Page 93 of The Americana Playbook

Dear Fitzy,

Today I’ve been gone 100 days.

Somehow it feels like a lifetime and an hour. More like a lifetime though. A lifetime of torture.

I’ve been thinking a lot about our lifetime. I tell Sarah about you—my best friend, the boy next door, the one I met in kindergarten who I never spent a day without unless under duress.

Or until he stopped looking for me.

I’m too hurt to be mad. In some ways, I get why your mom wants that. I think you’ll go far, far, and away from Manhasset one day. As far as you can go. Maybe California since I don’t think there are football teams in Alaska. Wherever you go, everyone will love you like I did because you’re just a really good person. You’re kind of impossible to hate, dammit. So even though I’m hurt, I don’t hate you. I never have and never will. If anything, I’m thankful you gave me something to hold onto when I’m here: memories.

Some people here are able to have pictures in their room of their families when they “level up.”

If I could have one, it would be of you. There’s a photo of us in my desk drawer from when we were little. It was the day of our first communion. I remember Honey finding it one day a few years ago and showing it to me. She said we looked like a little bride and groom.

I said we just looked like us.

I wish I could see a photo of you then and a photo of you now on my wall here. If I did, I imagine I’d cry and laugh. Because that’s what you’ve been for me, Fitzy—the highs, the lows, and everything in between. But that’s life I guess. It’s ups and downs and adventures.

I’m on this one without you, but I’m still so lucky we had them together. I hope you never forgetmethem.

Rebels Only.

Parker

“You didn’t haveto get us anything, Eleanor.”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s more of a regift.” Mom slides on her glasses and reaches into the small shopping bag she’s been carrying around while we walked around DC for the last hour and a half. “I’m gifting you back all your memories.”

Across from me, Parker takes the first picture from the stack of photos Mom placed on the table. Immediately, she brings her free hand up to her mouth, and I watch as the mood in her eyes shift.

“Isn’t that one wonderful?” Mom asks. “The two of you look like you’re about to get married. That was outside St. Joseph’s after your holy communion.”

Parker holds up the picture for me to see.

“Was this the last day you were taller than me?” I ask.

“No.” My mom hands me another photo across the table. “This was in fifth grade.”

Parker sticks her tongue out playfully. “Nice try.”

Mom continues, “Field day at school, maybe? I’m not sure why I would’ve been there otherwise. Oh, and this one, you two down at the dock. The sun was setting, and you just refused to stop jumping in. We never could wrangle you both inside.”

It’s then I realize there are so many pictures of us outside—the dock, the stone beach at the bottom of Captain’s Cottage. There are photos of failed lemonade stands, where Honey and Mom were our only customers, cartwheel contests down the small hill. But it’s the ones with the ladder leading to the clubhouse that I linger on, even if they’re a little blurry and out of focus. They’re clear to me, as is the sign Parker hung there.

Rebels Only.

“I like this one.” Mom holds up another for us to see. This photo is just of Parker. “I’m not sure how it ended up with me. Honey must’ve accidently given it to me.”

I take the photo, shaking my head, before passing it to Parker.

“That’s the flower farm by the barn I used to ride at.” She looks at herself a decade ago, facing away from the camera, in a field of sunflowers. “We always bought a bunch after every lesson.”

Parker runs her finger around the edge of the picture and I press my knee to hers beneath the table.

Mom slides another over. “And this?”

“Was that the eight grade dance?” I ask.

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