Page 57 of PS: I Hate You

And now I’m questioning my love of lavender. Did I come by the preference on my own, or was the scent something Itoldmyself I liked because when I was younger, I wanted to emulate Rosaline in all things?

Gritting my teeth, I turn my back on Dom so I can pull in a few calming breaths and remind myself that I was going to try not biting his head off every time I see him.

What happened between us was years ago, and I never plan to give him that power over me again. For these few short trips, I can pretend to be a mature woman. Possibly.

When I’ve got my temper under control, I ease the lid off the Rubbermaid and face toward the west, where the sun has disappeared beneath the horizon, but some of its light still remains.

“I hopeyouenjoy the scent,” I say to my brother, then glance at Dom, giving him the chance to say something, too.

His eyes are on my hands as I cradle the container. “I think he did,” Dom murmurs. “And now he always will.”

Josh’s ashes spill out and mix into the lavender breeze.

Chapter

Sixteen

I try to keep communication with Cecilia Sanderson to a minimum. It’s the same policy she had with me during my entire childhood, so you could say that I learned it from her. She continued the practice up until recently. But this past week, I have had five missed calls from my mother. When my phone starts ringing at the end of my workday, I know I should ignore it again.

I’ve learned my lesson long ago.

But there’s something that makes me duck into one of the single-use bathrooms and forces my fingers to swipe the screen of my phone.

I try to tell myself I’m answering because tomorrow is my birthday, and maybe this is simply a call to celebrate that. But I doubt Cecilia remembers the date I was born, even though she was there. And she’s never bothered to celebrate my birthday in the past, so why start now?

No, I pick up the phone because I’m afraid.

There’s a gnawing fear in my gut that she has an important piece of information I would regret missing. The anxiety is some lingering internal damage from the day that Josh called me and asked if he could come visit. Normally he didn’t call. He would text his travel plans, and I would wait, excited for him to show up at my door.When we did talk on the phone, it was never just a voice call. We would video chat.

So that time he called me was odd, but I didn’t think about how strange the break in habit was until Josh arrived with a frantic look in his eye. Then the next morning, after going out and putting on a show of normalcy for my friends for a few hours, Josh sat on my couch and started crying. My brother was never shy with his emotions. But they tended to be excitement and enthusiasm, frustration and humor. I saw him tear up during movies or cute animal videos on the internet. But I never saw him sob with such a hopeless cast to his face.

That was the day that he told me about his diagnosis. It was so strange, the way that he had tears running down his face and fear in his eyes and yet he still tried to joke and make me laugh. I think he thought ifIthought it was funny, what the doctors told him couldn’t be serious.

So I joked back with him.

And now I hate phone calls.

But I alsoneedto pick them up.

“Cecilia.”

I may have referred to her as “Mom” at the funeral, but the moniker sounded wrong coming out of my lips. She never did much to earn the title. Josh was the one who took care of me. Mrs.Perry was the one who showed me what a mother’s love should be like, even if I only ever got small doses. Just enough to keep me going.

“Darling,” Cecilia greets me. “It’s been too long since we caught up. You ran away from the funeral before I could introduce you to my friends.”

Gross.Despite the circumstances of what had me leaving the funeral early, now I am glad that I did. The idea of having to directly speak to any of the people that were in attendance because they are associated with my mother makes me want to peel my skin off cell by cell.

“Darn. I’ll catch them at the next funeral for your child.”

“Of course,” she agrees, and I don’t know whether to laugh or hang up. While I’m deciding, she continues talking. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Is it an emergency?” Because that is the only reason I picked up this phone. Now, though, I’m having trouble contemplating what emergency I would care about that would be conveyed to me by my mother.

“It’s very concerning, dear.” If I were standing in front of my mother, I expect I would see a practiced pout on her lips. “Emilia mentioned that you are doing the most fascinating thing for your brother. Why didn’t you tell me? It sounds like something from a movie. I think the world needs to know about it. They need to know how far his family would go to make sure that he is resting at peace.”

Damn. I would have preferred if my mother didn’t know about Josh’s ashes and the letters. And I don’t like where she’s directing the conversation.

There was nothing in Josh’s request about the world knowing. Sure, Josh took photographs that were world-renowned. But if he could’ve taken pictures and gotten paid and no one ever saw them other than friends and family, I think he would’ve been fine with that.