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Chapter Forty

After the initial round of tears had subsided, I found myself unable to relinquish my gaze from the list of twelve things that my mom Rochelle had written down for my dad to always remember.

1. Be true to yourself. Never compromise your standards for anyone.
2. Your eyes are the windows to your soul. Don't try to pull the shades on those windows, babe. You just might miss someone who wants to peek in.
3. Never give up on music. It's the best way to share your joy and pain with the world.
4. Everyone makes mistakes; pick yourself up and keep going.
5. Acknowledge your weaknesses and push beyond them.
6. Remember that laughter makes the world go round.
7. Count your blessings, not your troubles.
8. Never take life too seriously.
9. Whining doesn't make things better.
10. Keep an open mind; you never know what you might learn.
11. It's okay to move on. Just make sure she's 'mommy material.'
12. And last but not least...Alex, I want nothing more than for our babies and you to be happy. I know it's silly, but I always thought that if I died and came back, I'd want to be a raven. If you ever see one, know it's me, smiling down at you.

Joe's attempt to quiet the intake of breath through his clogged, sniffly nose was failing miserably. We both held onto the letter as if it was a real live bridge we could walk across to meet our mom.

"These two," Joe said in an odd sort of voice. He pointed at #5 and #8. "You need to remember these. You're too serious."

I didn't answer right away. It seemed like, aside from the last two, meant just for dad, that the first ten could have been a lighted, screaming signpost directed right at Joe. "Dad, the raven you have on your leg..." I trailed off. Dad seemed to have been anticipating the question. He smiled even though a wet film had covered his warm, brown eyes.

"You know, everyone used to laugh because the only place I didn't have any tats were my legs. On the fifth anniversary of your mom's death, I went and had it put on my right leg. I like to think that even though your mom can't physically walk beside you, everytime I do, you're walking with both of us.

If there was any one tattoo that had always fascinated me, it was the raven. It's wings stretched around and looked like they wrapped around his entire, scrawny leg even though they weren't really that large. The body of the raven was intricately drawn right above his ankle bone. The attention to detail sometimes made me want to touch it to see if it really had the consistency of feathers.

"That's why I think it's bullshit that you freaked out over my tat," Joe suddenly piped up. He tapped the paper. "I'm being true to myself."

Dad laughed. Not a condescending laugh, but one that made the ache in my chest ease a little. The laugh was full of 'I've been there' love. "If my mom allowed me to get tattoos before I was eighteen, do you know all the crazy shit I would have gotten? I hope for your sake that you'll look back at that barracuda with pride because your band made it big. But if you don't, you're going to look into the mirror every day and see a giant blue fish. Or, if you're like me, which I know you are, you'll have it removed and wait until you get that craving to put something meaningful on your body. As your dad, I was pulling for you waiting to think about meaning. And I was half-hoping I would have been there for your first one. Don't crucify me for being disappointed; besides, I'm the poster child for rule #4."

Joe and I both glanced down. Rule #4: Everyone makes mistakes; pick yourself up and keep going.

I didn't think there was a wiser piece of wisdom.

"I hope that reading that letter meant something to both of you," dad said. He reached over and held out his palm. I let the paper go, but Joe hesitated. Finally, he folded it back up and put it back in dad's possession. Dad stuck it back in the box. He ran his forefinger over the top of the wooden lid.

"This has been a hard year," dad said. "I dreaded you both turning sixteen, and not just for the normal reasons."

He paused. I found myself sitting on my hands. How had they gotten there?

"What do you mean, not for the normal reasons?" Joe asked. Dad continued looking at the box.

"After I found the letter you just read, I put away some things for Ally to have. Little clothes and bracelets. Tangible things that you could keep. What I didn't know was that when I was in rehab the first time around, your mom had talked to a lawyer about what would happen if something should happen to her. Right after your fifteenth birthday, that lawyer contacted me and told me that he had three letters in his possession. Three letters that were to be opened after you turned sixteen."

I didn't know about Joe, but my heart jumped as a little jolt of adrenaline shot through my veins.

"From mom?" I guessed.

Dad nodded.

"We've been sixteen forever," Joe said, jumping in. "Why didn't we get them on our birthdays?"

A look of painful shame created downward creases on either side of dad's mouth. "I pulled the shades on the windows," he whispered.

I could see, and I hoped Joe could too, how much this was hurting dad. I tried to put myself in his shoes. How would I feel if a lawyer out of the blue just popped up with a letter from someone I loved? A letter with contents unknown?

"I've never been good at waiting. I didn't know how to pass the time other than--"

"Getting high?" Joe concluded. I was thankful that he didn't say it accusingly.

"Yes. I can't begin to describe my emotions. I felt the grief all over again holding the letters in my hands. I felt guilt. I felt...everything. All at once. And I made the mistake of not telling Molly any of it."

It was so weird to hear dad say mom's name, but in a way I understood why he did. There would be no confusion on which mom he meant. Mom right now was the one who had given us life.

"I realize I went about everything wrong. Molly knows and she's helped me prepare for anything I might read in my own envelope. She's also prepared me to help you guys through anything you might read in yours."

Before Joe or I could say another word, he lifted three envelopes from the boxes.

"The lawyer confided to me that he had snuck in sometime while your mom was in the hospital. She wanted to make sure each of your letters were personalized with your names."

Indeed, on the faded envelopes dad held out to us, I could see a prominent A and a prominent J. It's silly, I know, but the letters looked proud, as if mom had been waiting all her life to write those two initials. I slid my hand out from under me and took mine. Joe stared at his for a beat longer, his shoulders rising and falling as if he was excerting himself. After glancing over at me and realizing that I had actually taken the first, brave step, he took his own. I looked at dad. A soft smile played on his lips and he tested the weight of his own, mysterious letter.

"Shall we?" dad asked. "On three?"

It seemed absurd to do a countdown. Yet, it seemed right. It cut into the tension and anxiety in just the right spot. Joe smiled.

"Yeah, on three."

We each took our positions, our pointer fingers hooked under the right edge that had loosened over time.

"One..." dad said slowly.

"Two..." Joe and I chimed in.

"Three."