Knowing he couldn’t stop her illness and believing it were two different things. Wasn’t he the golden son of Rhode Island School of Design? Of Brown University? Didn’t he have a fucking PhD from Massachusetts Institute of Technology? Hadn’t he sold nine medical device patents in the past decade with five devices already on the market? He was a certified genius, and his purpose in life had been to be her husband, to protect her, and he’d failed. He’d failed.
He should eat something, he thought, tearing his eyes off the photo. Instead, he lay on the couch and fell asleep.
Lauren was walking on the beach way, way ahead of him. They were on Cape Cod, but the spinner dolphins they’d seen in Hawaii were leaping out of the ocean, and Lauren was running ahead to get a better look, and he couldn’t reach her, because he kept stumbling on the sand. The rocks at the shore’s edge knocked together, clacking rhythmically, and Lauren’s long pink summer dress was just a dot now, and the clacking was louder now, banging, knocking, barking—
He woke up in a lurch. Pebbles was barking, and someone was knocking on the door. “Quiet,” he said sharply to the dog, and she obeyed, making him feel cruel and hard.
The knocking stopped. “Josh? It’s Sarah.”
Shit. He did not want to see anyone. Especially Sarah, who was all too healthy. Why couldn’t she have been the one who—
“Josh? It’s important.”
He hauled himself to his feet, the blanket tangling in his legs. “Um, it’s not a great time,” he said, moving closer to the door so she could hear him. His voice was strange to his own ears.
“I know. Open the door anyway.”
“Can you come back, um . . . next week?”
“No.”
He leaned against the door and ran his hand over his face.
“Joshua. Open the door or I’m calling 911 for a wellness check.”
She worked in social services, so he imagined she meant it.
“Josh. I’ve called you every other day, and you haven’t answered once. Please open the door. You’re not the only one who’s been grieving this past month.”
Jesus. A month since his wife died? It seemed like a decade. It seemed like thirty seconds ago.
He opened the door, and Sarah flinched, then hugged him. He patted her shoulder, wishing she would stop.
“You smell horrible,” she said, hugging him tighter.
“Sorry,” he said, stepping back.
She came inside and bent down to pet Pebbles. “Hi, honey! I missed you!” Pebbles wagged joyfully, and Josh felt a stab of resentment. That was Lauren’s dog. Lauren should be the one petting her, calling her honey.
Which was stupid, he knew.
Sarah straightened, wiped her eyes and looked around the place. “Oh, boy.”
He’d drawn the shades against the view, the sun. Cartons of food were in various places, some full, some empty. He noticed a pizza box under the coffee table, the corner chewed off. Pebbles must’ve swiped it. He hoped it wasn’t because she was hungry.
“Well.” Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Um . . . why don’t you take a shower, and I’ll clean up a little? Open the windows, get some fresh air?”
“I was just going to take a nap.”
“Go shower, Josh.” He opened his mouth to argue and then, lacking the energy, trudged down the hall to the bathroom.
He hadn’t liked Sarah that much when he’d first been introduced. The two women had been friends since elementary school, but Josh wondered if they would have been friends if they met as adults. Sarah had an edge to her, a subtle resentment toward Lauren, glittering like a piece of glass in the sand. He saw it immediately, and kept seeing it every time they got together, during their engagement, even at the wedding. She went through the motions required, but it was clear she envied Lauren.
Then again, who wouldn’t? His wife had always been the brightest star in the sky.
But after the diagnosis, Sarah had been a rock. A perfect friend to Lauren. A helper for him, even.
He took a shower, listlessly rubbed soap over himself, then got dressed in not-filthy clothes and went into the living room. Sarah had opened the shades and windows, and had thrown out a lot of food cartons and pizza boxes. Made herself right at home, he saw. She was now using that weird little mop that picked up dog hair. Swiffer, that was it. It irked him that Sarah knew where everything was.
That being said, there was a lot of dog hair on the Swiffer cloth. Sarah took it off, tossed it in the trash and replaced it efficiently.
He sat down on the couch. “What’s so important, Sarah?” Oh. She was wiping her eyes. Right. She’d lost her best friend, and he could be a little nicer. Lauren would want him to. “It’s good to see you,” he lied.
She took a deep breath and let it out, then sank into the chair opposite him. Pebbles sat next to her, whining a little, making Josh feel guilty.
“First of all, this dog is getting a little chunky,” she said.
“Yeah, I . . . I might be overfeeding her.”
“Maybe she needs to get out more.”
He nodded, looking at the floor. Pebbles deserved better, it was true.
“This is tough, being here without her.” Sarah’s voice shook.
“Yes.” He searched his brain for something to say. “How have you been?”
“Shitty. Lonely. Heartbroken. You know.”
“Right.”
Sarah scooped her long hair around her neck to one side. Blond hair. It seemed like blond women valued their hair above all else, always calling attention to it. It was pretty enough, he supposed. Lauren’s hair had been deep, dark red, and so shiny. He didn’t know the word for hair the color of Lauren’s. Chestnut? Burgundy? Irish setter? So much more interesting than blond. To him, anyway.
