Page 133 of The Fix-Up

That weekend, I filled up a box of things that reminded me of Gil. He’d not left much behind, so I improvised—an old screwdriver, what was left of his expensive laundry soap, an iron (it wasn’t like I planned on using it ever), and a few other odds and ends. I donated it all to the church thrift store.

But that night I lay in bed, worrying I’d been too hasty. The bargaining stage came quickly thereafter. I reasoned with God, asked if there was anything I could do to bring Gil for a visit. Just one time so I could thank him properly. I promised to never miss a Sunday school class. (Except when I overslept.) I promised to do more volunteer work. I promised to never speak badly of Peter Stone again. (I was desperate, okay?)

“Mommy, come see,” Oliver called from his room one day.

“What is this? You cleaned your room.” Everything was put away with the precision and care of a six-year-old boy. “It looks awesome. I didn’t even ask you to do it.”

“I’m the Man Club president, I gotta follow the rules,” he said. Before I could answer, he grabbed my hand and pulled me over to his dresser. “I found something.”

“What’s that?” I asked, trying to not step on the loose building blocks that were still hidden in the carpet.

He pulled a black sweatshirt from one of his drawers. “I found it when I was cleaning. It’s Mr. Gil’s. We should send it back to him.”

I took the sweatshirt from him, remembering how Gil liked to wear it in the mornings. Heart racing, I promised to make sure he got it back but then I realized it smelled just like him and I couldn’t part with it. Even though just holding it made me feel like crying.

When I made it in to see Sunny, I’d been in a constant state of near tears. I hated it. I wanted to get over Gil the way I got over all the other guys I’d dated: pick up the pieces of my broken heart and move on.

“Ellie, how has that worked out for you before?” Sunny asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I crossed my arms and stared at her.

“Okay.” She crossed her arms and stared right back.

It was like a game of therapy chicken. Who would speak first? Me. It was me. I lost.

“I want to stop feeling all these…these…”

“Feelings?”

“Yes. Those.”

“Sorry. Feelings are part of being human. Be gentle with yourself now. It’s okay to cry or not cry, to laugh or not laugh, tobe angry or sad. Feelings aren’t the bad thing.” She said it like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Sure,” I said, slumping against the couch.

“How do you think Gil is feeling right now?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Have you reached out to him?”

“It didn’t seem like a good idea, especially with how he left.”

Sunny nodded. “What about a letter?”

“Maybe,” I said.

It turns out I did have a reason to send him a letter, about a month after he left.

Dear Gil?—

Hi. I’ve debated whether I should contact you, and Sunny (my therapist) said a letter was least confrontational. Not that I’m confrontational. At least not right now. Two weeks ago? Definitely.

I hope Mikey is doing well. Oliver misses him a lot. He talks about both of you all the time. Some days I think he’d happily trade me out for you two. He’s hoping Mikey will answer the letter he sent soon.

You never gave me the chance to thank you, so…thank you. It’s the most remarkable thing anyone has ever done for me. But sometimes, especially at night, I think about how unfair it all seems, and I get angry. At you, at me. But I guess that’s how life is. Ollie taught me a lot of things but especially that life doesn’t just stop when things don’t work out. Otherwise, you end up old and grumpy and alone.

You’ve probably already noticed the big cashier’s check in this envelope, and you might be wondering if I robbed a bank. I did not.

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