She asked me once if it was love at first sight. Between her father and me, that is. I told her it wasn’t ‘cause it wasn’t. So she asked when I first realized I was in-love with him. It was one of those rare occasions when we were talkin’, really talkin’ about things other than the weather and her not-so-good grades. And I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t recall for the life of me when I first fell in-love with him. That’s strange you know. Most women remember down to the minute. They tell you what they was wearing and what he smelled like. He could tell you all that but not me. The details never mattered much to me. That day, when we was talkin’, she asked what time she came into the world. Couldn’t tell her that either. Sad, huh? A mother who don’t remember when her only baby was born. Most people think it’s a shame, but my mother never remembered things and I grew up not carin’ about the details.
I wish I could remember now. Maybe things would be different if I had told her those things. Maybe life wouldn’t be the way it is, so messy and stuff, but he was the one who cared about the details. Her daddy, that is. He could tell you what the first vegetable she ate was and the day she went off to school, kindergarten. They was close, you know, real close. People used to laugh and say he was her mother and I was the daddy. I never thought it was funny, but he sure did. He would laugh about it and smile all big at me. Annoyed me to no end. Wish I could hear his laugh now.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember the last time life had made sense. It had been six years ago, exactly three days before Jacob packed his bags and left Michigan. He had written their parents a note saying that he needed to find himself and would be in California until he did. There was no explanation in the note for why he suddenly felt so lost, but Brooke had known. Her parents had remained dumb to the truth since then.
“He died in a car accident,” she said opening her eyes, the image of Jacob’s goodbye letter dissolving.
Sand trickled from Jacob’s hands. He glanced at her. “I know. Mom told me when she called.” He returned to studying the beach.
“A drunk-driving accident. Some idiot ran the one light in town and hit Brad’s car. He was heading home from the supermarket because he had to go buy cold medicine for Raven.”
“I know it was a drunk-driving accident. Mom told me; that’s why I’m here,” Jacob said. He surveyed Brooke until she focused her vision on the lake. “Who is Raven? I thought he and Chelsea got married.”
“They did. Right after you left. Raven’s their daughter; that’s what they named her.” Brooke rolled her head to watch Jacob’s expression in the fading sunlight. His happy exterior from the airport had disappeared and a remorseful one replaced it.
“I always thought Chelsea wanted to name her daughter Stephanie or Deanna.” Jacob pulled his legs to his chest and embraced them.
Brooke shrugged her shoulders and tilted her head to the side. “She wanted to name the daughter she thought she was going to have with you Stephanie. When you left, she didn’t know what to name her, and then she and Brad got married and picked a name at the hospital right after the baby was born.”
Because these words are a larger piece of my heart then even I understand. Because stories, both fiction and non-fiction and of the monologue sort, are a part of my life mixed with the lives of others. Because words survive after everything else fades away.
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