Isn’t she just adorable with her go-get-’em attitude? The girl has a lot to learn. I’m about to say something sarcastic when Jace sits back in his chair and nods his head.
“She’s right. If we’re going to be here, let’s make the most of it.” Come on, Jace.
“I’m in,” Hollyn says with a shrug of her shoulder, looking slightly excited but trying not to show it. No surprise there, she likes to jump on the bandwagon.
Looking around the circle, I ask, “Is this where we all put our hands in the middle and cheer?”
“Don’t be a dick, Carter,” Hollyn chastises.
I smirk, pen poised on my stationery. “I’m not, just a wondering mind, that’s all.”
“So it’s settled?” Snowflake asks, hope in her eyes. “We’re going to do it? Our New Year’s resolution?”
“Yes,” Hollyn and Jace say together.
Everyone turns to me, waiting for my answer. Knowing I have no way of getting out of this, I succumb. “I guess so.”
“Yay!” Snowflake cheers and then pulls out her cell phone. “Now I just got this the other day so I don’t know how to use it, but let’s pass our phones around so we can get each other’s phone numbers, then let’s write our letters.” Shit no.
And here I thought working for my uncle was hell.
***
Dear Life,
It’s time to grieve. What does that even mean? As if I wasn’t allowed to grieve before? I’ve been grieving for almost two years.
It’s time to be mad. Well, too late for that. I’m past mad and downright pissed off. Why do you ask, Life? Let’s see, I was married to the love of my life for a year, A YEAR before you took him away from me. Before your grand scheme of shitty plans took hold of my heart and snapped it in half.
How is that fair? How is it all right to let rapists and murderers and shitty people walk around this earth unscathed but then someone like my husband, a man who committed his life to serve, you let him die? You took him away. Tell me, please, how is that fair?
Oh, but sure, Petey Pedophile next door gets to live on and eat Rice-a-Roni on a daily basis while playing with his N64 because he can’t seem to afford anything else.
Yup, thanks, Life, you sure know how to be fair. Thumbs up, pat on the back . . . thanks.
Sincerely,
Hollyn
Dear Life,
Gosh, I’ve never written a letter to you before, so I might be a little awkward at first. Um, in case you didn’t know, I’m Daisy. Grams raised me and taught me everything I know. Ask me anything about musicals, go ahead, I dare ya. I will blow your mind with my knowledge. But when it comes to being social and “hip,” oh gosh, I’m so out of it.
I know nothing when it comes to today’s life. Computers, cell phones, Panera, trampoline gyms . . . I had no clue any of this existed. There is so much out there that I’ve never experienced and it makes me sad.
I’m twenty-one. I’ve never had a drink, I’ve never really had a friend besides Grams, and I’ve never known what it’s like to hold a man’s hand.
I’m a hermit, a lost soul in a sea of modernized civilization.
Life, you’ve sheltered me and I’ve had enough. I want to be a part of the world today. I will be a part of the world today. Goodbye past, hello future!
Kind regards,
Daisy
Dear Life,
Not much to say, not much to feel, not much to do.
I’m an empty fucking vessel right now. No heart, no soul, no legs to stand on.
You gave me a daughter, a DAUGHTER. A little girl full of so much love that it makes my heart bleed just thinking of her hand that so briefly wrapped around my finger.
But I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t give her what she needs. I couldn’t be the parent she deserves, so I gave her up. I let her go. I gifted my soul to two women, hoping and praying they take care of her.
I know they will. But, it cuts me deep . . . knowing I can’t be the one who kisses her goodnight, the one to brush her hair in the morning, or the one she clings to when she’s tired. I will never be that person. I will instead watch her from a distance, a mere observer rather than a participator.
Life, you gave me a daughter when I wasn’t fucking ready.
I wasn’t fucking ready.
Jace
Dear Life,
Fuck you.
Carter
Step Two: Let Go
JACE
Ten unread text messages burning a hole in my phone.
Ten messages with attached pictures.
Ten messages I have no intent on opening anytime soon.
But I can’t get myself to delete them either. Not when I so desperately want to look at them.
What kind of psychotic mental episode is that? I want to see the pictures but I refuse to look at them? Pretty sure Dear Life won’t be able to help me figure out my backward-thinking psychosis. I’m almost positive no one would be able to.
And yet, here I am, staring down at my phone, ten unread messages from June all containing pictures of Hope.
I kind of wish she’d stop sending them, that the agreement we finalized with the lawyer wasn’t so open, that I was forced to wonder more about Hope than actually be able to see her. I don’t deserve that privilege, even though I know she is in good hands.
“Hey, are you going to eat this?” Ethan asks from my kitchen, sniffing a pizza box he just pulled out of the fridge.
“No, have at it.”
Peeking in, he fists pumps the air. “No olives, that’s my man.” Taking a huge bite of cold pizza, he asks, “So how was your class the other night?”
“It wasn’t a class.”
“Okay . . . how was your thing the other night?”
“All right. Not really sure how it’s going to help me.”
With a mouthful, Ethan plops on the couch next to me, shifting the cushion up and down and asks, “Why do you think that?”
