In Twenty Years: A Novel (31 page)

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BEA

Dear all of you:

This isn’t the letter to my older self you thought it would be; it’s my letter to you guys, the best parts of who I was back when I could still be it. Maybe it would be more poignant to have included that other letter too, but I’ll be honest—I read it before I wrote this today, and I thought, Oh my God, what did I know back then? Sheesh, I was a little bit of a navel-gazing, self-important idiot!

So this is the letter to your older selves that I’m writing.

I hope you forgive me for not being brave enough to tell you the truth about me, about my illness. I couldn’t face you all when it came down to it; despite all my bravado, my devil-may-care breeziness, I wasn’t brave enough to say good-bye. It was easier not to, to slip quietly away, though I realize it might not have been easier for you. I hope you forgive me for that selfishness too.

I hope that you’ve forgiven each other for the indiscretions of our youth. I hope that you’ve forgiven yourselves for those indiscretions too. Look, and I feel like I can say this now without sounding like someone’s mother, being family doesn’t mean that you don’t hurt each other. It means that you might nick each other from time to time, but you love one another anyway.

I hope you all still love one another anyway.

I wish I could be there to meet Catherine and Owen’s children, to gather around your dinner table for the most mouthwatering meal I’ll ever taste; I wish I could be there when Lindy, on- or off-stage, realizes that she has nothing to prove but what she proves to herself; I wish I could be there to witness Annie discover happiness she doesn’t think she deserves; I wish I could be there for Colin when he forgives himself for coming when I called; when he finds peace. I can’t be. I won’t be; but not because it isn’t my greatest wish.

You were the best part of who I was for twenty-seven years.

That’s all I really want to say.

A five-point star is a symbol of strength.

I’ll carry you with me always, farther than you’d ever imagine.

Your friend,

Bea

They’ve gathered on the roof after Annie wakes them, shakes Colin, then Catherine, then Owen, and finally Lindy, on the shoulders, and says, “Come on, come on, this is important.” Now, they’ve fallen quiet, reverential, I suppose, though I wasn’t asking for reverence.

“She would have been forty. Forty and one day now.” Annie wipes her damp cheeks.

“Oh, Bea.” Catherine’s voice cracks too. “Happy birthday.” In this moment, Owen looks at her like he used to. Catherine doesn’t notice, but I do. Maybe one day soon, she’ll notice too.

“I’m glad she made us come back.” Lindy eases back on the chaise and stares up at the sky. She turns toward Annie, who meets her eyes, neither of them afraid, neither of them angry, old grudges fallen like drawbridges. Then, because she’s Lindy, she adds, “I know, I know, who’d have imagined it? I’m admitting that I’m happy.”

“Holy shit!”
Colin says, his palms to his cheeks in mock astonishment.

“Fuck off, Colin.”

Everyone laughs, their tentative mirth spilling out into the Philadelphia night.

Annie, still clutching my letter, beckons Lindy, then the rest of them, over to the roof ledge. From the perch, there’s a sliver of a view of the lights on campus, through the street lamps and the oak tree branches and the haze of memories that color everything.

“She made us come back,” Annie says after a while, “to remind us that remembering where you came from helps clear the path for where you actually need to go.”

Colin grabs her hand, then reconsiders, partly because she doesn’t need him to, partly because he doesn’t need to either. Instead, he smiles at her widely, eyes bright, heart open, and she gamely does the same. They’ll never be more than they are now, on this night, in this heartbeat of time, with the July heat fading and distant stars in hazy view, old gunpowder floating through the air. This night will be enough. This night will be the start of something new.

I was never meant to be here forever. None of us are. I told Colin all this when he came to see me in New York and stayed with me until I was gone. I told him that day, when my throat was sandpaper, and my muscles were anchors, and my skin was fire. Some of our stories are shorter than others. Some last a hundred years. It’s not how long you live; it’s how you do it while you’re lucky enough to have the chance. Not to sound like a cheesy country song. Maybe Lindy will write about me one day, though.

I don’t know. Maybe I would have done some of it differently. Not because I regret death, but I regret that my death didn’t only change my trajectory, it changed theirs too. They cratered after that, detonating any last bonds that could have been salvaged after the wedding. But I couldn’t have known that; I couldn’t foresee everything. I only could ask David Monroe to ensure that they showed up here, present, accounted for, under one roof once again, to form a new star.

Tonight, on the Fourth of July, on the evening I would have turned forty—though that was never in my stars, written in my destiny—they stay there on the roof’s ledge for a while, my old friends just staring at the lights of the campus. The neighbors grow bored with their backyard fireworks and retreat inside. The alley settles into quiet again. The night sky no longer bursts with light. The roof falls into total darkness, and then Annie leads them toward the trapdoor when they’re ready, grasping one another, trusting the others to lead them home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I have long wanted to write a reunion book, and I am grateful to Danielle Marshall for seeing the glimmer of potential in my early drafts and recruiting me to the Lake Union family, where I have been nothing short of dazzled. I’m further grateful that she had the wisdom to pair me with Tiffany Yates Martin, editor extraordinaire, whose guidance and insights were joyfully collaborative, and who helped elevate the book from something I was pretty happy with to something that I’m truly proud of. The entire team at Lake Union, including Gabrielle Dumpit, Christy Caldwell, Dennelle Catlett, and Tyler Stoops: thank you for your advocacy and spirit.

My agent, Elisabeth Weed, has been my friend and ally for more than ten years now. I’ve thanked her profusely in each book, and many times in person, and via text and e-mail too. She remains, simply, the best. My publicist, Ann-Marie Nieves, is a true dynamo, and I’m always glad she’s in my corner. Thanks also to Kathleen Zrelak for her enthusiasm, wisdom, and tenacity.

Others without whom I could not have written this book: Christine Pride, for her early excellent and insightful editorial guidance. Laura Dave, for many things. Catherine McKenzie, for her counsel.

As I approached the end of my initial draft of this story, I shattered my leg and was hospitalized. The book was placed on hold while I, along with my family, recuperated, recalibrated, and got our bearings. I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the friends who got us through those months: Jen Lancaster, Katherine Eskovitz, Erin Mand, Jennifer Chiarelli, Erica Fisher, Shirley Lu, Melanie Ornes Boock, the women on the dinner rotation who kept us fed, my parents (my dad, who moved in to help!), my in-laws, and many more. It might seem odd to thank them for something so far removed from writing, but nothing is far removed from writing, especially not friends and family, all of whom buoyed my spirits, delivered meals, drove my kids to a million different practices and parties, and allowed me to return to the book sooner than I anticipated.

I’d be remiss not to thank all of my Penn friends who championed my recovery in time to get to my own twentieth reunion. I’d also be remiss not to add that absolutely nothing from this book (other than the initial teal-and-blue house, which served as my starting inspiration) has anything to do with or is based on any of the wonderful folks I know from my years spent in Philadelphia.

Last, my husband, Adam, and my children, Campbell and Amelia. This book is about creating family wherever you can, and not a day passes that I’m not aware that I’m the luckiest gal alive to call you my own.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2015 Kat Tuochy Photography

Allison Winn Scotch is the
New York Times
bestselling author of six novels, including
Time of My Life
and
The Theory of Opposites
. She lives in Los Angeles with her family and their dogs.