CHAPTER 5
Valentine’s Day crept up on Luke. He should’ve seen its billowing pink fluff inching over the horizon and right into his life, but he didn’t. Suddenly one day the drugstore aisles and advertising circulars were covered in hearts and cupids. Valentine’s Day had never been a big holiday in the Richardson home. The focus was always on getting the kids’ valentines signed and addressed, rather than some kind of big romance.
Natalie always claimed the inferiority of the holiday rested in the lameness of the candy. Box of chocolates? Way overrated. Luke got Natalie a small box of cream-filled chocolates the first year they were married, thinking he was being romantic. It wasn’t romantic. It was gross. Who thought a filling that tasted like orange Creamsicles was a good idea anyway? They took one bite out of each chocolate and tossed the box into the garbage. Every February 14 after that he found a small box of Russell Stover drugstore chocolates on his pillow with one bite taken out of each piece.
When Luke went down to pick up the mail in its normal spot on the loose shag of the doormat, he was surprised to find a bulging USPS prepaid envelope waiting for him. Inside lay a small heart-shaped box of chocolates with a blue envelope taped to it. The box was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, a yellow discount sticker half-peeled off on one side. If Nat had bought these, they were more than a year old. In his head, he could hear her laughing, the loud huffing laugh she reserved for moments when she thought she was being hilarious.
It had been a week since Natalie’s last letter, and Luke could barely control the urge to tear into the letter right there in the front hall. Instead, he ripped the letter off the red-tinted cellophane. A hand-drawn red heart covered the back of the envelope. What was Natalie up to? He tossed the chocolates on the hall table and went back upstairs to get dressed.
Somehow he made it to his room before opening the letter. It had less to do with self-control and more to do with his new routine. When one of Natalie’s letters arrived, first he’d pinch the letter between his fingers and try to guess how many pages were folded inside. He was getting pretty talented at estimating accurately. Today’s letter felt like a long one, three or four pages for sure.
Next, he’d take out the long golden letter opener his foster mother had given him for his high school graduation. He’d never needed it before, but after shredding the first few envelopes with his fingers, Luke saw the wisdom in using extra care. Now the quiet whisper of the letter opener made his heart jump with anticipation.
Then, he’d slip out the folded sheets of notebook paper and unfold them slowly, taking in her loopy, semi-sloppy handwriting and the date, count the pages, and smile because he was right at the number. Today there were four pages, but her handwriting was extra loopy, as if she was particularly happy when she wrote it. Oh my, she had dotted every freaking i with a heart. Luke laughed out loud. He still loved her so much.
Valentine’s Day
Dear Luke,
I’m taking a chance here, trying something new. If I send you these letters, I know your Valentine’s Day will land on a different day than mine. So I’ll try to put these letters for special occasions aside and make sure you get them on the right days.
It’s Valentine’s Day, and we’re comfortably doing nothing. Well, that’s a bit of a lie. I stole some candy from the kids’ backpacks, and I’m currently sucking on a handful of red and pink Nerds. Unfortunately, Will didn’t bring any candy home. They don’t exchange valentines in eighth grade. Annoying. It’s getting to the point where, if I’m still around, I might have to start buying myself Valentine’s Day candy, even if it is the most subpar of all holiday candy.
But if I’m not hanging out on the couch eating a bagful of candy hearts, you might be missing me today. I know I’ll be missing you. So, being the cheeser I am, I decided to write down part of our love story. Bear with me—I might be a little creative in parts, but in general, this is how I remember that day, the day the direction of my life changed forever. The day I met you.
It was three days before my fourteenth birthday when I moved into 815 Winter Lane. It was a really hot day, but we were moving from Mississippi so the muggy heat of Michigan didn’t bother me. It did surprise me. Everyone in the coastal town of Gulfport laughed at the idea of lifelong southerners migrating to the frozen north. I think I expected snow when I got out of the truck, even though it was August. Instead of snow, I saw you: thirteen, with yellow hair so sweaty it clung to your head. Your cheeks were a bright red, and I thought you were about to die from dehydration. As I stretched my legs, you stared at me like I was from outer space.
“Hey, kid, you our new neighbor?” my dad shouted. He didn’t mince words, did he? Without answering, you ran away into 813 Winter Lane, right next door. For a moment, when the front door slammed, I didn’t mind leaving my friends, the ocean, and eternal summer to live on Winter Lane in freeze-your-butt-off Michigan.
“Natty, come help me in the house.” Mom waved me inside, the movers already unloading boxes and pieces of furniture into the mustard-yellow, two-story colonial.
“Mom, can I check out the backyard?” Ben couldn’t stop moving. If he’d been cooped up in that van for one more second, he would’ve exploded.