Sarah pressed her fingertips under her eyes, wiping away more tears. He passed her a box of Kleenex from the coffee table.
“Thanks,” she said. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose, then stuffed the tissue in her bag. “Here’s the thing, Josh,” she said. “Lauren asked me to do something for you.”
What? Clean his house? Become his best friend? No, thanks. He didn’t want anything from Sarah. God help him if she thought she should move in or . . . or cook for him or, oh, God, offer to have his child. Jesus Christ, what was it?
Sarah reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope, and suddenly, Josh’s heart was convulsing, because he could see his wife’s handwriting.
Josh, #1
“It’s from her, obviously. So I’m just gonna leave this here and go, okay? I don’t know what’s in it, but she said she’d explain. I’m just the delivery person.” She wiped her eyes again. “I’ll . . . I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay. Sure. Thank you.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the envelope. His hands were shaking.
“Take Pebbles out more,” she said, and then she was gone, the door closing behind her, her heels clicking down the stairs.
He didn’t want to open it right now, he thought as he ripped it open. He should save it. He was hyperventilating a little.
Slow down, slow down, this is the last thing you’ll ever get from her, take your time.
Good advice. He should listen to himself. He took a focused breath, like Lauren used to, then blew it out in puffs. Pebbles jumped up next to him, and he took a second to pet her head, feel her silky ears.
Was now the time to read it? Should he save it? He couldn’t. He needed to hear her in his head. Tears were already burning his eyes.
Okay. He would read it. Now. If he could get his hands to stop shaking. He unfolded the paper, and the sight of her handwriting sliced him open.
Dear Josh,
Hi, honey! Are you doing okay? I’m wicked, wicked sorry I died. Oh, Joshua, I am. But I think you know that already. I hope it was a good ending. I hope I didn’t die on th
e toilet.
I love you. Did I say that yet? I do. I love you so much.
So, honey, here’s the thing. I’ve been feeling like I might not last that long. Hopefully I’m wrong, and you’re reading this at age ninety-seven, but I kind of doubt it. Please know that I stayed as long as I could, because I loved every day with you. Every single day.
I couldn’t bear the thought of you trying to get through this first year without me to help you. I’m bossy, as we both know. So I wrote up some letters for you, one for each month of this first year, each with a thing for you to do. You know how I love making lists. Sarah will bring the letters to you.
Josh closed his eyes. Oh, thank you. Thank you, Lauren. Thank you. He would still hear from her. She would still be with him. She was still here, in a way. He pressed the letter against his chest and bowed his head for a second. Then he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and continued reading.
I hope it won’t mess with your head, Josh. You don’t have to read them. Maybe this is really morbid.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s not.”
You can throw them all away, or tell Sarah to burn them or whatever. But I think you won’t. I think—I hope—it might help, honey. The truth is, I’ve never been able to stop feeling guilty for being sick. This is as much for me as it is for you. The past few months, as I’ve written these letters, it’s made me feel like I can still take care of you in the only way I can now. And that makes me happy, because I love you so much.
So in every letter, I’m going to give you a job to do, and you have to do it, because (ahem) I’m tragically dead and also watching you from the GB.
The GB. The Great Beyond. Their joke. He smiled. He damn well hoped she was watching. It made him feel less alone.
Just so you know, I’m writing from the patio of our gorgeous hotel in Turks and Caicos, and you’re sleeping in the bedroom. I can hear you snoring. Even your snoring is hot. I don’t know how you pull it off, but you do. You are definitely getting a little some-some in about fifteen minutes. This vacation is the BEST. Thank you, honey, for filling my life with so many beautiful moments.
Okay, back to the present time, or your present time, I guess.
Since this is the first month, I’m going easy on you, because I imagine you’re still wrecked. If you have a new wife already, I don’t want to hear about it. But I’m picturing you in a filthy apartment, unshowered, unshaved, looking like a pathetic ninth grader trying to grow a beard.
“You’re not wrong,” he said.
Are you ready? You are? Super!
Go to the grocery store!!!
Are you so excited? Listen. If I know you, there are dead veggies in the bottom drawer turning into green ooze. The milk is the consistency of cottage cheese. There are moldy leftovers and cold cuts that smell like feet. There’s plenty of food, but you’re not eating. You’ve barely left the house since I died. So go on! Take a shower! Shave. Brush your teeth. Go to the grocery store and stop eating food from cartons over the sink. Don’t be a loser!
I love you. I love you. I love you.
You can do this. You sort of have to. As the great Morgan Freeman once said, get busy living, or get busy dying.
Love, Lauren
“Don’t you Shawshank me,” he said, and he laughed, the sound rough and foreign.
Suddenly elated, he jumped from the couch. His wife had given him a chore, and he was going to do it. What was the weather like? Warm, right—Sarah had opened the windows. Was it Saturday? Could he go to the farmers’ market with Pebbles? Where was his phone so he could see the date?
