up all my grieving to be a productive human being.
Right after that conversation, I told Matt I was sleepy and ready to say goodnight, and he offered to help me carry everything in, but I insisted we just leave it on the back porch.
He thanked me for the cobbler, and I thanked him for the wine, and I tried to laugh about the fact that I’d had too much, but I’m pretty sure he saw just how soft “Jessie” is in those moments and that I was pretty much running away.
From letting him see it. From seeing it myself.
I’m drunk, and certain I’ll wake up tomorrow full of regret. I fall asleep feeling ... vulnerable. Yuck. I maybe even cry a little—I’m not sure. I can blame the wine all I want, but why on earth have I let this man I barely know see under my armor—when I don’t let anyone see that part of me?
When the sun comes beaming in the window the next morning, I open my eyes to the clouds on the walls and ceiling, to the brightness of a new day, to the notion that I have blackberries to eat for breakfast, and more to deliver to my new friends—and then I remember.
Confessions. I made unplanned confessions to Matt Cordray.
But as I get out of bed and glance in the mirror, I realize ... I don’t feel so regretful after all. Maybe I even feel a little bit ... free. Unburdened. Unfettered.
I mean, all that and I’m pretty sure he still likes me.
And if he likes the me who’s been lurking under my tougher surface all these years ... maybe she’s actually a likable person? Though he’s right—I really have to knock off the third-person bit.
I stare more fully at my reflection—a thin woman in shorty pj’s and a light covering of brown curls on her head. She’s not so bad. In fact, nothing has changed since last night except that ... maybe I like myself a little better now.
The “blackberry cereal” somehow tastes even sweeter this morning. I like the way the berries turn the milk purple. I let the milk-saturated berries linger in my mouth, tasting them fully before swallowing. I even indulge in drinking the milk from the bowl afterward.
And then this crazy, random emotion hits me.
I’m happy to be alive! I’ve beaten cancer!
All this time, I’ve been well aware of that, and relieved about it, but I’ve been so wrapped up in getting my normal life back that I’ve fretted a lot, too. Maybe I haven’t celebrated enough that I’m elated to be alive! And healthy! And getting stronger every day!
After breakfast, I shower and dress, applying my scar medicine, then bring in the stuff from last night and notice my sink is brimming with dirty dishes.
But I feel too upbeat to wash them right now.
Instead, I grab up the containers to take to Grace, open the front door, step outside—and then, whoa.
Color! So much color!
My snapdragons have blossomed! Overnight! It’s an amazing profusion of hues: corals and yellows and oranges that are almost neon. A yellow-orange blend that looks like a sunset climbed into a flower. Light pinks, bright pinks, whites, purples, and some magenta ones that mimic velvet.