I pick up the glasses of water and follow him. When we’ve all settled, Jasmine says, “So, if you get married, will I have to call you Grandpa or can I still call you Ben?”
“Married!” I cry. My cheeks flame.
“Well, if that ever comes about,” he says, winking at me, “you can keep calling me Ben.”
She swings her feet under her chair. “Good. It would be different if you were already around when I was born, but it would be strange to get used to calling somebody new Grandpa at this stage.”
I’m embarrassed and my laugh bursts out too loudly. “Because you are so old.”
Her expression is miffed. “I’m not a baby.”
“That is definitely true.”
She picks through the dark chips to eat first. “I heard you talking to Suze. About the bad guys.”
“You don’t have to worry about it. They’re a long way away.”
“They beat her up really bad, though, right? And put her in the hospital?”
For a split second I wonder how to answer this in a way that’s not even more traumatizing. “They did. But you see she’s fine now.”
“I don’t think she’s fine. I think she’s really sad in her heart.”
Ben takes a sip of water and raises his eyebrows my direction as if to ask permission. I give a faint nod. “You’re a good observer, Jasmine,” he says. “I think she’s got a lot to think about, and sometimes you have to be a little bit unhappy to get to the next place in your life.”
She looks away. “I never want to be unhappy.”
“I know. Me either. Unfortunately, everybody is sometimes.”
“But why?”
“Well, how would you know you were happy if you were never sad?”
Her look of recognition is so acute I have to stifle a chuckle. “I never thought of that!”
“It would all be the same and you wouldn’t be able to appreciate anything.”
She nods. “So Suze is unhappy so she can be happy in the end.”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been really sad?” she asks.
“Yes.” He puts his sandwich down and wipes his fingers. “Lots of times. But the worst one was when my wife died.”
I frown, worried that this is way too much information, but Jasmine seems undaunted. “Was it a car accident?”
“No. She died of an illness you get in hot places.”
“What disease?”
“Malaria.”
“I’ve heard of that. There’s also cholera, typhoid, and dengue fever.” Which she pronounces den-goo.
“Where do you get this stuff?” I ask.
“YouTube.”
I narrow my eyes. “You have a very curious mind, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
We eat for a while, listening to the ’70s pop station I have playing on the speakers.
Very quietly, Jasmine says, “I’m not moving to London.”
I let it go. Because of course she is. Just as I had to move when my parents divorced.
There are many things beyond our control, and the past years have brought that home more fully than any of us could have anticipated. I think of Dmitri, dying in a hospital alone, and Suze grieving him, and sitting by her bedside in LA after the attack, praying that she would live. I offered the universe all manner of things if they would save her—but the main one was that I would come clean. I still haven’t done that.
I’m afraid she’ll hate me forever.
THEN
SAVE YOUR TEARS
5/25/22
TO: [email protected] FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: happy birthday week Dear Suze,
It feels weird that we’re not celebrating each other’s birthdays this year. It’s a momentous one, right? I hate that we’re not talking right now. It feels lonely in the world without you. Jasmine has gone back to Portland for the summer and I miss her like a limb. It’s hard not to get attached, but I am more able to be generous with her than I’ve ever been with anyone. It’s easy to want the best for her and try to make it happen.
I was an asshole after my grandmother’s funeral. Can you forgive me?
Love,
Phoebe
[UNSENT]
September 7, 2022
Dear Phoebe, Weirdly, this is the anniversary of the day my dad tried to kill me. I mean, I don’t know that he really wanted to kill me, but he mostly wanted me dead my whole life. I wish I’d told you everything that summer, but I just didn’t know how.
I hate that we’re locked in this awful space where we said awful things to each other at the funeral. I’m sorry.