Raspberry Jam

On the last day of her life, my daughter bought two items from our local grocery store: Jif peanut butter and store-brand jam.

After, when I looked at the receipt, I realized that I’d never known she liked raspberry jam.

She was three years old when she tried strawberry jam for the first time. Jam all over her chubby cheeks, hazel eyes enchanted like she had her entire life ahead of her. A photo I found after her death, wedged between her desk and the wall she painted lime green.

When she went to school, I packed peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Always strawberry, always Peter Pan. I assumed she liked it, and she never told me otherwise.

I even asked if she wanted something else, later, when she started packing her own lunches.

It’s just easier this way, she shrugged, that last time I asked.

-----

I was emailing a client who decided to call their wedding off last minute. As a wedding planner, I was used to that sort of thing. Not often, but it happens more than you’d think.

Two people think they belong together, only to discover the little things they did not know.

Like how he leaves the coffee maker turned on. Or how she prefers to keep her shoes on in the house. Or how they slam the microwave in the morning. Little quirks that become a lot larger when you think of spending your life together.

Little secrets about someone you thought you knew better than yourself.

“No, the DJ isn’t refundable,” I was explaining for the 5th time to my client. “I don’t set the policy.”

A knock on my door.

Amber, an intern with coke bottle glasses and a pixie cut the color of pink lemonade. “Mrs. Jackson?”

“Can’t right now,” I said, without even turning from my computer. “I have Ashley Steward on the other line and I swear, if I hear one more time about how it’s my fault she decided she doesn’t want to marry--”

“Mrs. Jackson, it’s… your daughter.”

I stilled. It was 30 minutes before my lunch break. The only thing getting me through that morning was the thought of taking a walk in Hyde Park.

“She’s in school.”

Amber ducked her head, then said two words that made my stomach feel like stone.

“I’m sorry.”

 -----

How can you know someone so deeply, but not at all?

In the days after, I searched for clues. I inspected her bedspread, her backpack. I braced myself, expecting to find something that would make my stomach turn, something I should have caught.

But her bed was made, her closet organized by color. Her backpack had nothing but school supplies. Even her sports bag was packed with spikes, running shoes, her uniform, an energy bar and water. Ready to go for a race she’ll never run.

The only strange thing I found was that receipt.

I folded it an unfolded it, as if trying to find an answer.

 -----

 I scavenged the pantry downstairs, tossing aside dented cans of chicken noodle, refried beans, boxes of penne.

And then I found them, side by side, companions in a lonely, dark space.

Peanut butter and jam.

Was she hiding it? Why?

A single spoonful from each.

Just enough to know that she was there.

Two missing slices from the loaf of wheat bread.

On the day she left me, my daughter stopped to make a peanut butter and jam sandwich, with peanut butter and jam I never once bought for her.

Hands shaking, I assembled a sandwich, just like she had.

The combination was better, far better. The raspberry adds a slight tang, a slight depth I’d never thought to try.

 -----

Returning to planning weddings, planning happy endings, is like picking at a gaping wound.

I can patch it up with taking on more weddings than ever, with going above and beyond to work after hours, but the wound is always there, festering.

A year after her death, I still don’t know why my daughter decided her life wasn’t worth living. A year later, and I still cannot fathom how I made those sandwiches for her, assuming that was what she wanted.

It’s easier this way.

When couples come together, flushed faces and excited, showing me Pinterest boards and discussing whether they should serve vanilla almond cake or chocolate hazelnut, I wonder.

Are they together because they truly belong together? Is it easier to think so? Is there maybe something or someone out there that’s better- if only they stopped to listen?