P.S. I Miss You Read online

  I didn’t see your stomach first, even if Mom and Dad were afraid everyone else would. You were only going to have that belly for nine months, and then it’d all be over. Just a blip of time we could forget about. It could even be over now. Your baby might already be born.

  I’m afraid Mom and Dad will never forget about it, though.

  That years from now, the baby will be out, but the sin will still be there.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 13TH

  Dear Cilla,

  It’s five days past your due date now. I read online that lots of people have their first baby late, but usually not more than ten days. So I bet you’ll have her soon.

  I’m glad you found out her sex before you left. It made her more real to me.

  But she’s actually going to become real real soon. She’ll be a person, not just an idea living inside of you. She’ll have teeny-tiny little toes and crescent-moon fingernails and peach-fuzz hair. Or lots of hair. Or no hair at all.

  She could look like you or she could look like Alex.

  She could even look like me.

  That’s so weird.

  I wonder if it’ll hurt to have the baby. We started a puberty unit in health class this week and Mr. Quimby showed us diagrams of male and female bodies. No one believed a baby could come out of a grown woman. It seems impossible. And you’re not even a grown woman yet. Or are you? Do you automatically become a grown-up when you become a mother? Or when you get pregnant?

  I still can’t believe that you’re going to be a mom. I’ll be an aunt. Will I still be an aunt after you give the baby away?

  I wonder if once you see her, you’ll wish you hadn’t decided on adoption. Or if you’ll wish you’d married Alex after all.

  I don’t think I could give a baby up. It’s not like when I was little, and you gave me your stuffed elephant and didn’t ask for it back. When you give a baby up, you can’t take it back. No matter how much you miss it.

  Miss her.

  I bet you’ll miss her lots. Because you wanted her at first. So did Alex. I wonder if he still does.

  I remember how after your fight with Alex, you cried for three days straight. You told me that he wanted to keep the baby and raise it away from Mom and Dad. You told me that you loved him but you were scared.

  Then he got angry at you for worrying about what people would think.

  Then you got angry at him.

  Then I didn’t see Alex anymore. I didn’t see happy Cilla anymore, either.

  Before, we gushed over little frilly pink dresses and those cute little knit hats with the pom-poms on top. We talked about making baby food and finding day care. You talked about breastfeeding. (I ignored that part.)

  After, you didn’t gush at all. You didn’t smile much, either. You started talking about adoption. You stopped talking about where to put the crib and started talking about what colleges you wanted to apply to. You replaced “baby” with “Broadway” and “boarding school.”

  I never knew if you really wanted all that stuff, though. It sounded like Mom and Dad’s words were filtered through you. Because you looked scared when you talked about your future. You looked lost.

  You looked homesick, even though you hadn’t left yet.

  You told me that if you didn’t give her up, the baby was going to derail your life. But what if it could have been the complete opposite? What if she could have added to it? What if your fear stopped you from finding out?

  I can still picture her here.

  She fits. Just like you did.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. When Mr. Quimby showed us the diagram of the male body in health class, Danny Donato yelled out that it was gross. Then Mr. Quimby made us yell out the body parts at the top of our lungs. He said it was “so we could become comfortable with human anatomy.” Maggie said that her class was in the middle of a spelling test when they heard all of us scream out, “Penis!”

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 14TH

  Dear Cilla,

  This week in language arts we talked about description. Mr. Barrett says it’s important to make sure that when we describe things in a piece of writing, we appeal to all of the five senses: sight, smell, sound, taste, and touch.

  We’ve been describing things in our writing journals all week. I described Mom’s vegetable garden and the Jesus statue in front of church. Today I wrote one about June:

  June’s skin is dark, like the night without stars. But the stars are in her eyes, those bright twinkling orbs. Her forehead is clear and smooth, unlike mine, which is scattered with pimples. She wears two earrings in each ear, one a golden circle and one a diamond stud. Her laugh is sometimes tinkly like a bell and sometimes snorty like the funniest thing ever. Both laughs are equally awesome.

  I threw it away after class, though. I didn’t know if I should use the word “awesome” in a class assignment.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15TH

  Dear Cilla,

  It’s baby time! Mom got the call from Aunt Maureen an hour ago. You’re having a baby today! (Or tomorrow. I’m not sure how long these things take.) Either way, you’re going to be a mom!

  I’ve decided that even though you’re giving the baby up, you’ll still officially be a mom. A grown-up. I still haven’t decided whether I want you to tell me all about what happened (what’s happening now!) after the baby’s out of you. It’ll either be totally cool or totally disgusting.

  Mom and Dad are packing their suitcases now. I didn’t know they were planning on going down for the birth, but I guess it makes sense. You’re still their daughter. They should be with you right now. They want to be with you, too. I can hear them rushing around upstairs.

  I argued that I should join them, but Mom and Dad do not agree. I begged and pleaded and promised them I’d do the dishes every single night for the rest of my life, but they still didn’t change their minds. Not even when I said I’d dry the dishes, too. And you know how much I hate drying the dishes.

