Forget (31 page)

“Okay, what’s your question?”

He moves around his bedroom, the camera jostling in uncoordinated movements. His little red table comes to view. It’s covered with pieces of pink construction paper and one purple crayon. “I’m tryin’ to make those hearts Millie told me you used to make when you was a kid like me.”

I blink back the tears trying to drown my eyes.

“You’s used pink and purple, right?” He shouts, the camera still pointed at the table.

“Yeah, buddy, that’s what I used. Pink paper and a purple crayon.”

“Awesome.” He drags out awesome for a good ten seconds. “So how’s I supposed to cut out the hearts? I can’t use no scissors. My mommy would beat my ass.”

“I’m pretty sure mommy wouldn’t like you to use that word, buddy.” I laugh, knowing full well Ember has probably spouted that line a time or two, mostly when Teddy has pushed her to the breaking point. I don’t have any kids, but I’ve seen what my nephew is capable of. Curse words are a given when you’re a parent.

“Whoops! I’s forgot!”

“Why don’t you ask mommy to cut the hearts out?”

His cute face is looking back at me. “Because I wanna surprise her. She’s been kinda sad. I wanna make her smile.”

So much for holding back the tears . . . I scrub a hand down my face, attempting to hide them. Dylan gives my free hand a reassuring squeeze. I hold his hand with a tight grip, needing some of his strength. It helps.

“How about you just draw a heart, buddy? Would that work?”

He nods, enthusiastically, but then his face falls seconds later. “I’m not good at drawing hearts.”

“You know that wooden heart mommy has sitting on the bathroom sink?”

“Yep.”

“Go get that, set it on the paper, and then trace around it with your purple crayon.”

“Hold on! I’s be right back!” He sets the phone down, and I hear his footsteps run out of his room. He’s back in lighting fast time for a four-year-old, and proudly holding up the heart. “Here it is!”

“Perfect.”

“I’s gonna give the heart to mommy when I feed her lunch.”

“You’re making lunch for her today?”

His smile is bright, full of pride. “Yep! I gots a marshmallow and butter sandwich in the kitchen for her. And a juicebox. Don’t worry, I used a spoon to put the butter on the bread.”

“Teddy, you’re definitely going to make mommy smile today.”

“Yes!” He fist-pumps. “I gonna go, Auntie Brooke! Bye!”

In typical four-year-old style, he ends the call before I can say bye.

I miss him like crazy and feel awful that Ember is sad, and I’m here in Paris.

Dylan scoots my chair closer to his, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “You okay, love?” he whispers into my ear.

I nod, still trying to fight back the tears.

He turns towards me, pulling me in for a tight embrace. The dam bursts, and I burrow my face into his chest, trying to hide my sobbing state from everyone around us.

His hand rubs my back softly. “Don’t worry, Little Wing. No one can tell you’re upset. They probably think I’m just trying to cop a feel,” he says softly into my hair.

Grinning through my tears, I say, “Thanks, Bright Eyes. You’re the best.”

“Of course I’m the best, but I have a feeling the four orgasms I gave you today have more to do with that response than this hug.”

“Five, actually, but who’s counting, right?”

“Damn, I really am the best. I say, we get the bill and head back to my flat. I think we can do better than five.”

I giggle, leaning back and wiping away the remnants of tears. “Cool it on the fuck-me eyes, Romeo. The queen needs a break.”

Dylan grins.
The bastard,
he’s even got me using the nickname.

“What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing,” I say, but Dylan’s response of, “The Queen,” is louder than mine.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to meet her!” Lindsay exclaims, eyes bright, and elbows resting on the table.

“She’s pretty damn spectacular, but I may be biased,” Dylan adds, grinning.

“I used to fantasize about her as a teenager. Christ, I bet she’s a wildcat once you get past that prim-and-proper exterior,” Jesse joins in.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” I mumble

Dylan is laughing beside me, and I’m scanning the room for our waiter. God only knows where this conversation will go.