I shrug, not quite sure. I left the gathering the other night feeling lackluster, as if nothing changed. I knew going into it that nothing was going to immediately differ from what I’m doing now, but I thought maybe I would feel a little different after leaving. Maybe a little lighter, like the world wasn’t trying to bury me alive.
I didn’t feel anything.
Actually, that’s not true.
Driving home, after writing that letter, I felt angry, mad, pissed off at the world. At Life. I feel the same way even now, a few days later. Exposing myself like that, letting myself dive deep into my feelings, it wasn’t freeing. It was constraining, trapping me in a suffocating, self-imposed hell of a box that I can’t seem to find my way out of.
“Just don’t feel much different.”
Ethan scoffs. “You’re such a millennial.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Shoving another piece of pizza in his mouth, he leans back on the couch and assesses me, giving me the once-over. Pointing his half-eaten pizza at me, he says, “You’re all about instant gratification. Believe me, when it comes to the opposite sex, instant gratification is a train I want to be riding on, but when it comes to problems you might be facing, shit can’t just wash away that quickly. Especially the kind of trauma you’re going through.” Leaning forward, his face morphs into something sober, resolute. “Man, you gave up your baby.”
“I know.” I stand and run my hand through hair. “I know what happened, okay? I don’t need to be reminded.”
“Maybe you do,” Ethan replies. Setting down his pizza, he stands with me. “Jace, you made a huge sacrifice, one of the biggest sacrifices a person can make. You have to give yourself time to heal.”
“It’s not that easy. I wish I could just forget everything, but it’s impossible. Every fucking morning, when I wake up, it feels like I have a three-hundred-pound man sitting on my chest, making it practically impossible to breathe. And when I do get out of bed and out of my place, I have to face the world. You can’t believe the amount
of people who actually have babies. You never notice them until you’re missing yours. It’s a fucking punch to the gut every time I see someone carrying their baby, walking them in a stroller, making them giggle. It’s like everyone in Denver with a baby decided to make my life a living hell by following me around everywhere. It’s torture.” I throw my hands up in the air, gesturing to my surroundings. “This life is torture.” I never thought I’d know this type of pain.
“Damn. I’m sorry, man. I wish I could relate, I really do.”
The ring of my cell phone cuts me off before I can answer him. Sighing, I pull it out of my pocket and see June’s number pop up. What could she be calling for?
“Uh, it’s Hope’s adoptive parents,” I say awkwardly.
Ethan holds up his hands. “Say no more. I’ll get out of here. Call me if you need me. You know I’m here for you.”
I nod and answer the phone. “Hey, June. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, hi, Jace.” June’s voice seems weak, quiet as she talks. “I know we’re to only call for important things.” She almost sounds like she’s been crying. “But I had to hear your voice.”
“You can call me whenever you need, June.” I really don’t mean this but when I feel uncomfortable, I say anything to try to make the situation better. The fact that she’s calling me right now has me on edge, like my life is about to fall apart with her next sentence.
“I appreciate that.” Sniffing, she continues, “I just . . . Ugh, I’m not doing well, Jace.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stick straight up in the air, warning lights threading their way into my brain, and my stomach starts to churn at a rapid rate, making it impossible to swallow the sudden tidal wave of saliva in my mouth.
Taking a deep breath, I ask, “What’s going on? Is everything okay with Hope, with Alex?”
“Yeah,” her voice becomes quieter. “Alex actually doesn’t know I’m calling you. She would be furious with me, but I had to talk to you, Jace. I haven’t been able to stop crying. I can’t stop thinking about the look on your face when you handed Hope over to us, the pure devastation in your eyes. It’s slowly eating away at me.”
“You and me both, June,” I answer honestly.
Tightness clamps her voice. I can hear her tears and feel her pain through the phone. It’s the same pain I’ve suppressed for the last few days. “I took your baby, Jace.” Her voice cracks. “I stood in that hospital room and took your baby away from you. She isn’t mine, she’s yours. I can’t . . .” Her pain sears me through the phone. “I can’t be the mother you want me to be, the mother she deserves. She doesn’t belong to me.”
“June,” I say in a tortured voice. “Stop.” Taking a deep breath, I collect myself, making sure to hold back anything that might further upset her. Between the both of us, she needs to be the well-composed one, so I can’t set her off any more than she already is. “Remember the first time we had dinner together? You told me all about how you’ve felt deep down in your soul that you were meant to be a mom one day? How you knew you were put on this earth to mother, to nurture? Are you telling me those feelings have changed?”
“No,” she sobs into the phone.
“Then what’s changed?” I swallow hard, the next words leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. “Hope was meant to be with you and Alex. If I didn’t believe that, I would never have handed her over.”
“It’s just . . .” she pauses, a sniff coming from her, “watching you say goodbye, seeing the total desolation in your face when you gave her to us, it’s broken me, Jace. It’s stuck with me to the point that every time I look at Hope, all I see are the tears in your eyes and the regret in your face.”
