Forget (20 page)

Before I could tell her to take a break, she continued, “And because I know you’re a smart girl, and you won’t let that kind of love go. When you walk down the aisle and marry that perfect man—
who hopefully whispers beautiful French words in your ear
—I’ll be there.”

I laughed. Of course, she’d add the whole French bit. The woman had been convinced since I was sixteen years old that I’d find the man of my dreams in Paris and have a million of his beret-wearing babies.

She gripped my hand, her fingers felt too weak against my skin. “And when you have my second great-grand-baby? Because we both know Teddy needs a cousin, I’ll be there. Our bond is unbreakable, Lilah Belle—even death can’t stand in our way.”

I’m shocked by her words. “You say the falling in love part like I’m not already in love.”

Her eyes were tender as she held my questioning gaze. “You’re not in love, Brooke. Yes, you love Jamie, but you’re not in love with him.”

“Yes, I am,” I tried to say with conviction, but it lacked strength.

“
Brooke,
you don’t have to pretend with me. I’ve known since you were fifteen years old.”

I should have known Millie knew more than she let on. “I can’t keep any secrets from you, can I?”

She shook her head in three soft movements.

“How much do you know?” I asked, anxiety creeping into my voice.

“It doesn’t matter, I just know, okay? That’s all that needs to be said.” She was always so intuitive, always knew when to press for information, and when to let things go.

“Are you mad at me for lying?”

The soft sunlight filtering past the oak tree made her eyes sparkle. “No, honey, I couldn’t be anything but proud of you. Jamie is lucky he’s got you on his side.”

I didn’t want to let go of her. I
needed
her.

A shaky breath punched at my lungs. “I hate that I’m going to lose you.” My voice cracked. It was too much, too fucking much.

“You’re not losing me. I promise I’ll come back and bug the shit out of you when you’re being an idiot.”

I forced a smile against my tears.

“And, maybe, I’ll even . . .”

“Lord, help me,” I groaned. “If there is some crazy after-life where God lets you come back and visit, you’d better not screw with me.”

Her mischievous grin consumed her face. “Such a spoilsport.”

Even though tears dripped from my lids, I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Our heartfelt conversation had turned into Millie mocking my chicken-shit tendencies. I hated anything scary—horror movies, haunted house, pretty much everything relating to the paranormal.

God, I was going to miss her.

I doubted anyone or anything would be able to fill the aching void that had taken up residence in my chest. She was my Millie, the woman who raised me since I was ten. She had kept my ass in line while simultaneously giving me the freedom to spread my wings. Put up with me during my teenage years. Helped me with my homework. Made home-cooked meals, and taught my sister and me the importance of making time for the ones you love.

And she did it during a period of her life where raising kids should have been something that was already checked off her list. My grandmother filled the shoes my parents were incapable of filling. She gave us a home, a
real
home that was stable and safe from the ugliness I had seen. Millie gave us unconditional love, and because of that, our lives were drastically changed for the better. She was my angel.

Life was about to change again. Millie wasn’t going to be just a phone call away. She wouldn’t send me funny text messages. I wouldn’t get to drive her around town, listening to her tell stories about old Hollywood actors that she schmoozed with when she was young. I wouldn’t get to hear her ramble about her love for Paris. I wouldn’t get to hear her witty comebacks and have our Thursday night dinners. And I wouldn’t get to run to her when my life was a wreck, desperately needing her wise words.

The moment Mille took her last breath, it would all be gone.

Emotion clogged my throat.

If I already felt lost from the mere idea of losing her, how would it feel when she was gone?

“So, after you make good on my dying wish for a hot French guy to teach me about STDs and whisper sweet-nothings in my ear,” she said with a wink. “And
after
you sing
La Vie En Rose
to me, I need to give you something.”

I practically choked on my tears. “I think the drugs have gone to your head.”

“Although, over the past few months I’ve smoked a lot of grass in cancer’s honor, my mind is clear. It’s the clearest it’s been in days. So now is where you say,
Okay, Millie. I love you. Let me make some phone calls and get to work on one of your dying requests.
” She pulled the oxygen mask to her face, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

I shook my head in feigned exasperation. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that? I’m going to miss your crazy nonsense more than you could ever know.”

She lifted the mask from her face. “You just keep me around for my weed hookup.”

I threw my hands in the air. “It was one time! One time and only because you’re like the queen of peer pressure! If you weren’t eighty-two years old, and I hadn’t already graduated college, I would have sworn I was living a real-life, after-school special.”

Her giggles echoed inside of the mask, condensation fogging up the clear plastic.

“There is a box under my bed for you. Open it when you’re ready. And I need you to promise that someday soon, you’ll start living for you. No more surviving, no more putting everyone else first, I want you to do what Brooke wants to do. And Goddamnit, I want you to sing more. Your voice is too beautiful to keep all to yourself. No regrets. Okay?”

I smiled. Millie was always on my ass when it came to singing. I loved music, I loved creating music, but I wasn’t a fan of being the one in the limelight. Sure, I’d occasionally sing French songs for Millie and entertain my nephew Teddy with goofy lyrics, and sometimes, I’d even sing while I was in the studio to help an artist understand what I was suggesting, but I never got up in front of a crowd.
Never.
It caused too much anxiety for me. Standing on stage, with the bright lights in my direction, made me feel too bare, too vulnerable.

“I promise I’ll be able to say,
Non, Je ne regrette rien.
”
No, I regret nothing.
I responded with the name of her favorite French song. It was just barely ahead of
La Vie En Rose.

