The occasional thunderstorm made her giddy with joy, and with every flash of lightning she’d say, “Did you see that?” even though Josh was right beside her. The stars were fierce and bright on clear nights, and they could hear coyotes sometimes, or a fox yipping.
This would be a good place to die, Lauren couldn’t help thinking. This would be such a beautiful last thing to see.
One weekend in late August, Lauren sent Josh home again so she could have a proper girls’ weekend. Asmaa from the Hope Center, Mara from RISD, Louise from work, Sarah and Jen all came up to the Cape, fighting the monstrous traffic on Route 6, and stayed for five days. She had convinced Josh to stay in Providence, saying she needed some time with her girlies, assuring him that Jen would call him if she had a flare-up. They dressed up and put on makeup, then drove to Provincetown and had dinner overlooking the bay, eating lazy-man lobster, drinking fancy martinis, telling embarrassing stories about past loves and bad dates. Afterward, they saw a drag show and laughed so hard Lauren had to up her oxygen flow. Totally worth it.
It was lovely, she thought, looking around at them. They were wonderful friends. She’d miss them. Or not. The Great Beyond probably had contingency plans for spirits who wanted to check in on their friends.
Besides, she reminded herself, she could have years more. Years!
“I could get hit by a bus tomorrow,” people were fond of saying, their way of trying to be sympathetic when they heard about her disease. No one knew what the future held. And hey. Unlucky bus drivers aside, it was true. Staying in the moment was better than wringing hands about the future. She wasn’t going to waste this glorious summer thinking about how sick she was.
7
Lauren
Ten months left
April
Dear Daddy,
You have a granddaughter! Her name is Octavia Lauren, and she is the most beautiful thing in the entire universe, as you probably know because I swear you were there.
Holding her before she was ten minutes old, Daddy . . . the smell of her, her little sounds, grunting and squeaking. I said, “I love you, sweetheart,” and, Dad, she opened her eyes. She looked right at me, and it was like staring into all the mysteries of the universe, like this tiny baby (well, she was eight pounds, five ounces, so not tiny for Jen . . .) was telling me that no matter what, everything will be okay. We just looked and looked at each other, and I have never felt more perfect or known in my life.
Eventually, I had to give her back to Jen, who was a champion. She is amazing, Dad. Amazing.
Then Josh came in with Sebastian, because he was in the waiting room with the little guy. Sebastian ran in with a stuffed bunny and said, “My sister! Hi, my sister! You’re so cute!” Then he started crying with love. He kissed her forehead and said, “I love you, my sister!” and everyone was bawling.
When Mom came in, for once she didn’t make it about how sad she was that you weren’t there. She was just beaming, and when Jen told her the name, Mom said, “Oh, how beautiful! What a perfect name!” and hugged me.
There was so much love in that room, Dad. I know you felt it, too.
Josh and I took Sebastian home with us later that day so Jen could rest, and he slept over. Pebbles slept on his bed, which he thought was so funny. And you know Jen; she was up and about in two days, oversharing about her bleeding and how much it stings to pee.
I’m so happy, Dad. Seeing Octavia being born . . . it was a miracle. I know, I know, it happens every day. It’s still a miracle.
Congratulations, Daddy! Take good care of your little granddaughter and her big brother. Love you!
Lauren
“Don’t think this is because you’re sick,” Jen said two weeks later. “I was always going to have a daughter with Lauren for a middle name.”
Lauren was babysitting; Jen needed a nap and a shower. Darius had taken Sebastian to the library with plans to visit Newport Creamery for lunch, and so Lauren was summoned.
She did not mind in the least.
Little Octavia fussed and cried and pooped (would Lauren ever look at pumpkin pie the same way?). Lauren put her in the baby carriage and took her for a walk to get her fresh air and vitamin D. The baby didn’t mind how slowly she walked; Octavia just made little snorting and grunting sounds, like a tiny and very adorable piglet.
“Congratulations,” said one lady from a park bench.