  Aunt Megan is staying with me instead. I haven’t seen her since before you left, when she was about to leave on a business trip to Italy. She told me she’d send me a postcard and a present, but didn’t send either.

  (I guess this whole “not writing to Evie” thing runs in our family.)

  Not that I cared. I didn’t really want an I LOVE ITALY T-shirt. But it’d be cool to show it to people, to know that even if I’ve never been anywhere exciting, that people related to me have. And that they think about me while they’re there.

  I wonder if you’re thinking about me now. I wonder if you’re in pain. I bet I could help you. I’d tell you funny stories. I’d watch cheesy reality shows with you to pass the time. I’d hold your hand, even though I bet you’d squeeze it so hard my fingers might break. That’s what always happens when people have babies on TV.

  I just heard the door slam. Now I hear Aunt Megan’s voice. She’s here already! That must mean the baby’s close.

  I can’t wait to hear what happens! Maybe once the baby’s out of you, Mom and Dad won’t think of you as a sinner. Maybe the sin will be washed away, kind of like what’s supposed to happen in baptism.

  You’ll be clean.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 16TH

  Dear Cilla,

  I wonder if you’re in labor still. I wonder if you got to hold your baby before they took her away. I’m wondering a lot of things, because I have no idea what’s going on. Mom called this morning, but Aunt Megan hung up before I got a chance to talk. She said Mom and Dad would talk to me when they get home.

  I needed something to distract myself after church (otherwise I’d be thinking about you all day long), so I went over to June’s house. She invited me! She probably would have invited Katie and Maggie, t
oo, but they were at this drama class at the community center. They wanted me to take the class, too, but I forgot to sign up in time.

  I was okay with hanging out at June’s, though. Her house is small, but it’s only her and her mom. Her dad died when she was little. June told me all matter-of-factly, but I still didn’t ask any more questions. That would have been way rude.

  June’s mom was meeting with a client (she’s a graphic designer), so we grabbed a box of granola bars and some waters and went up to June’s room. Which is THE COOLEST ROOM EVER. The walls are bright orange, which sounds ugly but looks totally cool, like we’re on the surface of the sun or something. Then she has all these pictures of bright pink and yellow and green flowers on the wall. They’re not photographs, though. Or even paintings. They look like a mixture of both, like they could be on the wall of some modern art museum.

  June’s mom made them!

  After I stared around her room for about five minutes, we did a little homework. But only a little because it’s Sunday and we’re not that nerdy. Then we watched The Force Awakens. It was the hundredth time for both of us, but we still love it. We took turns pretending to be Rey and acted out the lightsaber fight at the end.

  It was fun. I like June. I mean, as a friend.

  When the movie was over, June said something weird. She said that Rey was cute. I didn’t respond for a few seconds because I didn’t know what to say. Katie and Maggie say that Joey’s cute all the time. Katie says that Ethan from our class is cute, too. They never say that girls are cute, though, even though I definitely notice stuff like that sometimes.

  It’s like how Mom says that actresses on TV are pretty. Or People magazine has that Most Beautiful People issue every year. It’s a fact. Some people are cute. Some aren’t.

  There’s nothing weird about that.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I miss you.

  P.P.S. When I got home after the movie, Aunt Megan was on the phone with Mom again. She still wouldn’t tell me anything, and now Mom and Dad won’t be home until early next week.

  P.P.P.S. You’d better be with them.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 20TH

  Dear Cilla,

  You weren’t with them.

  But you obviously know that.

  When Mom and Dad walked through the front door, Dad came in with their bags. Mom came in with an empty Coke bottle and a banana peel.

  They didn’t have you.

  They looked really tired. Mom was playing with her cross necklace, the way she always does when she’s upset. I knew they probably wanted to talk to me about why you weren’t home, but I didn’t give them the chance. I didn’t want to ask them why you were away at school, because that would mean you’d decided to stay away. Because if you really wanted to come home, you’d have fought harder.

  So I ran upstairs to my room and slammed the door. Then I turned on my music super loud—without earbuds, ha!—and pulled my covers over my head.

  I’m done writing to you. I’m only sending this letter so you’ll know that. If you want to talk to me, you’ll talk to me. You know where to find me.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. I don’t miss you.

  P.P.S. I’m using Saint Augustine’s address for this letter because Mom says you don’t have an e-mail address there. I checked the website, though, and all the teachers have e-mail. So does the “custodial specialist.” Is that what they call the janitor at your fancy new school? Whatever. You won’t write back anyway.

  P.P.P.S. Neither will I.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 2ND

  Dear Cilla,

  Okay, maybe I’m not done writing. Because I realized something today. Something that made my chest ache. Something that made me realize I’m not the only one hurting.

  I went over to June’s house again yesterday. I wanted her to come here, but Mom was sick. Really sick. She spent the entire day in her room with her door closed. When I asked her if I could go, she didn’t even answer me. She just groaned and sniffled.

