Pack Up the Moon

by Kristan Higgins

  Lauren sure did. Poor Sarah had cried on the school bus, and Lauren had shielded her, pretending they were looking at a magazine while she handed Sarah tissues. “Let’s have a girls’ night that day and do something way better and post pictures everywhere.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s genius. She’ll hate that so much.” They laughed, instantly reverting to sixth graders, which was the beauty of childhood friends. “She commented on the video you posted of Josh snoring, did you see that?”

  “Thanks for that, by the way,” Josh said.

  “You’re welcome. Cinematic genius, if I do say so.” Lauren pulled up her Instagram on her phone. The other day, she’d come home from work to find Josh asleep on the couch, a rhythmic snore-puff with each exhale. She’d very gently taped a Kleenex to his nose, careful not to wake him, and filmed him while Pebbles looked on, head tilted with curiosity, startling slightly as the tissue fluttered.

  She still thought it was hilarious (and it had thousands of likes, so she wasn’t wrong). “Ah, here’s what Mean Debi has to say. ‘You’re amazing to still be having fun, despite everything. Hashtag PrayingFor-Lauren.’ Oh, my God!”

  They laughed more, though Lauren had to pull hard to get enough air. “I hope her birthday cake turns rancid.”

  “Want some pie, Sarah?” Josh asked, getting up and heading for the kitchen.

  “Sure! Let me try yours and see if you’re a better baker than I am, in which case I must kill you.”

  “Understood.”

  Sarah trailed after him, chatting amiably, and a thought came to Lauren.

  Sarah could be Josh’s second wife.

  Since Lauren’s diagnosis, she’d seen a . . . maturing in her friend. Maybe that was something that happened to everyone who had to face terminal illness, their own or someone else’s. But while Sarah had always, always been her friend, Lauren knew she was competitive, always wanting to be the prettiest girl in the room, the smartest, the best dancer, whatever. The two of them had always planned to go to school on the Hill . . . Lauren had gotten into RISD via early decision and a rather smashing portfolio, but Sarah wasn’t accepted at Brown, despite her straight As. Instead, she’d taken the scholarship offered by the University of Rhode Island. Every time she visited Lauren and they walked around College Hill, Sarah was edgy and a little bitter.

  When they graduated, Lauren got her dream job in interior and public space design. Pearl Churchwell Harris, Architects, was located in a beautiful old building on Benefit Street. Sarah got her master’s in social work and took a job with the Department of Children, Youth and Families, which was noble and draining and rewarding and depressing. The Lord’s work, Lauren said, but it took its toll. And, of course, Sarah wasn’t paid nearly enough, whereas Lauren earned enough to be able to find her own place almost immediately. Sarah had lived with her mom until last year.

  Lauren wasn’t the comparison type; she was Jen’s little sister, so she’d learned humility early on. She happily accepted her position as second-best daughter (she was the founder of Jen’s fan club, after all). But she could tell that Sarah resented a lot of the surface things. If Lauren wore a new pair of shoes, Sarah’s hawkish eyes would spy them. If she bought anything new for her apartment, Sarah would immediately notice it, but not comment. Then there were the not-so-surface things—Sarah’s dad was a deadbeat idiot; Lauren had had the world’s best father. Sarah had a handful of half siblings she barely knew, courtesy of her father; Lauren had the greatest sister in human history.

  So there was jealousy there, and since she had no idea how to combat it, Lauren never addressed it. But it got worse when Lauren started dating Josh. And hey. Josh was perfect and beautiful and everything a person could ever want in a partner. Lauren understood. She believed every woman and gay man on earth would want Josh as a husband. Sarah had a tendency to fall in love fast and hard, and then be dropped. Lauren had asked her to be her bridesmaid, the only one other than Jen. And Sarah had smiled grimly through all wedding stuff, but Lauren knew she was envious.