First things first, clean out the fridge. Milk, lumpy and disgusting. In fact, all dairy products, see ya. Gross turkey slices—God, the smell. She was right. Some of the food he’d ordered and stuck in the fridge, some Tupperware containers of food from Sumi Kim, all of it way too old or mysterious. He filled the trash bag in record time.
Lauren was right about the vegetables. Those had been bought when she was still alive. When eating leafy greens was supposed to boost her immune system. “Fuck you,” he told the slimy spinach and liquefied zucchini. He opened the cupboard and saw the giant container of turmeric, supposedly so good for health. The vitamins and Chinese supplements. The lies, the hope.
None of this had saved her, so he jammed it all into the trash. Liars. False prophets. Snake oil. His mood plummeted back to the tar pits.
No. No. Lauren had written him a letter, had given him a task, and there were more to come, a dozen of them, and that was so amazing, so great, such a gift, he wasn’t going to ruin it by thinking about how dead she was.
With this letter, she was still here.
Ten minutes later, he had Pebbles on a leash. It wasn’t Saturday . . . it was Tuesday, so no farmers’ market, but that was okay, because he could drive to the Stop & Shop, which had been Lauren’s favorite grocery store. She hated Whole Foods and was mystified by Aldi. He’d take Pebbles for a walk first, because she did deserve some exercise, and then they’d get in the car so she could go for a ride, her favorite thing on earth.
Pebbles trotted joyfully next to him as he walked down the street, then into the park. It was mild out, in the midfifties, and the sun was bright and strong. People were all around, and maybe they recognized him as the guy with the brown-and-white dog, the guy with the wife on oxygen. Maybe they called out and said hello, but he was too buzzed with excitement to notice.
Get busy living, or get busy dying. Ha. Their joke.
He walked back to the apartment building’s parking lot. “You wanna go for a ride?” he asked their dog. “A ride?”
Pebbles answered with a nearly human string of sounds, her feathery tail swishing, those cute triangular ears at high alert.
“Let’s go, then.” He opened the door and she leaped in. He started the car, rolled down the windows enough so she could stick her head out, but not enough that she could jump out. It was a beautiful day. Very mild and sunny. The trees were turning faintly red with buds. That’s right. It was now officially spring.
At Stop & Shop, he parked, raised the windows enough so Pebbles could have fresh air but not lick passersby. He grabbed a cart and went inside and began zooming down the aisles. Arugula, broccoli, cabbage, tomatoes, peapods, red peppers, yellow peppers, oranges, ginger, garlic. Cheerios, sort of nutritious. Peanut butter, great on everything. Pasta, why not? Bread. Salmon, so healthy, plus Lauren loved it. Chicken breasts. Paper towels, the extra-soft tissues Lauren liked. Clorox Clean-Up, because they always had to make sure any contagious germs were . . .
Oh. Right. The germs were a moot point. And there was no they anymore. He wasn’t shopping for them anymore. Ever.
It was just him. The knowledge made him light-headed.
“Excuse me. Excuse me. Sir? Can you move?”
Josh blinked. Someone was trying to get around him, because apparently he’d stopped in the middle of the aisle.
“Yes. Sorry.” It was a mother, a toddler in the front of the cart and an older kid, maybe five, sitting among the groceries.
For the first time, it hit him that he’d never be a father. Not to Lauren’s kids. He’d always hoped that her IPF could be stopped, that she’d live decades more, and he wouldn’t give up on the idea of kids. Anything was possible. She’d only been twenty-eight. There was still time for the wonder cure that would put her IPF into permanent suspension, or even cure it.
But time had run out. There would be no kids. No genetic memory of her, no seeing her smile on a child’s face, no hearing a laugh that was just like hers.
The smaller child looked at him and started to cry.
“Sorry,” he said, and this time, he actually moved the cart.
Why was he here? He had to get home. He somehow had to figure out how to get these groceries put into bags, pay for them, get into the car—he had driven, right?—and get home.
Yolanda tilted her head, her eponymous earring brushing her shoulder. “You okay?”
“She died,” he said.
“Oh, baby,” Yolanda said, and she opened her arms, and suddenly Josh had his head on her shoulder, his body stiff, his face aching with the effort of not crying. “I’m so sorry, honey. She was the sweetest thing.”
He straightened up before he broke. Nodded.
“Let me check you out, hon. Come on.” Yolanda led the way, opened a register and started ringing him up.
He hadn’t brought the grocery bags. They were in the back of the car, but going to get them seemed akin to running a marathon. He stood, staring at the floor, as Yolanda bagged. “That’s $159.23, hon.”
“Sorry?”
“You need to pay, hon. Did you bring your wallet?”
He didn’t know. He felt for his back pocket. “Uh . . . no. I don’t think so.” He could feel himself shutting down, powering off.
Yolanda smiled sadly. “Okay. I got you this time. Just pay me back when you come in again. Take care, Josh. Take care of yourself.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
When he got home, he shoved all the bags in the fridge, gave Pebbles some water and went into the guest room. He got into bed fully clothed, pulled the covers up and prayed that he’d dream of his wife once more.
6
Lauren
Eight months left
Pack Up the Moon Page 4