Lunch was subdued, sullen, each of us in our own worlds, me refusing to let the letters out of my sight for even a moment, terrified that something completely irrational would happen to them: they would blow away in the wind; they would vanish into thin air; they would spontaneously combust. So I waited in the car while my parents went into the deli to pick up the sandwiches, and then we ate at home, me with the letters stacked neatly next to my plate. I knew my parents and Abe were dying to know what they were, what the first one had said, but I knew if I talked about it I would start crying and probably never stop. Like Alice, crying in our kitchen until I was washed away in a river of my own tears.
After lunch I went up to my room and sat down on my bed, spreading the letters out carefully on my bedspread, getting my copies of the Alvin Hatter books and laying them out in order. I had read these books so much, loved them ever since I was a little girl, I knew every plot twist and denouement by heart. My copies were torn and creased and dirty; Abe’s were pristine and unopened (he had a second set for reading) and claimed the top shelf of his bookshelf, the one with the glass cabinets.
I’d heard Abe’s friends laughing at him once about keeping children’s books displayed in his room, but then I’d heard him tell them how much each one was worth (first edition, first printing, signed by Helen Reaves, naturally). They’d stopped laughing pretty quickly.
I picked up Alvin Hatter and the Everlife Society, my personal favorite. The moment I started reading, I was no longer in my bedroom, no longer sad, no longer even myself. I was an unseen friend of Alvin and Margo Hatter’s, following along with them as they escaped with the Everlife Society and tried to find out what happened to their missing parents. There was danger in these pages, but there was also a kind of safety, an underlying knowledge that no physical harm could come to our hero and heroine themselves; they’d found the Everlife Formula and drank from it. Alvin and Margo Hatter were immortal.
And I wondered what my aunt would have done if that same potion were real and right in front of her. If it could have saved her life, would she have chosen to live forever?
Hours later, days later, there was a knock on my door, and my dad pushed it gently open. “Can I come in?” he asked.
I was halfway through the book and had read right through dinner. That was how good they were. Every time was like the first time.
“Yeah, Dad, of course.”
He pushed the door open wider and wandered in with half a glass of wine (truly wandered; he looked a little lost). He sat on my bed and sighed.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m okay,” he said. “We had a little warning. I guess that was nice. But not too much warning, or else we would have had to think about it for too long. You know?”
“I know.”
“Are you okay? You’ve been up here for a while.”
“Just reading.”
“Ah, Alvin.” He picked up the first book, Alvin Hatter and the House in the Middle of the Woods. It had been published when my aunt was twenty-four. She was flat broke, living in my father’s garage, two years out of college and still refusing to look for a job (much to his chagrin). “I don’t need to eat,” she’d famously told him once, “I need to write.”
“These books, huh, kid?” He paused, had a sip of wine, sighed again. “I’m so happy you kids got a chance to know her so well. Your aunts and uncles in Peru . . . Well, I know your mother wishes they were closer. Family is important, kid.”
Uh-oh.
My father was in the red wine danger zone.
Someone hadn’t been paying attention, and I could guarantee this was his third glass, exactly the amount needed for him to turn inward and deep and philosophical.
But I guess he deserved it.
And it wouldn’t last long.
The end of the third glass would see him sound asleep within fifteen minutes.
It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it was like clockwork.
“I know family’s important, Dad.”
“That’s why I’m so happy you and Abe have each other,” he continued. “Helen and I were so close growing up. I’m glad you two are the same way.”
“Me too.”
“Your aunt was a trip.” Another sip, this one so miniscule that the liquid barely touched his lips. He stared out my window (which was covered by a curtain, so I guess he stared at my curtain).
“What do you mean?”
“There was always . . . just something. Something about her.”
“What kind of something? Like she’s super famous?”
He laughed, crossed his legs. “No, silly. Not like that. I mean there was something I couldn’t put my finger on. Like she was keeping something from me. You know?”
“Abe has a locked trunk of comics he’s never let me look through,” I said. “Like that?”
