The Day Before (6 page)

One year, six months ago

Dear Amber,

I want to share something a reporter asked me recently, and my answer, because it occurred to me that you may be wondering the same thing.

He asked, “Are you trying to replace one daughter with another?”

I told the reporter, absolutely not. No one can take Charlotte’s place. She was our daughter, the girl we loved and raised. The girl with the beautiful smile and the sparkly aqua eyes. The girl who loved the stage and dreamed of being an actress. The girl who loved animals and decided to become a vegetarian when she was eight. She was the light of our life. When we learned we weren’t her biological parents, it didn’t change how much we loved her.

But ever since we discovered you’re out there, we’ve felt like something is missing. Like a piece of ourselves is missing. I’m sure your parents feel the same way, but unfortunately, they don’t have the chance to get to know their other daughter like we do.

We weren’t able to have any more children after Charlotte was born, although we wanted to. But now, we have the opportunity to get to know you. The opportunity to love you!

We know you can’t take Charlotte’s place. No one can. Still, Amber, we are family. For better, for worse, you are connected to us.

We want you in our life, because family is everything.

Love,
Jeanie and Allen

no choice

My parents
didn’t fight it.

The financial
and emotional
stress
that an appeal
would bring—
they couldn’t
fight it.

“It’s not that long
until you’re eighteen,”
Dad told me.
“Hang in there
until then.

You can choose then.”

Not now.
Then.

My friends
always want to know
what I think about it.

Reporters have asked me
how I feel about it.

Like it matters.

It doesn’t matter.

The decision’s been made.
I’m going.
End of case.
End of story.

Except it’s not.
Not for me anyway.
For me, it’s just the beginning.

where’d that come from?

Cade doesn’t say any more.
He doesn’t ask any more.
We made a deal, after all.

It’s a funny thing, though.

Part of me wishes he would.

lucky me

My bag
is still open.

I reach for my camera.

“Can I take your picture?” I ask him.
“Next to the castle?”

He gets up,
offers me his hand,
and I take it.
I stand.

I start to pull my hand away,
but he
doesn’t
let
go.

Oh my God,
is this really happening?
It feels like a stingray
is swimming around
in my stomach.

With his other hand
he reaches into his pocket
and takes out the
lucky penny.

“Heads, you can take it.
Tails, you can’t.”

He flips it
high in the air
and lets it land
on the sand.

We bend down
to see what Chance
has to say.

Heads.
Hallelujah, it’s heads.

Except,
he has to let go
of my hand
so I can take the picture.

Still, I want it.

I want to remember
the amazing castle
I made with the boy
who seems to get
more amazing
by the minute.

more than just pictures

Mom gave me
a camera
for my birthday.

I take pictures,
print them,
and put them in scrapbooks,
where I write notes
and draw art
on the pages.

For each page,
I cut and paste
pieces of my heart.

In the coming months,
I will hold on to
those pieces,
even when it feels like
there’s no part
of my heart

left.

spooked

After I take Cade’s picture,
he stares at our beautiful
sand creation
for the longest time.
Like he sees ghosts
hiding there.

I leave him alone
and go to work
covering my feet
and legs with sand.

Soon he marches across the castle.

No more towers.
No more walls.
No more staircase.

I get it.

Sometimes
you want to remember.

And sometimes
you need to forget.

tell me your story

Many times
when I read a book,
I want to savor
each word,
each phrase,
each page,
loving the prose
so much,
I don’t want it
to end.

Other times
the story pulls me in,
and I can hardly
read fast enough,
the details flying by,
some of them lost
because all that matters
is making sure
the character
is all right
when it’s over.

This day
is like the best
of both kinds
of books.

I want to cherish
each moment and yet,
I’ve got to know
that this character
named Cade
will be okay
when this story
ends.

sinking

“Cade?”

He glances my way,
then walks toward
the ocean.

Did I see the start of tears?

I run after him.
“Hey.” I grab his arm.
“Are you okay?”

I pull on him
so he’ll stop.

“You can talk to me,” I tell him.
“Please?”

He’s quiet for a minute.
His eyes are on the water
before they turn toward me.

“You should go,” he says.
“Go and have your fun day.
I’ll just ruin it.”

It’s like he’s tied an anchor
to my heart and I can feel it
dropping
down,
down,
down
to the bottom of my stomach.

“No. Hey, come on.
You aren’t ruining anything.
I’m sorry.
You don’t have to tell me anything.
Come on. Let’s go make more fun.”

Cade’s eyes seek out the ocean again,
like he’ll find the answer there.

So I stand there and wait,
hoping the crashing waves
and the crying gulls
will drown out the voices
in his head.

Except for mine, of course.

whatever it takes

Finally
I get my answer.

He takes my hand,
and we head back
toward our piece
of driftwood.