  But whatever competitiveness Sarah had felt melted at Lauren’s diagnosis, and truly, she couldn’t have been a better friend. She came over at least twice a week, and they went out if Lauren felt up to it. Most importantly, Sarah treated Lauren like a normal person. Unlike, say, Mean Debi, who seemed to think that having a sick friend gave her some sort of special status on social media, because she posted about Lauren constantly. Thoughts and prayers to one of my dearest friends, who is bravely battling IFP. Not that Mean Debi ever did anything helpful or kind, mind you. She couldn’t even get the initials of Lauren’s disease right.

  Whatever. Sarah had really come through, and she was fun and pretty and hardworking. It would be nice, she thought, to look down from heaven and see the person she loved best in the world married to her oldest friend. It would be great. It would be lovely.

  Pebbles whined, cocking her head to look up at her mistress. “Nothing to see here,” she whispered. The dog jumped up on her lap and licked away her tears.

  14

  Joshua

  Month four

  June

  Dear Joshua,

  Hello, my wonderful husband! As I write this, you’re sleeping. Naked, I might add. Your shoulders are so ridiculously gorgeous. I am deeply grateful.

  It’s been strange, trying to imagine you alive while I’m not, trying to think about where you are and how you’re doing, what issues might be coming up. I’ve read some books on grief to try to help you get through this. I know there’s not an easy way, and everyone’s path is different (I hate that line, don’t you? Obviously, everyone’s path is different, genius! Duh!)

  But everyone’s path is different.

  It occurred to me that aside from all the things we do together, and aside from you running, you don’t really have a hobby. (I view the punching bag as more of a coping mechanism than something you actually enjoy doing.) Fly-fishing is a real hobby, for example. Or learning how to sail, since we live in the Ocean State. I bet there’s a baseball league for grown-ups in town, and maybe you’d like that.

  I think a hobby would be a way for you to do something we never did together. Maybe it will relax you, or tire you out in a good way, or be something that you do at home, like paint. Pottery. (Actually, not pottery. You’d have to give pinch pots and lopsided vases to our friends and family, and they’d have to pretend to like them because you’re a widower.)

  Would you get a hobby for me, Joshua? It makes me happy to think of you trying something new, something that would interest you. I want you to have free time. I don’t want you to be working or grieving every minute of every day. I want you to make new friends. Maybe this can help.

  I’ll be watching, cheering you on in whatever it is, honey. I love you.

  Lauren

  He reread it four times, memorizing it, then sniffed the paper, hoping to catch a trace of her smell. Nothing. Just paper.

  She was right. He didn’t have many hobbies. He designed medical stuff, and he took care of his wife. He liked to travel, but not without her. He liked to cook, but not for one. The days were too long, and the nights were worse.

  A hobby it would be.

  Now. What did he like to do?

  His mind went blank.

  Once or twice a month, he and Ben Kim went for a long walk through the city so Ben could get his cigar fix without Mrs. Kim harping on him. That didn’t exactly constitute a hobby, though.

  He ran because he knew he had to do something in order not to be a blob of a human, and to exercise Pebbles. He wasn’t interested in an art class. His work was art, in a way. When he was a kid, his mom had put him in gymnastics to burn off some of his toddler energy, and he kept at it for a few years. But that wasn’t something an adult could take up (the idea of him doing handsprings in the park . . . no). He’d played Little League baseball until about seventh grade, when he quit fo
r the robotics team (dork). He hadn’t played sports in high school, but had done Model UN (super dork).

  To Google he went. Hobbies for men. Leather working, out. Microbrewing, out. Guns, no thanks. Too loud, plus he didn’t see himself ever shooting anything. Archery maybe? That could be cool. Woodworking . . . nah. Furniture making? In college, he had been sought out as one of the few who could assemble IKEA furniture without direction. Might he have a talent for woodworking? The smell of wood, the satisfaction of a table made by his own hands?

  But where would he do that? Would he have to buy a bunch of saws and power tools? Too much trouble.

  He called Sarah. “Hey,” he said, belatedly realizing she was at work. “You busy?”

  “No, no. What’s up?” Of course she was busy; she was a social worker for the state.

