Page 12 of Every Beautiful Mile

Even after I purposefully tried to look alive by skipping my usual shades of gray for one of the shirts I found last night—a bright green favorite of mine from the Everglades—I’m homely. My skin is pale, my hair is dull, and I look every bit of my forty-one years and then some. The braid in my hair doesn’t make me look like the cool kind of mom I hoped for and the mascara I had swiped on somehow makes me look more dead than alive. Mostly dead.

I shake my head, laugh so I don’t cry, and then wait by the couch where Marin and Finn meet me with confused looks on their sleepy faces.

“Mom? What’s going on?” Marin asks, yawning into her hand and taking a step toward the clothes.

Finn doesn’t move, but his eyes drop to my shirt.

Travis’ shirt.

“Morning!” I raise my mug of disgusting coffee in mock cheers, suddenly aware of how nervous I am. “So, after dinner last night and those great stories about Dad and everyone telling me how depressing I am, I got to thinking about everything, you know? And maybe it’s time I do something…”

Their response comes in the form of silence and blinking.

“Anyway, the stories made me think of all your dad’s ridiculous t-shirts, and how much he loved them, and what a waste they were just sitting in his closet.” I pause, not sure if I make sense. “What I’m trying to say is, I went through your dad’s clothes last night. I kept a few t-shirts for myself, my favorite ones, but I wanted to see if you guys wanted any of these. To wear or keep or whatever.”

I spin the gold band around my finger and look at them, waiting for something… what? Confetti? I forgot to think that far ahead.

Marin silently picks up one of the shirts, pinching the shoulders so it unfolds in front of her, revealing a large lobster.

I take another sip of coffee then fill the silence they seem to not notice.

“And as you can see, I picked the one from the Everglades. Remember that trip? We spent all that money to watch that toothless man feed raw chicken to a gator. Your dad thought it was hilarious, but we were all too covered by mosquito bites to even watch.”

I trace the line of the alligator standing on hairy legs with dark green blocky letters that say Sasquatch is a Gator that covers the shirt I’m wearing.

I swallow hard, twice, then wait.

Finn finally says, “Dibs on the one from the owl sanctuary.”

And while he doesn’t fully smile, his lips tip slightly enough to ease the tension in my shoulders. I remember the shirt exactly: Hoot for Hooters written in a red scripty font above a cartoon owl.

“Mom!” Marin gasps. “This is so fun! Let’s all wear one today. Dress like Dad Day! Dress like Dad Day!” Her chanting makes me laugh as she wildly digs through the shirts.

“I’m going to make breakfast. Blueberry pancakes?”

“Sure,” Finn says, lifting one of the shirts without looking at me.

As I mix ingredients in a bowl, listening as they tell stories, my chest tightens. Happiness over the t-shirts being worn clashes with the devastation of Travis not being the one to wear them.

Four

Me: I’m taking the day off. Got Jade to cover the bar, let me know if you need anything.

Dad: Sounds good, Nelly. Everything okay?

Me: All good. Also, tell Mom I’m mad at her for not telling me I look like shit all the time.

Dad: She says she knew you’d realize it eventually.

The playful laughter of the morning wraps hands around my heart and squeezes just enough that it starts to pump again. It’s faint, but it’s there. Like for the last year, it’s just been a useless organ sitting in my chest for show, but today, it beats in a way that propels me forward.

Other than clothes in a closet, the only other space Travis claimed was a large, detached pole barn we have in the yard. Our modest house sits on a double lot, a rarity on the island, and we built the pole barn, the shed as he called it, for a boat shortly after moving in. Eventually, Travis moved the boat to a slip in the marina, and the shed became a place for him and his friends.

I wander back to it, coffee in hand. A thick hedge of tropical, leafy foliage lines the property, creating a feeling that we’re on an island all our own even though we’re really in a small neighborhood. A string of unlit lights hangs under the rafters—half of the bulbs broken from neglect—and a stack of folding chairs leans in one corner, unused since before the funeral. I look to the other half, where a boat once parked, and frown.

The Avion.

Three months before the accident, Travis saw a 1978 Avion camper for sale on the side of the road for $6,000.

---