Page 93 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
I was so scared. We all were. But then…it’s hard to explain exactly. I was terrified, but then, at a certain point, I felt calm, because I understood what was happening. And then I thought about you and how much I was going to miss you.
You weren’t mad at me?
She touches my face. I don’t feel it this time, though, because she’s not really here.Henry, the last thing I did on earth was tell you that I loved you. And I meant it.
I love you, too, Brynn.
I pull up in front of my house, put the Jeep in park, then just sit. It’s a few minutes after fivep.m.,but it’s freaking midnight-dark and cold out, and I’m sick of winter and the holidays and the fact that the Rodrigos still haven’t picked up their fallen lawn elf. It may have given Ian something nice to paint, but it’s getting on my nerves.
Okay, yeah, I’m probably not really mad at the weather or how the sun works or Omar and Amy, who are lovely neighbors. I’m mad, still, at Tim.
I haven’t read all four-thousand-whatever emails. But I’ve read enough of them to clearly see that my dead husband was at least a little bit in love with Lauren Maxwell.
“You fucker,” I tell the empty seat beside me.
For nearly a year, imaginary Tim has followed me around. He’s sat in that very passenger seat. He’s watched me get ready in my bathroom mirror. He’s hung out beside me at night while I try to sleep. Since the moment I figured all this out, though, he’s vanished. And even though I know he wasn’t there in the first place, that feels like a dick move.
Some of their emails were long, the kind you have to scroll multiple times to get through. Lauren Maxwell talked about her twodaughters, her troubled marriage to her husband, Mike, her career in education. Here are some random highlights:
Parenting girls is weird. I want them to be self-actualized and have fulfilling, meaningful careers, but I also know enough to know that they could sell pictures of their feet on the internet and buy beach houses.
I wish I could talk to him like I can talk to you. He’s just not a talker. I need a talker.
I can’t even remember why I became a teacher anymore. Do any of us remember?
Tim encouraged her. He told her that she was a wonderful mom, an inspiring teacher, and that Mike had no idea how lucky he was. That last one hurt, like Tim was insinuating that he was something other than lucky. As far as I’ve read, he never told Lauren Maxwell that she was beautiful or that he wanted to sleep with her or that he wanted them to run away together. These things, though, were hidden beneath implication, like in one email from three and a half years ago where she told him about how her physical therapist, some guy named Adam, had helped stretch out her irritated IT band. Somewhere in his three-paragraph reply, Tim wrote,By the way, lucky Adam.
The dumb, insignificant little emails, though, somehow, hurt just as bad. Tim asking her if she was going to a staff meeting and replying “Whew!” when she said yes. Or a long-standing inside joke about how the JV girls’ soccer coach looks like a serial killer but almost certainly isn’t. You hear about men leading double lives. Secret families in Canada, prostitutes, literal murders. This wasn’t any of those things, but itwasa secret, itwasintimate, and it hurts.
Speaking of dick moves. A few hours ago, as I sat in the office at Edgar Allan’s sifting through Tim’s computer, I hit the Reply button on one of Lauren’s emails. For maybe thirty seconds my fingershovered over the keyboard. My thinking was this: Tim may no longer be haunting me, but what if he—courtesy of me—hauntedhervia Gmail? The potential power of that—the fucked-up energy of it—was dizzying.
Ultimately, though, I deleted the reply and copied her email address into my own account. I wasn’t sure where to start. It wasn’t exactly an “I hope this message finds you well” situation. Then I realized I didn’t owe her the courtesy of anything.
Lauren: I’d like to talk to you. In person. I think you owe me that.—Grace
Across the street now, Omar steps onto his front landing to get an Amazon package. He waves, and I wave back.
Henry texted earlier that he’d be by to take care of the mousetrap.
Are you going to be around? Maybe we can hang out? Talk?
I told him okay but that I’d probably be at work. Hopefully he’s come and gone already because I don’t want to hang out with Henry right now. Aside from Ian and Bella, I don’t want to hang out with anyone. I want to get through these awful holidays. I want Henry to move to California. And I want to be left alone.
My heart races as I take my phone out of the cupholder. Gmail refreshes slowly, then I see a reply from Lauren, sent six minutes ago.
Hi, Grace. Just tell me when and where.—Lauren
Omar is out in his yard now. I watch as he lifts the elf back up to a standing position. He pushes down on its head, trying to secure it into the ground. Then, ten seconds after he goes back inside, the dumb thing tips over again.
I park on the street behind Grace’s car and check the neighbor’s décor. Normally it’d be funny to see that elf still face-planted in the yard, but I’m too nervous to enjoy it.
I have a little speech prepared. I started writing it in my mind earlier while the ER doc gently stitched my head closed, and I finished it just now on the ride over.
I open my car door and grab Cal’s and my old Nintendo 64.
As I trot through the cold toward Grace’s house, her front door opens and my insides lurch. It’s just Miss Nadine, though, zipping her coat and slinging her purse over her shoulder.
“Mouse Man!” she calls.