“Thank you,” Lauren said, smiling. “She’s my niece.”
Back home, she gave the baby a bottle, changed her diaper yet again. Lauren sat in the recliner and put her feet up, bending her knees so Octavia rested against her legs. They stared at each other. The baby’s eyes were so . . . special. Giant and wise, like she knew everything.
When Octavia yawned, Lauren couldn’t help grinning in delight like a good auntie. Then Octavia started to fuss, so Lauren shifted her to her shoulder and patted her back, making little humming noises. After about five minutes, the baby grew quiet, and Lauren shifted her to the crook of her arm for more staring, drinking in the baby’s sweet lashes, silky little eyebrows, pale brown skin, almost exactly the same shade as Sebastian’s. Her hair was fine and brown, and she had the sweetest mouth.
And then, a tear dropped on her chin. Lauren’s tear, because apparently, she was crying. Silently, but a lot.
This, she knew with an aching certainty, was as close to having a baby as she’d get. She knew. She knew. She would never be a mother. Never go through what Jen and Darius had shared in the labor and delivery room, never look at a baby and see Joshua’s eyes or her own ears.
The tears wouldn’t stop falling, and Lauren’s chest was jerking. She cough-sobbed, then got up with some effort, not wanting to wake the baby. She put her in the little bassinet and went into the kitchen to cry into a dishtowel. She wouldn’t have children, and she was going to die too soon, and Sebastian and Octavia might not even remember her. She was going to miss so much. She would leave Jen, her beloved sister, and these perfect, beautiful kids and her mom and Josh, oh, God, Josh, and it was like all her skin was gone and she was raw and terrified and wailing into the void of despair because, goddamnit, she was going to die.
Then Jen was there, hugging her, and Lauren lost it. She clung to her sister and wailed, and Jen was sobbing, too, because they knew. They knew. They held on to each other and cried and cried and cried until there was nothing left.
The baby slept through the whole meltdown.
They looked at each other, eyes red and noses stuffed, skin blotchy, and Lauren gave a half laugh. “Come on, sit down,” Jen said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I’ll make you some witch’s brew.” She went back to the kitchen and made some tea out of the Chinese herbs she kept on hand for Lauren . . . astragalus root and raw schisandra berries, because she was a great sister.
Lauren was still hiccuping when her sister came back. “Sorry,” she said.
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Jen said, squeezing her hand.
They sat there in silence, listening to Octavia breathe. After a while, Jen said, “Let’s go to the movies one night soon, okay?”
When Lauren was a dorky adolescent, wearing overalls and a cropped T-shirt and too-short bangs with a beret, Jen had generously overlooked her fashion choices and would take her to the movies. Alone or with Jen’s cool friends, and she never skimped on popcorn and Reese’s Pieces.
“Okay,” Lauren said, her voice cracking.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” Jen said, putting her hand over her mouth.
“I’m glad I’m dying first, so I don’t have to live without you,” she answered. “Hand to God, I’m glad.”
“I could get hit by a bus. You never know.” And then they started laughing, that wonderful, ridiculous, unstoppable laugh, sitting there, holding hands, drinking weird-tasting tea. When Sebastian and Darius came in, Sebastian ran to Lauren and gave he
r a slobbery kiss, and everything was good again.
But they knew. Lauren would die young. Maybe she’d see Sebastian’s first day of school, but she wouldn’t see him get his driver’s license. She wouldn’t take Octavia shopping for bras and listen to her talk about friends. She wouldn’t see them for prom pictures or talk to them about college.
But hopefully, she’d see all those things from the Great Beyond, with her father. Please let that be true, that we’ll be together, Daddy. Surely we deserve that. Also, being a dolphin for a day. Do not fail me, Great Beyond.
She held Octavia again before she left the house, breathed in the smell of her head, kissed her impossibly soft cheek. “I love you,” she whispered.
Octavia answered by puking breast milk into her hair. It was, oddly enough, just what Lauren needed. Snap out of it, Auntie.
