Page 80 of More With You

“Go on…” It’s all I can say. I’m so confused.

“You must use it for your grandmother for the remainder of her life,” she replies: her voice shaky. “I did some investigating, which I know I should not have done. You are nothing like us, Summer, but you are better than all of us. I made assumptions that I had no right to. All you have endured in your young life—you were right, when you shouted at my husband; it would have crushed most people.”

I down half of my lemonade, trembling. “Investigating? I thought Levi told you all about me? All about my situation.”

“He seemed to have left out some important details. He was the one that suggested you be ‘relocated’ to Milwaukee and now it all makes sense. I didn’t know about your grandmother.” She bows her head like a parishioner at a confessional, “I’m sorry, Summer.”

I feel like I’ve walked into a parallel universe, or I took too many of my sleeping pills, and I’m having a fever dream. “So, that’s what’s changed?” I manage to rasp.

“Yes, the results of my investigation, for one. Secondly, my part in everything that we’ve both lost,” she says, after a lengthy pause. “I doubt I’ll ever sleep well again, knowing that my foolish, spiteful words were the last things he ever heard from me. Not only that, but that silly demand caused him to…” Her voice hitches and she hides her face in her hands, but she can’t hide the tremble of her shoulders. “I should have hugged him and held on so tightly and wished him all the love and happiness in the world. I should have done so many things. For all the years I have left, I’ll never forgive myself for telling him to take that awful motorcycle.”

I don’t know what to say. The devil on my shoulder wants to tell her that I won’t forgive her either, but the angel on my other shoulder, whispering in the voice of Grace, asks me to be kind. If I’d sent him away after our first big argument, when I learned about Grace, and he’d died on his way home… I couldn’t begin to imagine the pain of that. Cybil is breaking under the weight of it. I can see it through the polished, DuCate façade. And what sort of person would I be if I kicked someone while they were down, regardless of whether or not I’m right down there with them? Not the sort of person Grace or Ben would be proud of; that’s for sure.

“But there’s a third, connected reason,” Cybil straightens up, blinking as if she just had something in her eye. “And that is what I found at my son’s home,” she continues. “Paintings and post-it notes.”

“Pardon?”

She smiles. “Paintings of you and post-it notes, scrawled with such… poetic words about you. I saw them and it was as if I didn’t even know my son. I had no idea he had such powerful love in him, Summer. I suppose I did not want to see it.” Her smile fades and the tears she keeps battling so hard to fend off finally come trickling down her cheeks, streaking runnels in her foundation. “This is the least I can do for you, considering how happy you made him in his final…”

“Summer.” I fill in the missing word and crumble with her.

She nods, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Indeed. Thank you… my goodness, thank you for loving him.” She dabs frantically at her eyes and nose, smearing everything. “I am sorry for being such a… a… bitch!”

I’m stunned by the word, but there’s magic in it. Somehow, it cuts right through the density of our mutual grief; the shock value resetting something inside me, that turns my stifled sobs into full-on, rib-aching laughter. It’s the first time since Ben left, and there’s liberation in it. It’s like I’ve been wearing a huge backpack, filled with rocks and lead and dumbbells, and someone has finally gone, “Here, let me take that for you.” The weight rises up with my laughter, and I’m floating on the warm, salty breeze, buoyed up by the pure pleasure of feeling joy again.

And Cybil is laughing right along with me. She grips my hand tight, while smacking me playfully in the arm with her other hand, as she struggles to breathe through her hysterics. We must look insane, but neither of us care. We’ve both been through the worst thing that a wife and a mother can go through, respectively. We’re untouchable when it comes to the disapproving stares of other people, though only the blue heron is watching.

After a few minutes, our laughter simmers down to relaxed smiles, though she keeps hold of my hand.

“If you ever need anything else, please come to me,” she urges, wiping away the last few bittersweet tears. “I’d like to get to know you—the woman my son loved more than anyone, and the woman my granddaughter can’t stop talking about. One day, I hope you’ll forgive me for not giving you the respect and time you deserved, in the first place. And I pray that you’ll forgive me for taking him away. If I could change it, if I could reverse time, if I could switch places…” She trails off. We both know how the sentence ends.

I smile. “Maybe, the next time you go to the cemetery, we could go together?” I pause uncertainly. “I haven’t scattered his ashes yet, but I wanted to do it there. Would you… uh… want to scatter them with me? I know it’s a weird thing to ask but—”

“I’d like that,” she interrupts softly, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.

It’s an olive branch held in the beak of a dove after the thunderstorm that has devastated both of our lives, and I’ve recently learned that life is far too short to hold onto grudges. We don’t know when it’s going to be our time, but I know this… When my time does come, I want to have the kind of life that brings a sea of people to my funeral, instead of the kind where two people stand by awkwardly, waiting for it to be over.

THE END

“Summer!” Grace comes running, her fancy dress flying back like a superhero cape. She leaps into my arms, and I swing her around, listening to the therapeutic roll of her laughter.

Slowing, her legs wrap around me like a koala bear, and I hug her tight. “How are you, Baby Bear?”

“Great!” she cheers, twisting in my arms and pointing at the walls of The Chevalet. “Daddy did lots of painting! So many colors!”

I grin. “Do you like them?”

“I love them,” she corrects, kicking out her legs happily. However, she lowers her voice and gestures to one particular painting. “There are… naked ladies.”

My grin widens. “That’s okay. Naked ladies are beautiful. It’s called “artistic expression.” Can you say that?”

“Art…istic esspression,” she mimics.

I don’t tell her that the two nudes on the wall are of me, though I’m glad I selected the demurer ones. Some of the scenery is unmistakable, but they depict me from behind: in one, I’m sitting on the top step and leaning against the wooden pillar. In the other, I’m standing by the reeds at the bottom of my garden, illuminated forgivingly in the moonlight. It’s my favorite and, consequently, the only one not for sale.

Just then, Lyndsey walks up with two glasses of champagne in hand. “The woman of the hour!” She passes me a glass and I take it, shifting Grace to my hip. “It’s incredible, Summer. I just spoke with Justine, and she’s sobbing in the office.”

“What? Why?” I gasp, grateful I haven’t taken a sip of my celebratory bubbly yet.

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