“Sure, Benny. Dinner at six. Don’t get too dirty.” Ben got to play, as always, and I got to clean. My mom has always been sexist that way.
God, that house was hot. We didn’t have AC—bet my parents thought we didn’t need it after all the quips about the cold. I still remember the heat when we opened the door, like taking a cake out of the oven. My job was to open every window in the house, all seventeen. But before I opened each one, my mom wanted me to wash it first. She rummaged through the boxes of cleaning supplies and found me a full bottle of window cleaner and an unbelievably large roll of paper towels.
“There’s a breeze coming in from the east, so do the front windows first,” my mom ordered. Back then, there was nothing to entertain you during work but your own mind. I thought about starting a new school, wondered if you’d be in my same grade, if we’d take a bus together, if you’d be my first friend. It took an hour to finish all the front windows, and the house had cooled ten degrees from the breeze they let in.
Time was dragging by at an interminably slow rate, and my hair was nearly soaked with sweat. Until I finally got to the windows looking out on the backyard. You were there playing with Ben, popping in and out of the dilapidated shack my mom wanted to tear down. I took my time washing those windows, pushing them open one at a time, trying to decipher the few mumbles and phrases echoing through the backyard.
I spent the next hour and a half spying on you until my mom caught on and gave me a bucket of Lysol and warm water to wash down the inside of the cupboards, which I worked on until dinner.
My brother brought you to our house for dinner that night, both of you dirty from playing in the backyard. I couldn’t imagine what you found to do with my ten-year-old brother for three hours in that wasp-infested shed, but I was superbly proud of Ben for remembering his manners and asking you to dinner.
At dinner, I tried not to look at you, but it was hard. You had a bright smile that made me want to smile back and light blotchy freckles on your cheeks that looked like flecks of sand I could brush off with my fingertips. I found out later that you hated them, but I loved them instantly.
Dinner was simple—pizza from Dan’s Pizza House and a few bottles of pop. I knew that night must be special because I couldn’t remember one meal in my whole life without some sort of green veggie being dumped on my plate. I didn’t ask questions; I silently crammed slices into my mouth, trying not to come off as a creepy stalker girl.
You told us about your family, your dad a seasonal fisherman on Lake Michigan, your mom a shopkeeper. You didn’t tell us your father’s real job was being an alcoholic and your mom’s was covering for it. But I could read the sadness in your eyes. I think it was the sadness more than your smile that made me want to know you better. So when Dad asked me to walk home with you to grab our spare key from your mom, my heart almost bounced out of my chest. He couldn’t have known what would come of that request.
Our feet whispered through the grass as fireflies flickered in slow circles around us. The night was moist and hot and felt like my home in Mississippi.
“I’ve never seen fireflies before,” I whispered, reaching out to touch one of the lazy bugs flashing in front of my face.
“Never? How is that possible?” The first words you ever spoke directly to me.
“Mosquitos are bad in Mississippi. The city sprays like crazy. Kills the mosquitos, but Dad says it also kills the lightning bugs.”
“Hm, well, we have plenty to spare. When I was littler we used to catch them, put them in jars with holes in the lid. I’d put the jar by my bed, you know, like a lantern.”
“Oh my gosh, I never thought to do that,” I drawled. I never thought I had an accent until I heard my voice next to your plain, halted phrases.
We’d crossed the hedge and were finally at your back door. You kicked up the back mat and retrieved a house key with a metallic scrape. The lights were off inside, and I had this sinking feeling you were going home to an empty house. “So, did it work? The lightning bug lantern?”
“It worked.” Twisting the knob and key at the same time, you forced the back door open and disappeared inside, leaving it gaping open. I wondered if you’d forgotten why I followed you home. You showed up with a key in your hand, the moon reflecting off its silver surface. I put out my hand, and you dropped the key into my palm and shrugged. “I stopped catching them though.”
“Why? That sounds like a lot of fun.” I searched your face, the freckles, the same upturned nose May and Clayton have. I wanted you to ask me to catch fireflies with you.
“I don’t know.” You shook your head, every part of your face frowning. “They were always dead when I woke up. It seemed like a waste.” Then you disappeared into your dark house.
And that was it. I was in love. Sure, we evolved over time, but even when you moved away a year later, I never forgot the boy who stopped catching fireflies.
I love you. Happy V-day and thank you for finding me again.
Love,
Natty (ha-ha)
“Why did she have to have such a good memory?” Luke wondered, rubbing his eyes as if he could push the tears back in. At some point during the letter he’d gone to his knees, leaning against the bed like he was praying. It felt odd. He hadn’t prayed since he was a child, and even then it was under a blanket in his bed while his mom and dad screamed at each other in the hallway. It didn’t work then. It wouldn’t work now.