“Maybe like that. Maybe different. Weird things, you know? Once I caught her with this little bottle. Just this little glass—”
“Sal?” my mom interrupted, poking her head into the room. She was wearing scrubs; she had to leave soon for an overnight at the hospital. She analyzed the current situation: Dad glossy-eyed, holding an almost-empty wineglass, me looking slightly terrified. She moved into the doorway and held three fingers up so my father couldn’t see. I nodded, confirming it.
“Hi, honey,” Dad said. “Lottie and I were just talking about Helen. She was great, wasn’t she? You liked her, right?”
“You know I loved your sister, Sal. Like my own sister.”
Mom swooped into the room, moving so quickly she was almost a blur. But before I knew what was happening she was holding Dad’s wineglass and he was standing up, stretching, yawning.
“Let’s get you to bed,” she said, taking his hand.
“To bed!” he agreed.
He stumbled out of the room before her, and she hung back a second, taking stock of the state of my bed, the letters and the book. She took a step toward me and put her hand on my cheek.
“Are you doing all right, my love?”
“Just sad. But all right.”
“The sadness will always be there,” she said, never one to mince words. “It will never go away. But you will learn to move around it, and then it will fade a little, and then it will be replaced with happiness that you got to be so close to your aunt.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Get some sleep, Lottie.”
She kissed the top of my head and left. I read until dawn.
I woke up early the next morning, Alvin Hatter and the Everlife Society still open on my chest.
The first thing I thought of was my aunt’s letters. I could open the second one now. She had told me to be okay, I had mostly succeeded, and now I could open her second letter.
I pulled myself up to a sitting position and found it, still on the bed. I opened it carefully, blinking sleep away from my eyes, and began to read.
Dear Lottie,
I told you this letter would be more fun than the first one.
Forgive me for not checking with you (I have the convenient excuse of not actually being around to check with you), but I have taken the liberty of throwing a party. Everything is taken care of. Harry is a good lawyer and an even better friend; he had his instructions, upon my passing, to send out a stack of invitations, to reserve the space, to contact the caterers and florist, to essentially plan my wake. See, I was never one for formal sadness. It’s depressing to everyone who’s alive, and the one it’s for, the dead one (I’m sorry to be blunt; it’s the mood I’m in), can’t even appreciate it. So I want you to have some FUN, Lottie, and that’s why I want you to have a freaking party! And the invitations have been sent, yes, but really anyone can come. The more the merrier!
The party will be held the first Saturday after I’m gone, at a hotel called the Nautilus. I’ve given Harry instructions to book all the rooms: first come, first served. I want you guys to have an absolute blast, and I want you to send me off in style. Sneak some champagne and keep your father away from the red wine. I would have traded my Guinness Book for the chance to be there with you, but I guess that would have defeated the purpose just a little.
Who knows—maybe you’ll even meet somebody interesting. (I have a lot of interesting friends.)
Love, H.
The first Saturday after she was gone was . . .
Today. That was today. I took the letter and practically ran downstairs, finding Mom at the kitchen table, her head resting on her folded arms. After an overnight she sometimes fell asleep in weird places.
“Mom,” I said, almost shouting, trying not to scare her.
She stirred awake, raising her head and rubbing at her eyes just like a cartoon of a sleepy person.
“Hi, honey. I made coffee.”
“Mom, I have something crazy to tell you.”
She shook herself awake. “Are you okay?”
“Here, just read this.”
I wasn’t planning on letting anyone read the letters, but this one was different. I knew my mom wouldn’t believe it until she actually read it in Aunt Helen’s handwriting.
As she read, she straightened, visibly becoming more confused, more alert, then smiling widely. “Wow,” she said after a minute, lowering the page, “this is exactly like your aunt.”
“Saturday is today,” I said.
“When we called Harry to set up the will reading, he seemed very insistent we meet before Saturday. I guess this was why,” she said.
“So we’re going?”
“Going? Of course we’re going, silly. Gosh, I have to figure out what to wear.” Then, smiling, taking my hand, she said, “This will be fun, Lottie. This is so her.”
When my mom was tired, her accent was stronger. She was 100 percent Peruvian; she’d moved to America when she was thirteen. Most of the time, her accent was undetectable unless you knew what to listen for. She said she’d spent a lot of time practicing how to speak “New Englander.” Otherwise, the kids at school made fun of her.