So she did. When you’re living with a ticking clock, you can’t be a loser. You can’t think about what you won’t get to see, what you’ll never have. Ain’t no one got time for that.
8
Joshua
Month two
April
Dear Joshua,
I love writing your name. Full swoony geek disclosure: I practiced writing it after our first date. In calligraphy. How dorky is that?
Are you doing all right, honey? I hope you’re sleeping okay. I know how you get when you’re stressed. Listen to one of those relaxation apps at bedtime. Try some CBD gummies—they helped me—or a Benadryl if you need to. I worry about you.
Me, I bet I’m sleeping great . . . not in the sleeps-with-the-fishes way, but maybe in the sleeps-with-the-dolphins way. Wouldn’t that be amazing? I could be on a raft on a gentle azure ocean where there are no sharks or bitey things. I’m dozing and rocking while baby dolphins leap over me. Maybe I am one of those dolphins. At any rate, you don’t have to worry about me. The Great Beyond is (I’m 99.999 percent sure) fantastic.
Are you getting outside enough? Taking Pebbles for a walk or run? Keep her healthy. Don’t overfeed her. Please tell her I love her, okay? Tell her I’m sorry I had to go away, and she was the best dog ever. IS the best dog ever. (She’s sitting next to me on the bed as I write this, and when I cry, she sits right on my lap, puts her paws on my shoulders and licks my tears. I want to think she’s comforting me, but I think she just wants the salty deliciousness.)
I hope the grocery shopping task went well. Tell Yolanda hi from me. Actually, that would be weird, wouldn’t it? “My dead wife sends her best!” Better skip that.
This month, honey, I want you to have some people over for dinner. I know you’ll hate that idea, but I think you need to eat with humans once in a while, not just Pebbles. Bring some life into the apartment. Maybe have a few laughs, even.
Invite my sister and Darius, Mom (or not), your mom, maybe Sarah. Cook for them. Let them hug you. Go ahead and talk about me and cry if you need to. But let them come into our home and be part of your life, honey. Don’t shut them out. They love you. Or just invite people who don’t know you that well but seem nice. Your patent attorney whose name I can’t remember right now. She was nice. One of your old professors from RISD. Creepy Charlotte from the first floor, who eye-fucks you every time she sees you. (Just kidding! Do not invite that woman to my house!)
It really doesn’t matter who. I’m so sorry that I put you in this place, Josh. I’m with you, though. I live in your heart, and there’s no better place I could be.
I hope you’re doing a little better, showering and eating and maybe working some, too. Getting some sunshine. I don’t know what time of year I died, but get sunshine even if it’s winter.
I love you so, so much. With all my heart, liver, pancreas, stomach, kidneys, and even with my crappy lungs.
Now make some calls. Don’t be a loser.
I love you.
Lauren
She was right. He hated the idea.
But God, he loved hearing from her. He’d read the first letter so many times he had it memorized. Knowing he was going to have twelve of them, he’d ordered a museum-quality, pH-neutral box, handmade by a craftsman in Louisiana. Tiger maple exterior, lined in special cloth so the letters wouldn’t age.
He read the letter again. He could hear her voice, which had gotten raspier throughout her illness from intubations and coughing, but which he loved just the same. He could almost smell her skin . . . the faint floral scent of her shower gel, the citrusy perfume she loved, the hint of menthol from the Vicks VapoRub she swore helped her breathe.
He closed his eyes, summoning her. Be with me, he thought. He might not believe in God, but he did believe in Lauren. Come to me, honey. The sunshine on her dark red hair, illuminating a dozen different colors of brown, red, gold. Her pink lips and dark lashes. Eyes the color of whiskey. Her big laugh, bellowing out of her.
That laugh made her cough relentlessly in the last few months. How malicious, how evil, that laughter made her wince in pain.
With a sigh, he opened his eyes. He was still alone, but he had a little piece of her in his hands. Her words. Her sense of humor. Her love, shining from the letter.