“There’s no regret,” I say quickly, surprising myself ever so slightly with the confession. “Fuck, am I sad? Yeah. Do I wake up, hating every aspect of my life? I do, I won’t lie to you about that. But do I regret helping you become a mom? Do I regret seeing the pure joy on Alex’s and your faces when you said hello to your daughter for the first time? I don’t. Those memories, the meaning behind the connection we’ve made, that’s what’s getting me through each and every day. Please, June, please don’t take that sliver of happiness away from me. Believe me when I say, you didn’t take my baby, you’ve blessed me . . .” I choke on my own tears, trying to find the right words.
Blessed.
The thought never really came to me until just now, until talking to June. Blessed. Is that really what this bond with June and Alex is? A blessing?
Taking a deep breath, I say, “You’ve blessed me with the comfort in knowing that I’ve made the right decision. You and Alex, fuck, you’re perfect for Hope. I only wish I was as lucky as her growing up.”
An empty childhood in a run-down foster home with a lack of warm arms to welcome me home. I would have given anything to have people like June and Alex as parents.
“I think it’s going to take time,” June replies after a short silence. “This might sound strange, but I feel like I’m mourning your loss, that I’m carrying the weight of my emotions as well as yours on my shoulders. And I never thought I would feel that in adopting.”
“No need to carry mine, June. Move on and enjoy your new family.” I take a deep breath and say, “I hate to cut this short but I have to take off.”
“Oh . . . no problem,” she stumbles. “I’m sorry if I bothered you, I didn’t know who else to talk to. Alex doesn’t like to talk about it. She’s harboring her feelings right now and no one else I know has even remotely gone through the same thing we did. I know it’s been exponentially harder on you, but you’re the only person I could relate to. I’m sorry if I was out of line contacting you.”
I press my fingers in my brow, wishing I wasn’t having this conversation with June, because every word that comes from her mouth makes me feel guilty. Why the hell do I feel guilty? Maybe because I want to lash out at her right now. But why? Because she’s struggling with carrying my grief? That’s not something I should be mad at her for. Shit, that’s something I should be relieved about. It shows the kind and caring heart she has.
“You aren’t out of line, June. Please don’t think that. I’m just going to need some time, you know?”
A sniff comes from the other line on the phone. “I understand.”
“Give it time as well,” I add, hating that she’s still sad. “It will get better. Don’t worry about me. I couldn’t be happier that you and Alex are raising Hope. I know you will do an amazing job. I definitely made the right choice. I just need to mourn the loss of being her father.”
“Jace,” June gasps. “You will always be her father.”
Funny thing, I really won’t be. I’ll be her birth father. There’s a difference.
After some quick and rather uncomfortable goodbyes, I hang up the phone, emotionally exhausted.
Grieve. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing right now. I feel like I went through the five stages of grief in the short amount of time it took to talk to June. The only stage left: depression.
Is that what Dear Life wants? For us to grieve through the five stages? If so, this is some convoluted program because I feel like total and utter shit.
Yup, not one ounce of me feels remotely better. If that’s what’s supposed to happen, then mission accomplished.
CARTER
“What the hell are you doing back here?” I ask Hollyn, who has a smarmy look on her face.
Without a word, she plops a plate in front of me from the dining room. “Steak isn’t well done.”
“That’s because steak should never be well done.”
“Funny thing is,” Hollyn places a thoughtful finger to her chin, “the customer couldn’t care less about how you prefer steak to be prepared. They asked for it well done, not a, what did they say?” She thinks for a second and then says, “Ah yes, they didn’t ask for a bleeding heart on their plate.”
“Bleeding heart?” Flipping a fork in my hand and grabbing a knife, I examine the steak that b
arely has any pink in the center. “They’re calling this a bleeding heart? I can show them a bleeding heart if that’s what they really want.” I wipe my hands on the rag attached to my hip and make my way away from the grill, soft threats at the tip of my tongue.
“Fix the steak,” my uncle’s voice booms in the kitchen, his eyes glaring at me.
“There’s nothing wrong with the steak. It’s actually overdone,” I argue. Gesturing a hand toward the dining room, I ask, “Do you really want customers thinking you’re handing out lumps of charcoal on plates instead of steak?”
“Fix the steak,” he repeats, with malice.
“What the fuck ever.” I give up, grab the steak off the plate and set it on the grill.
Who orders a well done steak? What’s the point? Why even have steak if you’re not going to eat it medium well. I bet Bobby Flay doesn’t have to deal with this shit. If someone asks for well done, he probably demands they leave his restaurant.
Not my uncle. It’s all about the customer and not the food. Which of course burns my already bitter soul. I went to school to learn how to appreciate the subtle combinations of foods and the bold flavors you can pull from them. I learned to masterfully create meals that are not only appealing to the eye, but burst with flavor on your tongue.
Think my uncle would allow me to put any of my knowledge to practice? No. He thinks serving the same Italian shit he’s been serving for the past twenty years is okay.
Who wants to be just okay?
I sure as hell don’t. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be known for thinking outside the box, for challenging people’s taste buds, for pushing their limits and comfort zones. Think of Remy from Ratatouille, how he immediately falls in love with the perfect, fresh ingredients and the plethora of combinations you can make. That’s me. Now if only I could break free of these shackles, to escape the debt looming over me.
And I was so damn close.