  June’s aunt Ophelia was over, too. She was visiting with her baby, Nina, who was two months old. That’s why June moved here from California, so they could be closer to family. Nina has the teeniest fingers and the tiniest toenails and the cutest little upturned nose. Even though she’s so little, she has a ton of curly black hair. Aunt Ophelia had put a purple headband on her, too, to match her outfit.

  She smelled like baby powder and sugar cookies.

  Did your baby smell like that after you had her? How could you have smelled that and still given her up?

  Aunt Ophelia asked me if I wanted to hold Nina. I shook my head at first, but then she held her out to me. Nina wasn’t crying at all and she kept making gurgling noises, where these little spit bubbles popped out of her mouth. She was too cute to say no to.

  I pretended she was your baby. I even named her in my head: Anna.

  Hush little Anna, don’t you cry, Evie’s gonna sing you a lullaby.

  Aunt Ophelia was talking to June’s mom about labor. They called it “comparing horror stories.” It really was gross. Aunt Ophelia said she had been in labor for thirty-one hours with Nina. That’s more than a whole day! She said she was screaming nonstop the whole time. June’s mom’s story was totally different. She had June in a tub! Not in a regular bathtub, but in a special pool designed for having babies. June actually came out into the water. Isn’t that cool?

  I wonder how you had Anna. Or whatever you would have named her. I wonder how much it hurt.

  When her mom said all this, June made a face and pulled on my arm. “Mom, I do not want to hear all about your bodily fluids and my smooshy face again. Evie and I have work to do.”

  I gave Nina one more pat on the head (I made sure to watch out for her soft spot) and left. I could still smell her baby smell in June’s room. I was still calling her Anna in my head.

  I was crying before we even got to June’s room. When she asked me why, I started to make up some story about dust getting in my eye or having a sick grandma, but then I told her the truth. The real truth, not the fake truth that Mom and Dad forced me to tell everyone, even Katie and Maggie. And she was okay with it. She gave me a hug and squeezed me extra tight.

  The hug gave me little goose bumps, which was weird. I also kept thinking about how June had said that Rey was cute. But then I decided there was nothing weird going on. It’s just that I’ve never had such a good friend before.

  A little while later, I had to pee. June’s upstairs toilet was broken, so I had to use the one downstairs. I peeked in the kitchen as I walked by. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop; I just wanted to see the baby again. But Nina was sleeping in a sling around Aunt Ophelia, so I couldn’t see her face.

  I was surprised she didn’t wake up, though, because Aunt Ophelia was complaining really loudly. All this stuff about how she was sleeping like two hours a night and how she cried all the time. How hard it was to shower and how lonely she was when her husband was at work. Mrs. Reynolds squeezed her hand and mumbled a bunch of stuff I couldn’t hear, so I finally went to the bathroom.

  Hearing them made me realize something: for months now, I’ve been thinking about me.

  About me feeling alone in our house, with only Mom and Dad for company.

  About me not being able to talk to you.

  About me not getting to meet the baby before you gave her away.

  Here’s what else I realized yesterday, though: I forgot to think about you.

  You must be even lonelier than me.

  You must want someone to talk to.

  You must miss so many things:

  Your friends.

  Alex.

  Anna.

  Me, hopefully.

  Maybe you’re depressed, and that’s why you haven’t written back. I keep imagining you in a cavernous room in your creepy old school thinking no one loves you.

  I care. I love you.

  Love,

  Evie

  P.
S. Most of all, I miss you!

  P.P.S. Do you have a phone there? I know Mom and Dad took yours away after that first big fight, but isn’t there one in your room? Can you call and give me the number?

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 9TH

  Dear Cilla,

  Here’s something I thought of yesterday: maybe my letters weren’t getting through to you at Aunt Maureen’s. Maybe the mailman really couldn’t find her farm, just like Dad couldn’t on our road trip.

  So I’m going to hope you start writing back now that I’m writing to you at your new school. And I’m going to try to be nicer to you. More understanding.

  A better sister.

  Here’s the deal: you don’t have to come home. If you’re still ashamed you had a baby or you don’t want to see Alex or you’re scared of what your friends will say, that’s okay. You don’t have to come home for good.

  Can you just write back, though? Even once? Can you let me know you’re okay?

  Love,

  Evie

  P.S. Because I miss you.

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 15TH

  Dear Cilla,

  I saw Alex at the high school football game on Friday when I went with June. Well, I went with Mom and Dad (they’d signed up to sell tickets), but June came with us. We saw Alex when we were going to get food at the Snack Shack. June snuck a few handfuls of my popcorn (which her orthodontist had told her not to eat) and I snuck a bite of her hot dog. Mom wouldn’t let me get one since it was Friday. June’s mom doesn’t care about the “No Meat on Fridays” rule, though. Do you know why? It’s because June’s family is atheist!

  I’ve never known anyone who doesn’t believe in God before. I didn’t even think it was an option. God is real. Of course God is real. But when I asked June why she didn’t believe, she just shrugged.