“I was
obsessed
with her when I was a kid. The whole idea of her and—”

“Let’s get the check!” My voice startles an older lady at the table behind us. “L’addition s’il vous plait!” I shout towards the waiter. He eyes me with annoyance, but strides our way, and sets the bill on the table.

“What’s the rush?” Lindsay asks, watching me rummage through my purse for my wallet.

“No rush, I’m not rushing. Does it look like I’m rushing?”

“It looks like you’ve got crazy eyes,” she muses. “And you’re trying to run out of here like your ass is on fire.”

“I’ll take that.” Dylan swipes the check from my hand.

“Okay, crazy, what’s on our agenda today?” Lindsay asks.

“Père Lachaise,” I answer, relieved by the subject change. I mean, my pussy,
the queen,
is great and all, but I’d much rather focus on something else.

“Jim Morrison’s grave?” she questions, grinning.

I nod. “You bet your sweet ass.”

She slams her hands on the table, standing up. “All right, let’s do the damn thing.”

10 years old and in Millie’s kitchen

“YOUR HEART DESERVES A
smile.” Millie read the words aloud, her eyes scanning the construction paper hearts strewn across the kitchen table. “Well, isn’t that sweet, Lilah Belle.”

I sighed
. Ugh. Lilah Belle.
I preferred Brooke, but my grandmother favored the nickname. My full name, Delilah Brooke Morning-Rain Sawyer, wasn’t any better. It was a mouthful, especially for a ten-year-old. That’s why I liked Brooke; it was simple, easy to spell, and I could write it on my homework without wanting to throw my number two pencil.

Obviously, my mom and dad didn’t think the whole name thing through, but they were kind of weird. Millie called them “free-spirited hippies.” They had traveled all over the country with their friends since they were eighteen, and even stayed on the move after Ember and I were born. My parents’ income came from selling candles and jewelry and whatever else my mom crafted at flea markets. Not exactly a great life for kids. The fact that the state of Colorado took my little sister and me away from our parents when I was nine years old was proof of that horrible fact.

She held a pink heart in her hand. “What are these for?”

“To make people’s hearts smile.” I kept my focus, my eyebrows scrunching as I wrote h-e-a-r-t in purple crayon. The idea for these hearts came to me while I was daydreaming in Mrs. Franklin’s class. I couldn’t wait to get home. The minute I walked through the front door, my backpack hit the floor, construction paper and crayons were removed from my desk drawer, and I got busy at the kitchen table, not even bothering with my usual after-school snack of apples and peanut butter. I lost my appetite after seeing Laura’s sad eyes at lunch.

She chuckled, smacking her dishtowel on my arm. “Well, I can see that, but how are you going to do it?”

“I’m just going to do nice things to make someone’s heart smile, to make someone happy.” I shrugged. It seemed simple enough to me. My fingers clasped the purple crayon, proudly dotting the i and crossing the t. I glanced up at my grandmother as I slid the heart into the finished pile and grabbed another.

She was hovering, which was no surprise, Millie was a busybody. “Honey, you’ve got your grandmother more than curious.” She motioned her hand. “Give me some examples.”

I set my crayon down. It was hard being a kid with a nosey grandmother, especially when you were on a mission to finish fifteen construction hearts before dinner. “I’m just going to do nice things for people who seem sad or need help. Could you help me with some of the things I wanna do?”

“Of course,” she said with a smile. Her voice was soft and warm, like chocolate chip cookies.

My heart grew inside of my chest. “Well, there’s a girl in my class who never eats lunch. I think her parents forget to pack her food. And today, Laura looked so sad . . .” I paused, recalling what Millie said during our shopping trip last week. “Being sad about something or scraping your knee on the playground are examples of pain, right?”

Her head tilted to the side. “Yeah, they are . . .”

“And everyone’s pain has a color?”

She nodded. “Yes, Lilah Belle, everyone’s pain has a color. That’s why certain things or places can remind us of hurtful memories.”

“Just like
pink polka-dots?
” Even the words tasted awful.

She put her hand over mine. “Just like pink polka-dots.”

