This Is Not How It Ends(55)

When Claudia wasn’t around, Ben and I would revert to our casual friendship. I’d babysit for Jimmy when Carla couldn’t, and the three of us would sometimes go to the beach or a movie when the days were particularly hot. Jimmy was in the throes of his NAET treatments, and it was hard for Ben, or Carla, to keep up with the schedule and rules, so I became the warden, carefully monitoring everything he touched or tasted. I also became an emergency contact at Jimmy’s school. Ben tossed the document my way on a night we were barbecuing by his pool.

“Can you just sign this?”

“What is it?”

“Emergency contact form.” Ben had written my name next to his. For relationship it read Aunt. There was my mobile number and the line left blank for my signature, which certified that I would adhere to the rules and regulations governing the school.

“What does this even mean?” I asked.

He smiled at me. They were few and far between, but sometimes there was a rare glimpse of the person who tangled me up inside. “I don’t know. There’s carpool line rules, I think.”

I scribbled my name, joining me to Ben, and sat back in the lounge chair, watching Jimmy horse around in the pool.

Philip called, and I picked up. “Hey.”

“How’s my girl?”

“Fine.” I was in a one-piece red bathing suit with a matching floppy hat, and I thought about snapping a picture and sending it to him, but I didn’t want Ben to see. I’d been thinking about what to say to Philip, ways we might be able to fix things, but when I heard his voice, the list of concerns vanished. The push and pull confused me. He said the traveling was almost complete. He promised things would be better. I believed him. Until I watched Ben and Claudia, and I wished for more. When he was here and present, our situation seemed manageable. When he was away and absent, the cracks revealed themselves. I couldn’t keep up with the transient emotions.

He prattled on about Montreal and the view from his window. He described the things he’d be doing to me, and I fell madly under his spell. Closing my eyes, I envisioned us together and his breath beside me, instead of miles away. But when we hung up, it was Ben’s eyes peering into mine. Ben feeding me dessert with a cherry on top because he knew I loved the taste. Ben who unknowingly filled the space Philip left behind.



Dusk approached, and a line of clouds covered the sky. Jimmy said good night and headed to his room.

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Ben said.

“You come, too,” Jimmy called out in my direction.

I waited for Ben to leave Jimmy’s room, and then I entered. I sat on the floor next to the bed, and Jimmy told me what he was thankful for. It was something we’d started a while ago when his despair was as deep as the ocean. “Instead of focusing on the bad stuff,” I’d said, “let’s focus on the good. Because you know you have a lot of good, right, Jimmy?”

The first few times we’d played this exercise, he clammed up. He couldn’t think of one single thing that made him happy. Not one single thing he was grateful for. They were there, he just needed a guide. Soon he was naming things. The sunset. Throwing a baseball with his dad. Sunny’s wet nose. A girl at school named Dani.

And I made sure Ben played the game as well, to give Jimmy the things I couldn’t evoke: namely, the memory of his mother. That’s when I noticed the easel with a fresh piece of paper. I got up. “Jimmy! You did it! You started.”

There, beside the easel, was a photo of Jimmy with his mom. He was sitting on her lap and both her arms were wrapped around him. Their faces touched; Jimmy had her nose and lips. They looked so happy. I ached for the woman who wasn’t able to see her young boy grow up.

The lines on the paper were faint, but they were real, and I knew they weren’t there the day before. When Liberty had suggested pushing Jimmy to paint, I’d argued. “What Jimmy really needs is a therapist.”

“Jimmy needs love,” she said. “He’s getting it from Ben, he’s getting it from you. He’s getting it from all of us. He needs to paint, though. It’s the best way for him to work through his emotions.”

I had slowly begun the conversation about painting again. At first, I asked questions about the pieces in his room. Short answers became longer, and he began to open up, peeling the layers away. His talent was obvious. The goal was to get him to paint as though it were entirely his decision. Liberty had said, “Let him find his way. Not you. Not Ben. Not me. It’ll empower him.”

I almost cried when I saw that he’d picked it up again.

“I don’t think I’m very good at it anymore.”

“That’s baloney,” I said. “Utterly impossible. You’re very talented, Jimmy.”

“It’s hard,” he said.

I walked over to the bed and sat back down. “I know. But paint. Paint until it hurts. Take all those emotions inside and put them on the page. And eventually, I can almost guarantee it, it won’t hurt as much.”

“You think so?” he asked.

“I know so.”

“Thanks, Charley.” It was the first time he’d called me that, and I tried not to make a big deal of it.

“Now tell me something you’re grateful for today. Just today. Right now. This minute.”

He looked up and our eyes met. “I’m grateful for you.”