“Time. Eternity. Immortality. Life.”
“Oh, so you kept it real light?” Em said, smiling, putting her hand on mine. “I wouldn’t read too much into it, Lottie. It freaks a lot of people out to talk about that kind of thing, you know? Especially when they’ve just lost someone. But don’t tell me you got like this just because of Sam?”
“No, not at all. I think it was a lot of things. The nervousness of teaching a class, of being in front of all those people, of not knowing what the hell I was going to talk about . . . I started feeling panicky before I even went in, but I just tried to get past it.”
“This hasn’t happened for a while, right? At least that you’ve told me about.”
“Not for a while. There’s just a lot going on right now,” I said.
“Of course. Have you talked to your parents about it?”
“Not yet.”
“But you will, right? If it gets worse? Or if it happens again?”
“I will. I will. Now can we please watch The Fellowship of the Ring?”
“We most certainly can, once we finish this episode of The X-Files. Come on.”
I didn’t look at my phone until I got home. It was around eleven, and my parents and Abe and Amy were playing Monopoly at the kitchen table. As usual, Dad had a thick pile of money and property cards and a smug expression on his face.
I snuck past them with just a few hellos and how are yous exchanged between us.
Upstairs, I read four text messages from Sam.
Did you make it home OK?
I really thought you did a great job today.
I’m sorry I was kind of out of it.
Are you mad at me?
I wrote him back:
Hi. Yes, home. Thank you again. I’m not mad at you at all.
Then you’ll see me again?
Of course I’ll see you again.
Sunday? I can come to you or you can come here or we can meet somewhere or whatever you want to do?
Whatever you want to do.
Let’s do this: meet me here at noon.
He sent me a pin. I opened it and read the address. New Canaan, Connecticut. About an hour and a half from Mystic and an hour and a half from me. I had never been there before, but I knew it was close to New York. A quick internet search didn’t pull up anything interesting, so I wrote back: I’ll see you then.
Someone knocked on my door and then pushed it open slowly. Mom. She looked tired, and she’d changed into scrubs. An overnight shift at the hospital.
“There’s an open seat for Monopoly, if you want to play,” she said, sitting down on my bed and putting her hand on my leg.
“I think I’ll just go to bed soon.”
“I’m jealous. I wish I could go to bed.”
“You look exhausted.”
“A lot of overnights lately. They’re short staffed, and I’m too nice.”
“When is your next day off?”
“Monday sweet Monday. Nobody’s ever said that before,” she laughed.
I almost told her.
I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t think of the right words to use.
Mom, I think about death a lot.
Mom, I know Aunt Helen is the one who died, but now it kind of feels like I’m next.
Mom, I can’t stop thinking about what happens afterward.
“Something on your mind, Lottie-da?” she said, brushing a piece of hair away from my face.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically. Like breathing, like blinking. Something you don’t even have to think about.
“Where were you all day?”
I hadn’t told her about the class. I’d totally forgotten. Would she have wanted to come?
“Another errand for Aunt Helen,” I said.
“Hmm,” Mom said.
“What?”
“It’s just . . . I’m a little worried you’re focusing too much on what your aunt wanted and not enough on what you want. It’s the last few days of high school; shouldn’t you be out with Em? Getting into trouble? Breaking some minor laws?”
“But I think I can do both,” I said. “I mean, just yesterday Em and I robbed a bank at gunpoint.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” she said, smiling. “How many letters are left?”
“A few.”
The stack was still on my nightstand. It was running out, but I hadn’t counted yet. I didn’t want to know. When it was gone, she was gone.
“She was something, huh?” Mom said.
“Yeah, Mom. She was something.” I remembered what my dad had said, and I wondered if she knew anything about it. “Did Dad ever say anything to you? About her?”
“Are you talking about the missing week?” she asked.
“The missing week?”
“This was before my time. But I guess one summer, when she was about your age, I think, she just disappeared. Nobody knew where she went. When she came back, everybody said she seemed different.”
“Different how?”
“Your father said . . .” She zoned out for a second, trying to remember. “She told him she had made a decision she couldn’t figure out whether or not to regret.” She shrugged and kissed me on my forehead. “Whatever that means,” she added, getting up and leaving my room, closing my bedroom door behind her. As soon as she was gone I wanted her back. When she was here, I wanted to be alone. I couldn’t figure out what I wanted.
What decision could Aunt Helen have made? Where would she have gone for a week? Had something bad happened to her?
I took the next letter from my nightstand and tore it open. Loopy, messy words, like she’d written it in a hurry.
Lottie,
When I found out about my diagnosis, I didn’t cry. It’s a weird thing, Lottie, to have to hear someone else tell you that you’re going to die. I almost didn’t believe the doctor at first, even though it is a doctor I know and trust. Everything in my brain was screaming SHE’S LYING, even the rational parts that knew she had no reason to lie to me. I went home that night and had a cup of tea like I always do, read a book like I always do, watched a bit of TV like I sometimes do. Did. Do I have to say did now? I keep forgetting these letters are for after I’m gone. I keep forgetting that’s the inevitable shadow I’m crashing toward.
I began to write these after a few months, after the cancer moved into places the doctor’s instruments couldn’t reach, swiftly and strategically taking up residency in my body, an uninvited stranger with no home of its own. It had to take mine and turn it against me.
I still didn’t cry, not even as I numbered these letters and called Harry and set my things in order. I didn’t cry as I decided how to divide up my belongings, all those foolish possessions I had at one time so desperately wanted. Do we crowd our rooms with material things because we’re afraid of the empty space without them? Oh, I don’t know, Lottie. But at the end of it all I only feel sentimental about a few of them. My books. My pictures. My first fancy car (I hope your mom is enjoying it now).