I didn’t know a heart could frown until I saw a bathing suit with pink polka-dots hanging from a rack. They filled my head with ugly thoughts, the kind of thoughts which were hard to erase.

I never wanted to see pink polka-dots again.

“So do you need my help with something for the girl in your class?”

For once, I liked my grandma’s nosey questions. They were better than ugly thoughts and frowning hearts.

I nodded. “I want to bring an extra lunch tomorrow. I’m going to put one of these hearts inside, and then, when Laura isn’t looking, I’m going to sneak it in her cubby.”

“I think that’s a really nice idea, honey. Tomorrow morning, I’ll make sure I have two lunches packed and ready to go.”

“Make sure to write
Brooke
on one and Laura on the other,” I added, emphasizing my name. Last week, she wrote Lilah Belle on every bag . . . talk about embarrassing.

She snorted a laugh. “All right, honey.” Millie turned towards the stove, but then stopped, and faced me again. “I have one more question. Why don’t you want Laura to know it’s from you?”

“You always said it was better to whisper our kindness than shout it from the rooftop.”

Millie stayed quiet, blinking several times. Her eyes glistened underneath the kitchen light. She mopped twice at her face and then smiled. “Brooke, you truly are one of a kind. I’m so proud that you’re my granddaughter.” She held out both of her arms. “Now stand up and give me a hug.”

My heart felt like it grew bigger again. I hopped up from my chair and hugged my grandmother with every ounce of strength my arms could manage.

Nobody gave hugs better than my Millie.

“That big heart of yours is a gift.” Her arms squeezed me tighter. “Never lose it, honey. Even when it gets you in trouble, which it will, don’t let anything turn you bitter. One day, someone really special is going to need all the kindness your big heart has to give.” She kissed my forehead.

“Get me in trouble?” I didn’t understand. How could kindness cause anyone trouble?

Her hand brushed a lone curl behind my ear. “Just remember . . .
de plus grandes la capacité pour aimer, plus grands la capacité sentir la douleur.
”

I rolled my eyes. Millie had made it her life’s mission to teach me French. She often tested my skills by tossing out French phrases here and there, just to see what I could understand. “En anglais s’il vous plaît.”

“Parfait!” She clapped her hands. “Maintenant, vous faites mon coeur sourire.”

“Sourire coeur?” I tested the words. “Heart smile? I made your heart smile?”

Millie grinned, nodding in my direction.

I loved seeing that proud look on her face. “Okay, now tell me what you said before that?”

“I said, the greater the capacity to love, the greater the capacity to feel the pain.” She brushed her fingers through my curls one last time, before moving back towards the kitchen counter.

I sat back down at the table in a daze as I silently repeated her words. Even though I didn’t understand their meaning, I committed them to memory. I had a feeling I’d need those words someday.

Her elbow moved up-and-down as the large knife chopped vegetables in smooth, easy slices. “Lilah Belle, one day, when you’re much older, you will visit Paris, and it will change your life,” she said over her shoulder.

Every time I’d ask why she loved Paris so much, she refused to give me an answer. Millie would only respond with, “Just promise me you’ll go.” If she gave me a dollar for every time I made that promise, I’d have a lot of dollars, probably enough to visit her favorite city. “How old were you when you went to Paris?”

She set the knife down, turning in my direction and resting her hip on the counter. A faraway look overcame Millie’s face as she stared towards the window above the sink. Her outer space face, I called it. If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was focused on something outside, but I knew better, my grandma was lost in her thoughts. Her fingers toyed with the necklace hidden underneath her white blouse, the charm sliding across its chain in a whisper. I watched in fascination as the necklace worked its magic, each back-and-forth motion slowly erasing the sad creases around her eyes.

She rarely took that necklace off, but when she did, I’d sneak into her bedroom and try it on in front of her mirror. The circle charm had three French words, and the prettiest flowers I’d ever seen. Blue petals and green stems, Millie called them forget-me-nots, but I re-named them fairytale flowers. Their magic filled my head with daydreams of springtime and sunshine and happy things.