He had been trying to do better, per her instructions. Shaved when he saw that he needed to. Set his phone to go off so he’d remember to shower.
For the past month, he’d taken Pebbles for long walks in Swan Point Cemetery or drove her to Colt State Park in Bristol, where the two of them would run and hopefully not see anyone he knew. He’d been better about throwing trash away. He tried not to nap for more than an hour. He set the alarm so he’d wake up in the morning and tried to remember to eat.
He was trying to show her he could do this.
It was as if, by doing what she said, he’d pass a test, and the reward would be Lauren, alive again. He knew the letters fed that idea. He’d catch himself thinking, When I talk to Lauren in April . . . Once, he thought, I can’t wait to tell Lauren about her letter.
Grief was a heavy, dark blanket, weighing him down, making the smallest things difficult. Before Lauren, he’d been a loner, sure, but it had been by choice. Now, it felt like the sun had fallen out of the sky, and the world was a wasteland of gray. He had to turn away from couples in the park or on the street. When his phone showed 183 texts, and his email inbox held 624 unread messages, he didn’t bother looking at them. None of them was from the one person he wanted.
As if on cue, his phone buzzed with an incoming call. Donna. “No,” he snapped, abruptly furious at the intrusion. He declined the call, then tossed his phone onto the chair opposite. “Talk to someone else.”
While his mother-in-law had gotten her shit together that last week—that last day, especially, the one he couldn’t bear to remember—she’d been an ass pain for most of Lauren’s illness, wringing her hands, worrying about how she, Donna, would deal with this, how sad she was, how she couldn’t sleep, eat, laugh. Two wasted years of self-pity when she could’ve been helpful, strong, a comfort to her daughter. He knew it wasn’t possible to judge the level or means of grief when a parent loses a child, but Jesus, Donna had a gift for making it all about her. And right now, he wanted to think about Lauren’s letter.
So. A dinner party. His wife wanted him to throw one, and he would comply with her wishes. He’d go with people he knew well—Jen and Darius. And Sarah, he supposed.
He retrieved his phone and texted them. They were all in, which was good.
Josh was aware that he wasn’t close to many people. He’d had a couple of friends from college who’d had the same major—Peter from RISD, who was out in California, doing research at Stanford. Keung from MIT, who worked for a medical device company in London. Both had been groomsmen in his and Lauren’s wedding. He had seen Peter a couple of years ago when he was in San Francisco at a conference, before Lauren had been diagnosed.
His closest childhood friend, Tim, had moved when Josh and Tim were juniors in high
school. They’d seen each other only a handful of times since then. Tim had met Lauren but wasn’t able to come to the wedding.
All three had left messages and sent cards after her death. But they weren’t here. They didn’t know the details of Lauren’s sickness. They hadn’t seen her weaken and grow smaller, hadn’t seen her skin get white and then faintly blue when her sats were low. In a way, he was glad the last memory they had of her was when she was so happy, so vital. They got to remember her that way. They got to remember him as a happy man.
Darius, his brother-in-law, was trying to be his friend, but he was so different from Josh himself. Darius was a good-natured, easygoing executive in a big advertising firm, a former football player for the University of North Carolina. He was suave and well dressed and seemed to know something about everything, never at a loss for words. Pretty much the opposite of Josh, who still couldn’t recognize a Kardashian and whose mind shuttered at most social events.
Except when he was with Lauren. She had thought he was the most interesting person on earth, and because of that, he had been. In her eyes, at any rate, and that was the only thing that mattered.
The four of them had had some great times, the two sisters, their husbands. There’d been lots of laughter before her diagnosis, and quite a bit after, too. Dinners together. Cape Cod. The holidays.
But it was different now. That was back when he was half of Lauren-and-Josh, when he didn’t feel like his skin hurt and his brain was an empty shoebox, his body sinking in tar.
Oh, fuck. A thought occurred to him. If there were four of them at dinner, it might seem a little . . . couple-ish. Jen and Darius, Sarah and Josh. And that was a firm no.
Pack Up the Moon Page 6