May burst through the bedroom door fully dressed in a red jumper with a long-sleeved turtleneck under it. Her tangled hair hung halfway down her back, the strands surrounding her face chewed short.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Daddy!” She jumped on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“Right back at cha, sweetie.” Luke twisted her around into his arms, gathering her up like a princess needing to be rescued. “You got your valentines ready?” He kissed her forehead before sitting her back up on his knee.
“Yeah, Jessie helped me. They’re the coolest. She got the instructions off the Internet,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Hope you made one for me.”
“Of course, Daddy. I’ll show you!” She stood ready to run out the door. “Wait, I forgot.” She reached into one of the pockets on the side of her dress and pulled out a large pink comb with ponytail holders wrapped around the handle. “Will you braid my hair?”
Luke’s mouth went dry. He’d watched Natalie do it countless times; she even tried to teach him once, but his fingers couldn’t seem to figure out the simple pattern of over under. He couldn’t bear the idea of disappointing her.
“I sure can try. Come sit down.” He waved her over and sat her down on the floor in front of him. The first attempt at running the comb through May’s tangled nest of hair made her squeal and pull away. This would never do. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to try again?”
“Yes! Two braids, one on each side.” She paused before adding, “Please,” as though it would change the outcome.
“I have an idea. You sit down, and I’ll comb your hair and I’ll tell you a story.”
“A story?” She gasped. “Is it a love story?”
“Yes. A really beautiful one too.”
Luke retold the story to May, taking his time to fill in the details and edit out Natalie’s commentary. She sat perfectly still on the floor, even when he hit a huge snag halfway through and had to pull harder than he intended to get through it. The first braid took three tries, and the second braid only one. He finished the story as he snapped on the last ponytail holder. May ran to the full-length mirror on the back of his bedroom door and smiled.
“Daddy, it’s perfect! Thank you!”
It wasn’t perfect, not even close. If he looked too closely, Luke could see where he missed the braid pattern in a few spots and how the top and sides of her hair weren’t exactly smooth like when Natalie used to do it. But it wasn’t bad either. She turned to face him and curtsied in her red skirt and heart-printed tights. She totally took after her mom with the holiday wardrobe theming. He had a box of holiday socks tucked away in the back of the closet he’d have to give May when her feet grew a little.
“Thank you!” She ran and jumped into his arms and kissed his cheek.
Clayton walked into the room bleary-eyed, holding Natalie’s phone. “Mommy’s phone is ringing.”
The sound of her ringtone gave Luke a bad case of déjà vu, and his stomach dropped. If someone was calling her phone, they didn’t know she was dead. That meant he’d have to tell them. He glanced at the screen, but the caller ID displayed a random set of unfamiliar numbers, which was confusing and a relief at the same time. He pressed the talk button after looking each kid in the eye with a finger to his lips.
“Hello?” Luke answered.
A woman’s voice responded.
“Hello. I’m looking for Mr. Richardson. This is Ms. Mason from Shepard High School. I’m Will’s guidance counselor.”
The school was calling Natalie’s number? Maybe they tried the home phone first. Luke turned the ringer off a long time ago and never switched it back on. The silence was refreshing.
“This is Luke,” he responded. “Can you hold on one second?”
“Of course.”
Luke covered the mouthpiece and whispered to May, “Go pop in some waffles from the freezer. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
“But Mommy always made pink pancakes on Valentine’s Day,” May pouted. There was no way he’d have enough time to make Nat’s pancakes and get everyone out the door.
“Maybe we can have them for dinner if you can get your little brother his breakfast.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” May perked up and nodded her head fast. “Come on, Clayton; time for breakfast.” She grabbed the hand that wasn’t lodged in his mouth and guided him out of the room.
Luke put the phone back up to his ear. “Sorry about that.”
“Totally fine.” She paused briefly. “I’m calling to see if you can come in later today for a meeting about Will.”
“Is there a problem?” Luke pulled himself off the floor and on the bed, lightheaded.
“I want to touch base with you on how he’s doing after losing his mother. He’s had a few issues at school in the past few weeks that seem a little out of character for him. I’d love the opportunity to talk to you, maybe get your input. Could you come by around four?”
It sounded like something he definitely didn’t want to do, today or ever, but what could he say—no?
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you, Mr. Richardson. Have a nice day. Oh, and happy Valentine’s Day!”
“Bye,” he mumbled and hung up the phone. Yeah, sounded like it was shaping up to be a great Valentine’s Day.