She went to hug me and then decided against it. “I’m filthy. A shower and a nap. I’ll see you for the party, my love.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I texted Em, my best friend, to invite her to the party. She’d been there the night Aunt Helen had died; I had texted her a series of frantic messages about the fragility and pointlessness of life, and she’d gotten to the hospital twenty minutes later. When she hugged me she smelled like the cigarettes her mom smoked and her bobbed blue hair brushed against my cheek in a way so familiar that it set me crying again.
Em was short for Emmylou because her mom had a thing for country music.
When I told her about the party, she wrote:
Holy crap that’s awesome!! Can I bring Jackie?
Of course you can bring Jackie, dummy. I’ll see you tonight.
Are you doing OK?
Yes. ILY.
Em’s response was a yellow face with hearts for eyes.
I decided to wear a dress to the party, nothing too fancy, just a light-blue vintage thing that Aunt Helen had bought for me. She loved vintage shopping and often dragged me along, the plus side being that although I hated shopping, she’d buy me whatever I liked (actually, she’d buy me whatever I liked that she also liked, which was the beauty of Aunt Helen, never compromising her preferred aesthetic).
Em and her girlfriend, Jackie, showed up at my house at six, Em wearing vintage tuxedo pants with a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and a bow tie hanging untied around her neck.
“Do you know how to do this?” she asked my dad, who brought her to a mirror and gave her a lesson.
Jackie had her blond hair in curls and wore a legitimate pink party dress, petticoat and all.
She gave me a hug and said, “Are you doing okay, Lottie?”
“Better,” I said. “Every day is better.”
Amy, Abe’s girlfriend, showed up a few minutes later, wearing a pale-yellow maxi dress. She wore bright-pink eye shadow, which would look insane on me but was practically glowing against her dark skin.
We took two separate cars: Mom, Dad, Em, and Jackie in one and Abe, Amy, and me in the other. Em wasn’t super close with her mom, who didn’t really approve of her choice in partners and thought tuxedo pants on a girl were an abomination of the most sincere kind. My parents had adopted Em as their own. My mom was the one who helped her pick out what shade of blue to dye her hair.
“Don’t tell anyone I did this,” she’d said, handing Em a ten-dollar bill. “I don’t need any drama from your mama.”
Even though my aunt had rented every room in the hotel for the party, none of us were staying overnight. We’d decided to let the other guests have first dibs, and it wasn’t that far of a ride—about an hour long, but it went by quickly. Amy put on some new songs her band had recorded (she played lead guitar, and she was basically the coolest person I knew), and we all sang along loudly, glad for the distraction.
When we reached the hotel, I knew exactly why my aunt had picked it. The Nautilus was situated right on the water, with one enormous octagonal ballroom actually built on stilts over the waves. There were flickering candles illuminating the path to the front door, and the whole place was white and romantic and elegant and exactly like Aunt Helen. This was her, as a building. One foot in the sand and one in the water; completely approachable while at the same time being so, so cool.
The guests were already starting to arrive. The party was slated to go from eight to midnight, with a buffet dinner served until ten and desserts available after that. I recognized famous authors from their book jackets, slipping out of black cars and looking out of place in the way most authors do at fancy parties. I saw news reporters and even a few actors; I tried my best not to stare. I never quite got used to it, how famous Aunt Helen was.
“I should have worn a suit. Lottie, why didn’t you tell me to wear a suit?” Abe said as he pulled his car in line for the valet.
“You look handsome,” Amy said, putting her hand on his leg. He wore seersucker pants and a matching vest, but no coat.
“You look very New England prep,” I said. “But in a good way.”
“I should have worn a bow tie,” he whined, pulling at his navy skinny tie. “Em looks so cool. I’m so lame.”
I tuned him out as we waited our turn for the valet. Abe was sixteen, and his birthday present had been this car, a respectable little Corolla my parents had bought from a used dealership in town. It was a little nicer than mine, a Honda that was a few years older. But I didn’t really care about cars. I think my mom was bummed she couldn’t drive her new Corvette, but it didn’t have a backseat. Plus I’d done some research, and although it was worth a lot, my aunt was right: it was supposedly pretty poorly made, as far as fancy cars go. They’d only made three hundred before they went back to the drawing board.
