Love Letters to the Dead

She went on explaining, and what I got is that after all those months of not calling, the Jesus Man called Aunt Amy last week to tell her he was coming to visit. I guess they’ll go to dinner at Furr’s, and I will tell her she looks pretty before she leaves and pretend to be asleep when she gets home so she can do whatever God wills her to do with him.

Honestly, it makes me sad. Because she sent him cookies, and cards, and New Mexico chili, and messages, especially the messages where she would do the voices of Mister Ed and of the Jamaican bobsledders and she would be herself. Her hopeful self, like she was saying, I’m here.

But for the past year, she got no response, and finally she stopped pressing her flowered dresses like she imagined someone was about to see her in them. She put her rose soap back in its box and back on the shelf where she’d never use it. She finally gave up.

And now she will take her rose soap out again, its rose petals rubbed down from all of the mornings of sitting in the shower waiting for something. It’s not new anymore, but she’ll take whatever she can get. She’ll take even a night of iced tea with ice crushed the right way, and fake cherry pie, and maybe his hand on hers across the table. And if he wants more, she’ll give it. If he says, “God means for us to do this,” she’ll believe him.

After lunch, we stopped at one of the kiosks where they sell tee shirts. Aunt Amy picked up one that said GOD MADE SOME MEN EXTRA CUTE. She found that hilarious. She laughed at it so hard that tears started running down her cheeks. I didn’t get the joke. But she said she couldn’t resist, she just had to buy it for him. I could see as she folded the shirt carefully into the bag, she’s hooked on the promise again. I just don’t want him to be gone in the morning and never call back.

After the kiosk, I took Aunt Amy into one of the cool stores, Wet Seal, where I secretly wanted to look around for something right. Something that would make up for the dress I had to get to make her happy, something that would feel like me—whoever I am right now. I hadn’t bought any clothes in a long time. I’d been wearing May’s for a while, but since Sky and I broke up I haven’t wanted to. So mostly I just wear my old things and try to blend in.

At first all the clothes in the store seemed dressed up in the wrong way, like they were pretending. But then when I was looking in the back on the sale rack, “Rehab” came on the store radio. A lot of your songs, even the saddest or the maddest ones, sound happy, like you are telling a hard truth but backing it up with a dance tune. It’s part of what I love about you, how you can be defiant, or heartbroken, or broken open, and still be bright about it.

And then I found this shirt. It’s lavender crushed velvet. I felt like you were with me as I rubbed the fabric against my cheek and remembered how I love the way the new clothes in the mall smell sweet and pressed. Like very clean sugar. I tried it on and I felt prettier than I’ve felt since I had on May’s dress at homecoming.

Tomorrow for Easter, I’ll wear my scratchy white dress and we’ll go to Aunt Amy’s church, where they sing things like “Our God Is an Awesome God.” And then on Monday, I’ll wear my new shirt to school.

Amy, you were all over the covers of tabloids and stuff, doing what you did. And how the world is now, how we follow everyone and try to see everything, it changes the story. It makes your life into someone else’s version of you. And that’s not fair. Because your life didn’t belong to us. What you gave us was your music. And I am grateful for it.

Yours,

Laurel




Dear Amy Winehouse,

Something terrible happened today. I wore my new lavender crushed velvet shirt to school, and in English, I saw that Mrs. Buster had on the exact same shirt. Mrs. Buster is not a young, pretty, hip teacher. She’s old and she has bug eyes and ironed-out hair. It seemed impossible. I’d gotten the shirt at a cool store. A store for teenagers. Why would Mrs. Buster shop there? But her shirt was exactly the same, right down to the smooth gray shell buttons that I’d loved. That I’d been running my fingers over all morning. I know everyone noticed. My face was red all through class.

After the bell rang, Mrs. Buster tried to talk to me. “Laurel!” she called as I was walking out.

I turned around, barely.

“Nice shirt.” She smiled.

She knew that our same shirts were not a good thing for me, so there was no reason to smile about it. I did not smile back.

“Laurel, how are you doing?” She said it the way she does, like a question that might as well be a loaded gun.

“Fine,” I said. Though I wanted to tell her I wasn’t doing well at all, if she must know. I also wanted to ask her what the hell she was doing ruining my life shopping at Wet Seal.