44. Forty-four
Forty-four
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
It’s all I can say when Libby opens her front door and finds me standing there, drenched and broken, before pulling me into a tight hug.
When I finally forced myself into the minivan—wet, cold, and devastated—I thought of going to my dad. But his calm and easy, “It will all work out, Little Bird,” isn’t what I need. I need all the thread to unravel before I try to put it back on the spool. I need someone to let me be hysterical.
Libby gives me dry clothes to change into and a fake beer, shrugging. A silent, I don’t have a damn clue how to help you.
Somehow, I laugh through my tears as I take it, and take a sip. Wishing it was real alcohol. Or marijuana. The thought sends a fresh batch of tears pouring out of my eyes.
Because I smoked marijuana with Veda.
Veda is dead .
Bo blames me.
I mentally recite the simple sentences over and over like a children’s book that’s filled with all the wrong words. A story no kid wants to read.
Finally, I’m dry enough to sit on her furniture, calm enough to tell her everything, and I do.
The sleeping. The medicine. The doctor’s appointment. The blood in the napkin.
When I finish, I drop my head back on the cushion, stare at the ceiling, and blow out a shaky breath.
“Okay, first of all, this is not your fault,” she says with genuine assurance. “Veda put you in an impossible position.”
Fresh tears burn the back of my eyes and I blink to keep them at bay.
“And I know it doesn’t seem like it, but Bo knows that.” I can’t tell if she believes what she says or not. Either way, I nod weakly.
She leans into me on the couch, head on my shoulder, and takes my hand in hers. “He’ll come around; he just needs time.”
“He was so mad, Libby. I’ve never seen him like that. The things he said…” Echoes of everything he yelled and a ghost of his rain-soaked face flash before me as my voice trails off.
We sit in silence, neither awkward nor comfortable. It’s just quiet other than the sound of the rain on the roof, the windows. Finally, she says, “I’m sorry about Veda.”
A tear runs down my face. “Me too.”
Sitting on the couch, steeping in my misery, it feels like some kind of cosmic joke. I spent my whole life planning and working to never be the cause of this kind of heartache. The life-changing devastation of loss. Yet here it is. Happening. Because of me, even though it wasn’t my cancer.
When John comes home, same police uniform on from when I saw him this morning, he finds me dumped like roadkill on his couch.
He smiles the same way Libby did when she offered me the fake beer. Like I'm something fragile they don’t know how to handle and are terrified of breaking.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“That’s the look I was going for,” I say flatly.
He chuckles.
“You talk to Bo?” I hear myself ask.
He nods, eyes on his shoes, telling me everything I need to know.
Trying to stop more tears from welling, I jam my thumbs into my eyes until I see stars. It doesn’t work. I start to cry anyway.
“What would George Strait sing in a situation like this?” John asks, hooking his thumbs into the belt where a gun is holstered.
I make a noise that can neither be deciphered as a laugh or cry, wipe my eyes, and feel slightly macabre as I say, “‘Easy Come, Easy Go.’”
He rumbles with a laugh.
Libby walks over to him, pecks him on the cheek. “Take it easy on her, John.” She pats his chest with her palm. “I’ll start dinner.” She turns to me. “Birdie, you staying? ”
I shake my head. “I should go.” I force myself to both stand and smile. “Thank you for hosting my meltdown.” I laugh a weak, watery sound.
She walks over, squeezes me in a genuine Libby hug. “Anytime, Pam Beesly.”
When she pulls back, there’s a slight smile ghosting her lips. “Anything you need, I mean that. We were Bo’s first, but we’re yours now too.”
She means it. It would make me cry again if I wasn’t so tired.
On my way to the door, wet clothes in a trash bag, John grabs me for a big hug. “You had months to accept it was coming, he’s only had hours. Give him time.” I nod against his chest. Then, “He’s a stubborn asshole anyway.”
He doesn’t mean it, but I laugh anyway.
I cancel dinner with my dad; he shows up on my steps with food anyway.
While Veda is dead and Bo blames me, my dad cooks steaks in my kitchen and listens to me sob out the whole awful story. Again.
“Losing Bo hurts more than Veda dying, does that make me horrible?” I ask my dad as we do the dishes.
He makes a deep, hmm sound, then pauses the way he does.
“Veda lived a good life. She told us that last night,” he starts.
Last night .
Right. Because twenty-four hours ago, we were laughing in Bo’s house eating cake, and Veda was still alive, and Bo still loved me.
“She had a life filled with love. Loss? Sure, but it’s clear the love was stronger. Hers is a complete story. She did what she came here to do. Lived fully, died on her own terms after a lot of years.” He puts a plate in the dishwasher. “But Bo?” He gives me a sideways glance. “It’s a story that’s ended in the middle. That never leaves anyone happy.”
I swallow once. Twice. Three times. However many times I have to until I’m able to talk without breaking down.
“I hate that Bo hates me, but I hate myself more for knowing I wouldn’t have done anything differently.” The confession sounds like it comes out of someone else’s mouth. Like I’m outside of my body, watching my own life from the sky.
“I know, Little Bird,” he says. “I know.”
Sitting on my couch long after my dad leaves, I stare at my purse on the coffee table. The envelopes—long forgotten in the pain of the day—poke out of the top.
I pull them out.
Bo scribbled on one, Birdie the other. Veda’s shaky, slanted writing as familiar as my own.
My hands trembling, heart pounding, I open the envelope left for me.
Dear Birdie ,
If you’re reading this, I have no doubt you’re feeling everything there is to feel toward me. Maybe you even hate me. Knowing how you feel about Bo, I’m most certain you must hate me at least a little right now. For that, I’m forever sorry. Just like I couldn’t let Bo see me suffer, I couldn’t let Bo find me gone. It had to be you. Part of me believes you already understand it.
You asked me once if the reason I hired you was because of the cancer—I told you that was only part of it. It was also because of Bo. The way he looked at you that first day on my porch was the way his grandfather looked at me in our college ceramics class. A look that was a poem without a name—so full of reverie.
I meant it when I said you were a good friend to me, Birdie. You made my last months special. Sacred. Gave me a reason to keep fighting, even on the days I didn’t want to. I put my hands in the clay and laughed loudly because you kept showing up. I didn’t know it, but I needed you in my life. Maybe even your food.
So does Bo.
If you can forgive me, he will most certainly forgive you.
Love him, Birdie. Let him love you.
Love always,
Veda
PS: I left you the cabin. Never stop making flowers out of clay—you have a gift I never told you about because I didn’t want it to go to your head. Oh, and I put all the marijuana in the blue vase in the living room. I find you less annoying after you smoke some.
I read it so many times I memorize it, then I break down all over again.