When it was our turn for the valet, Abe took his ticket and we got out of the car to the sweet smell of salt and flowers. I carried a small purse with my wallet, my phone, and Aunt Helen’s third envelope inside it, and part of me wanted the party to be over so I could read it. I couldn’t wait to find out what came next.
Except I had to wait, because Dad had grabbed me by the arm and was clenching me so hard I thought he might break something. He didn’t like parties. He was an anesthesiologist; he most liked being around people who were asleep.
Mom, on the other hand, was looking up at the Nautilus with wide, excited eyes.
“Everybody liked your aunt Helen,” she said proudly, looking around at the droves of people arriving and being ushered into the hotel.
I sympathized more with my dad. Neither of us were thrilled by crowds. They made me anxious; they always had. To be fair, a lot of things made me anxious. Aunt Helen’s first letter came back to me—I know things come a little harder for you—and I hated that she was right, that they did, that I could already feel my anxiety humming somewhere in the back of my throat. I coughed once, trying to dislodge it. But of course it didn’t actually work like that.
“It’s going to be fun,” I said to Dad, but in reality I probably sounded like I meant the exact opposite.
“It’s going to be fun,” Mom repeated, and she actually made it sound plausible. She slipped in between my dad and me and linked an arm through each of ours, leading the charge into the hotel, following the trail of candles to the ballroom.
It was unreal.
The entire place was lit by candles—they hung from chandeliers and lined the walls in delicate sconces and crowded every table. They were the only decoration. A hundred million candles and white tablecloths and music from hidden speakers. The buffet tables were set along one wall, and a wide, open balcony surrounded the entire room. All the doors were open to the night, and guests moved from inside to outside, some with plates of food and others with tall skinny glasses of bubbling champagne.
“Holy crap,” Mom said. “Look at the food!”
She made a beeline for the buffet table, Dad following behind closely, looking terrified they may get separated. I headed to the balcony, suddenly needing some air.
It was a breezeless, warm night. The balcony too was lit by candles in mason jars, and it was less crowded out here as people moved inside to eat at the tables. I was wondering whether I could successfully sneak a glass of champagne when I felt something brush my arm. I turned to find Em beside me, holding two glasses.
“You’re a mind reader,” I said. “She told me to drink champagne.”
“Apparently I’m a mind reader who looks twenty-one,” she responded with a wink. Then, “Wait—who told you to drink champagne?”
Aunt Helen. And I would tell Em about the letters soon, but not right now. Right now I just wanted to try to enjoy myself.
“My mom. You know how she gets at parties,” I said.
We toasted and sipped from the glasses—
Which is when I discovered that champagne is disgusting.
“Oh nooo,” Em said, looking into the glass.
“Maybe it grows on you?”
“It tastes kind of like vomit? Or that moment right before you vomit.”
“Charming.”
“I thought it would be like . . . sweeter?”
“We can see if there’s something else.”
“Let’s pour these out for Helen,” Em said.
Together, we stretched our arms over the railing and overturned the glasses. The champagne spilled into the water, and I wondered how much of the ocean was made up of other things. Diluted other things, but other things nonetheless.
Em took my glass from me and disappeared inside again.
And because pouring out my champagne made me miss Aunt Helen, I took the third envelope from my purse and opened it before I was supposed to.
Lottie, Lottie. My little impatient cupcake. I want you to have FUN at this party. (And there are actually cupcakes later, from my favorite bakery. Have one for me.)
Yes, I know you’re still at the party, and no, I’m not omniscient, just a good guesser (although—what if you’re not at the party? That would be awkward).
I’m not going to make this long because I want you to enjoy yourself. Cut loose a little. Did you try the champagne? Cupcakes are better. Remember: I love you, and I also love parties. Enjoy this one enough for the both of us.
Yours, H.
With a huge, uncontainable smile on my face, I refolded the letter and put it back in my purse.
Now . . . how to have fun?