I saw her smile behind the oxygen mask she held in front of her face, giving her lungs another much-needed break. I gave her a few minutes, taking my time grabbing my guitar from my bedroom.

Once I made my way back to Millie’s bedside, I sat on the edge of the bed and adjusted the guitar in my lap. This moment was painfully bittersweet. I knew it was probably the last time I’d play for her. My heart ached from the finality of it. I hated that this felt like goodbye, but I knew I needed to savor this time. One day, in the too near future, I’d need comfort from the memories moments like this created.

“I need to say one more thing, and then I’ll play, okay?”

She nodded slowly, her brow raised in curiosity.

“You changed my life, Millie, mine and Ember’s. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know where we would be. You filled so many voids in my life. You were my mother, my grandmother, and my best friend. Thank you for everything. Thank you for loving me.” I cleared the emotion from my throat.

One small tear slipped down her cheek. She mouthed, “I love you, Lilah Belle.”

“I love you too,” I mouthed back. I wanted to breakdown. I wanted to sob like a baby, but I steeled myself, staying strong for her.

Taking a deep breath, I relaxed my shoulders and focused on my guitar. My pick strummed across the strings, and the first chords of
La Vie En Rose
filled her bedroom.

Millie rested her head on the pillow, her frail body relaxing into the bed.

I closed my eyes, sang the lyrics, and for once, I didn’t sing softly, I sang to be heard. I let my voice serenade my favorite person in the entire world, knowing this was my last opportunity.

When I reached the chorus, my eyes glanced down at her, soaking her up. She looked beautiful, eyes closed, and a soft smile cresting her mouth. Her presence radiated peace. It was the most relaxed I’d seen her in days.

I knew it was the song itself that gave her comfort. Of course, Millie loved to hear me play, but
La Vie En Rose
had a special place in her heart. The words, the soft notes, always transported her mind somewhere else. I had a feeling it was somewhere very special, a time and place in her life when she really did see life in pink.

Dear me . . . Millie . . . the man on the fucking moon . . .

I still feel like an asshole as I sit here, writing whatever words flow through my head. And I feel like even more of an asshole because I’m still not sure who I’m writing this journal for. It reminds me of the year I spent in therapy after moving in with Millie.

Judi, the social worker who handled our case, insisted that therapy was necessary for me, not Ember, just me. Even after Millie became my legal guardian, and Judi knew I was in a loving and stable home, she still made therapy a mandatory requirement for my grandmother to maintain her full rights.

I often wondered what made her believe that I needed a therapist, and my little sister didn’t.

Maybe it was because Ember was so much younger than I was when everything went down?

Or maybe she saw signs?

I’ve always been one who wore my emotions on my sleeve. I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at hiding things as I’ve grown older, but I can only imagine what my ten-year-old eyes showed. Lord knows, there had to be signs. Hell, I’m sure there are still signs of the trauma my wonderful childhood bestowed upon me. (Thank you, Mom and Dad. Your awesome parenting skills have given me enough baggage and bullshit to last ten lifetimes.)

After one year, Millie let me stop therapy.

And since I never revealed anything that would raise a red flag, Judi didn’t push it.

From the moment I stepped into my therapist Annie’s office, I had sworn myself to secrecy.

Never say anything to her that would make Millie sad.

Annie often reminded me that whatever we talked about in our sessions remained between us, stayed within the tiny four walls of her office, but I refused to trust that. I refused to trust everyone besides my grandmother and my sister.

So after school, every Tuesday and Thursday, I’d sit with Annie, chatting about homework, my little sister, and life with Millie. I only told her the good stuff, the happy stuff, the stuff worth talking about. Everything else stayed locked tight.

As a little girl, I imagined all of my secrets being pushed down inside a tiny glass bottle, and every day I’d push the cork further into that bottle, making sure all of the scary nights and horrible memories were hidden deep inside it, where no one could find them.

Millie used to search for that bottle.

When I was ten years old, I remember shopping with her for summer clothes.

It was a good day.

Millie, Ember, and I had walked every inch of the mall, laughing and enjoying the afternoon together. We stopped at a store with bathing suits in the window, and next thing I knew, we were inside looking through the racks. Millie said summers in Laurel Canyon were hot, and she was convinced that Ember and I needed something to swim in. I was happy, smiling even, and didn’t have a care in the world.

Until I caught sight of a two-piece with pink polka-dots. I hated that suit. I hated pink polka-dots. I hated everything the color and design represented.

I started to cry. I couldn’t catch my breath. I remember sliding to the floor and holding my hands tightly over my eyes. I wanted to scrub the pictures out of my brain, but they just kept flashing like a movie, playing on a loop. Playing and re-playing and then starting all over again.

It was a vicious cycle of smothering pink polka-dots.

A cruel rotation that choked me from the pain my nerves remembered.

Millie tried really hard that day to search for my secret glass bottle, but I didn’t let her find it. I was too scared for her to feel what I felt. No one should have to hear or see or even think about that kind of pain.

But my grandmother was so intuitive.

She just knew something wasn’t right. And Millie, being Millie, explained to me in the most perfect way that everyone’s pain has a color. That day pink polka-dots were added to my personal pain color spectrum.

And even at 26, I still haven’t worn anything with those spiteful fuckers.

I doubt I ever will.

Jamie is the only person I’ve ever told about Ivan. Not Ember. Not Lindsay. And not even Millie. He’s the only one that really knows what Ivan and pink polka-dots mean.

Millie, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I never told you the truth, but I don’t regret it.