  “Um, well, this is out of the blue, but . . . I’ve been thinking of taking up a hobby.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I just don’t know what to do.”

  There was a silence. “Do you want me to suggest something?”

  “Yes?” Why had he called her? He should’ve called Jen, who knew him better.

  “Okay. Well, I take karate classes.” That’s right, she did. She used to come over before class sometimes, because Lauren had gotten a real kick out of it (pun intended), seeing her in her karate getup. “Why don’t you come to a class and see if you like it?”

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  “Okay, I’ll text you my schedule and talk to my sensei.”

  Couldn’t she just say teacher? Why did she always annoy him? “Thanks, Sarah,” he said, aware that she was doing him a favor.

  “You’re welcome. Gotta go.”

  * * *

  GREEN DRAGON SCHOOL of Kenpo Karate was in a strip mall over in Federal Hill. Sarah met him there, already dressed in her black uniform, which was cinched at the waist with a black belt.

  “Wow,” Josh said. “You’re a black belt?”

  “No, Josh, I’m just wearing this because I like the color.” She rolled her eyes, then kissed him on the cheek. “Come on in. Sensei’s expecting us.”

  “Does Sensei have a name?”

  “She does. Jane.” Josh immediately pictured a tall, strong white woman in her forties, chiseled and hard and militant—a shredded Tilda Swinton. They went into the waiting room, which sported worn blue carpeting, a counter and a line of chairs. Windows showed the larger room with a padded floor, where classes were obviously taught. Freestanding punching bags, kicking shields and myriad other supplies stood neatly on the far side.

  “Hello!” cried a woman. She was so tiny he hadn’t seen her behind the desk, and he jumped. She was white-haired—sixties? Seventies?—and wore a black uniform with a black belt around her plump waist. Japanese, with a slight accent. “You must be Joshua Park. Welcome! And hello, dear Sarah!” She stood up, not quite five feet tall, he guessed. Four foot ten and a half. Being an engineer made him good at estimating these things.

  “Sensei, this is my friend, Josh. Josh, this is Sensei Jane Tanaka.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, towering over her. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis, poor thing.

  “Have you ever done martial arts before, Josh?”

  “No, ma’am. I have a punching bag at home, but . . . no.”

  “That’s okay! We are all beginners at some point. So! We’ll do a little karate together, and you can decide if you want to become a martial artist.”

  It did sound cool. Joshua Park, martial artist.

  “Sign this waiver, please. It says you won’t sue me if you get injured.”

  Josh obeyed.

  “Now. Come into the dojo. Take off your shoes, then bow to the flag”—a large American flag was tacked to one wall—“and bow to me, your sensei.”

  He obeyed. The padded floor felt comfortable under his feet, and the room smelled not unpleasantly of sweat and bleach.

  “What do you know about karate, Josh?”

  “Very little,” he said. “It’s a Japanese martial art, thousands of years old.”

  “That’s right. Great for exercise, self-defense, discipline. Now, stand here, left foot forward, hip distance apart, weight evenly balanced. Fists up, like so. This is fighting stance.”

  He imitated her, already feeling like a badass. This was the same as boxing, which Ben had taught him so long ago.

  “Wonderful,” she said, smiling. She looked like the epitome of a sweet grandmother. “Let’s do a little demonstration, okay?”

  “Sure,” Josh said, smiling a little. It would be cute to watch her do some moves. He hoped she wouldn’t strain anything, or hurt her hands by breaking a board or whatever it was you did in karate class.

  “Okay, Josh. Try to punch me in the face.”

  Josh flinched. “Excuse me?”

  “Punch me in the face.”

  “No, thank you,” Josh said, glancing at Sarah, who had her phone out, filming.

  “Joshua. I’m your sensei. I gave you an order.”

  “I was not brought up to hit my elders.”

  “And you shouldn’t, unless they tell you to. Come on. Try to hit me.”

  Ben, even when he was teaching Josh to box, had never told Josh to punch him in the face.

  “It’s okay, Josh,” Sarah said. “She does this to every new student.”