We go slowly,
and I wait—
for whatever
he might want to tell me.

“No more pictures, okay?”

His voice is soft.
Sad.
I want to wrap my arms
around him and tell him
everything will be all right,
even though I don’t
know
anything.

I simply nod.

At least I have one.

One picture will have to be enough.

Just like
one day
will have to be
enough.

yes, it’s really me

When I put my camera away,
he sees my drumsticks.

He takes them out.
Looks them over.
Looks me over.

“You?” he asks.
“Really?”

I shrug.

He gives me
the biggest smile yet.
“Man, tonight, we have to—”

He stops.
“Never mind.
I don’t want to tell you.
I’ll show you.
Later.”

And when he says, “Later”
I want to do cartwheels
across the beach
because that means
he’s not getting rid of me
anytime soon.

our next destination

I ask
for the penny.

“Heads, Otter Crest.
Tails, Yaquina Bay Lighthouse.”

Chance tells us
we’ll be going
to see the lighthouse.

I’m not sure
if the actual lighthouse
is open to the public.

But we can look at it.
Admire its beauty.
Appreciate its grandness.

There is something
comforting
about a lighthouse.

In the dark of the night,
hold on to the light,
and you’ll get
back home safely.

I need a personal lighthouse.

One year ago

Dear Amber,

I keep wishing you’d write to us. I would love to hear from you—to know what you’re thinking. I hope you’re not too upset with us for continuing to pursue a relationship with you.

I know it may seem odd that I keep writing to you when I haven’t heard anything back. What can I say other than I’m not ready to give up quite yet. We have a lot of love in our hearts and want to be able to share it with you.

I thought in this letter, I might tell you a little about Texas. You won’t find a nicer bunch of people than those in our town of Sweetwater, that’s for sure.

The weather’s warm in the summer, warmer than Oregon. For fun, Allen enjoys golfing as there are some beautiful golf courses here, and I’m involved ina couple of clubs—a book club and a bridge club.

Sweetwater’s our home, and we look forward to sharing it with you, and making it your home, too. You may be wondering how we ended up here after living in Oregon, so I’ll tell you the story.

Allen and I met at Western Oregon State College, where we were both pursuing degrees in education. We stayed in Oregon after we got married, because we both found work easily, and we liked the climate. However, after Charlotte was born, I felt a strong desire to move back to Texas, where I’m originally from. I wanted to be closer to my family and for Charlotte to know her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, and her cousins. Mostly, I wanted her to grow up knowing she was surrounded by people who love her. So after Charlotte turned two years old, we moved to Texas. And we’ve been here ever since. What a blessing it was to be here, with loved ones close by, when she became ill.

If we’re granted shared custody, you’ll get to see for yourself what a wonderful place Sweetwater is.

I pray for that every day.

Love,
Jeanie and Allen

not all that sweet

Sweetwater, Texas?

Where football is king
and country music is queen?

They might as well
be sending me to Mars.

through death you appreciate life

In Cade’s car
I flip through
his CD case
filled with
life and love
and everything in between,
looking for something
to listen to on the ride
to the lighthouse.

Plans, by Death Cab for Cutie,
catches my eye, since it’s sticking out
a little farther than the others.

Cade glances at the CD.
“Oh, no,” he says.
“Not that one.
Not right now.”

“Oh, yes.
Yes, yes, yes!
I Will Follow You into the Dark is amazing. Brilliant.
I want to hear it.”

When he stops
at a red light,
he turns and looks at me.

“Do you know what it’s about?
The CD? Do you know what every
single song on there is about?”

I admit, I don’t.
I’ve never listened
to the whole thing,
just the few tracks
I’ve downloaded.

“It’s about death.
Death and dying.
Mortality and how to cope with loss.”

“Really?” I ask.
“All of it?”

“All of it.”

I put it in.

Because now
I’m curious.

don’t think the worst

I ask if Cade’s
ever written a song
about death.

“A few,” he replies.
“Okay, more than a few.”

“So you get it,” I say.
“It’s mysterious.
We have lots of questions, and we
want to understand.
Music helps with that.”

“Music helps with everything,” he says.

“True.”

And as Ben Gibbard’s
vocals reach
into our souls,
grabbing and
shaking the
shit out of them,
Cade says,
“It’s sad.
And for one day,
one damn day,
I don’t want to feel that.”

His jaw is tight.
He grips the steering wheel
as he stares at the road ahead.
I study him.
Something about what
I see in his eyes,
his face,
his body language,
scares me.

It makes me wonder
if death or the thought of death
or even the wish of death
has been chasing him.

Is he running
from something?
I remember what he said.

I love the ocean so much,
I would live and die at sea if I could.

Or
running to
something?

No.
I have to believe
this day is about living,
not dying.
For both of us.

I tuck the scary
thoughts away,
just like the CD—
back where they belong.