  “I’m not going to punch her,” Josh said. “Sorry, Mrs. Tanaka.”

  “Sensei. Okay, try to choke me, then,” she said.

  “I really—”

  “In this room, I am your sensei!” she barked. “You obey without question! Do it!”

  Jesus. Josh frowned, then put out his hands to the air around her soft neck, not actually touching her.

  “Is that the best you can do, pussy?” she asked.

  “Wow. Yes. I’m not going to choke you, Mrs.—uh, Sensei.”

  “Okay. Sorry, Joshua. I warned you.”

  “Actually, you didn’t—”

  And then he was lying on the floor, facedown, one arm twisted behind his back, smelling the mat, the sound of his body smacking the mat still ringing in the air.

  What just happened?

  Sensei Jane clapped her hands. “Get up! Now that you see I’m not a helpless little old lady, let’s try again. Punch me in the face.”

  Josh got back up, assumed fighting stance again and hesitated.

  “Do it,” she said.

  “This is not what I had in—”

  She kicked his leg out from under him, and he was sprawled on his back, Sensei standing over him, fist drawn. “Kee-ai!” she yelled, and punched. Josh flinched, but her little knobby fist stopped so close to his Adam’s apple that he could feel the heat of her hand. “A punch to the throat immobilizes the enemy and can even kill. Up you go, sweetheart. Ready to punch me in the face?”

  He climbed to his feet. “I was hoping this would be more—”

  She spun, one leg flying up, her foot hitting him squarely in the chest. He landed on his ass. Looked at her. Narrowed his eyes. “I’m ready to punch you now,” he said.

  “Great! Give it your best shot!”

  Josh stood up again and put his fists up.

  “Hit me as hard as you can,” Jane said. “Right in the face. Aim for my nose.”

  “Are you going to hurt me?” he asked. “More than you have already, that is?”

  She laughed merrily. “Only a little.”

  Okay, then. He pulled his fist back and let it fly, fully expecting her to dodge or block or something, but her eyes darted to the left, and at the last second, and in slow motion, and also at the speed of light, his fist hit her squarely in the face. He felt a hideous crunch, and Sensei Jane’s head jerked back.

  “Josh! Jesus! What did you do?” Sarah yelled, and sudde
nly, there were all these little kids dressed in white, and they were swarming him, and kicking him, and there was a lot of yelling of “Ha! Ha!” and their little fists were sharp, even if they couldn’t reach past his waist.

  “You hit our sensei! We hate you! We hate you! Kee-ai!”

  “Stop it,” he said, but the tiny warrior beasts had grabbed onto his belt and pulled him down to his knees and were now kicking the shit out of him with their tiny bare feet.

  “Sarah!” he said, covering his face.

  “Attention!” yelled Jane, and suddenly, the kids formed two rows and stood there like little soldiers. Her face was bloody, and Josh stood up, feeling like the world’s worst human.

  “Children,” Jane said, not bothering to wipe her face. “This is what happens when you lose focus. Mr. Park is our new student, and the first one who has ever been able to hit me. Bow to him and show your respect.”

  “No, please, I’m very sorry,” Josh said, but all the little kids turned and bowed to him.

  “Now, Joshua, please step outside. Class, one hundred jumping jacks. Violet, count them off while I clean my face.”

  “One! Two! Three!” a tiny blond girl began shouting.

  Josh slunk out of the room, where a dozen parents stared at him.

  Sarah came behind him, wheezing with laughter. “You punched an old woman,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

  “I heard that, Sarah,” Jane said, holding a towel to her face. “Old? Please. I am seventy years old. My mother is one hundred and four. Joshua, it was my own fault. I glanced away. So! You want to be my student?”

  “Um . . . yes. Yes, I do.” How could he say no? He’d broken her nose.

  “Great! I think you’ll do well.” She went behind a counter, glanced at him and pulled out a white uniform wrapped in plastic. “Go get changed and join our class.”

  “Um . . . is there a beginner’s class for adults?” he asked, glancing at the assembled parents, who were making no effort to pretend they weren’t staring.