Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  I knew that boy well. He wasn’t a stranger. I felt the tension in my shoulders release at that recognition. “What happened then?”

  “Then he stopped showing up for a couple weeks straight, and he didn’t come to school either. I thought it was mono like everyone else, but then, one day, I went to use the bathroom before my therapy session and saw Helen Beasley and Stewart’s therapist in the hallway talking. They were clearly at the end of a meeting. Helen was wearing this amazing mink coat—you know that one she had? She looked like a 1940s movie star. Anyway, I heard her say, ‘How long do these sort of episodes usually last?’ The therapist said, ‘It depends. I’ll be honest: Stewart has been battling this for a while. After a breakdown, a person may take time to repair himself and get back to normal. Some people are never quite the same.’ Then they noticed me and I ducked past them into the restroom. Of course, I pretended I hadn’t heard a thing. But I never forgot those words because they scared me: never quite the same.”

  Sheesh. A breakdown? I tried to wrap my mind around it. Poor Stewart. I remember trying to get in to see him during that time, but I was told he was too sick and contagious. That seemed absurd to me. It was the “kissing disease,” right? I wasn’t going to stick my tongue down his throat; neither was Jimmy. But the Beasleys had said no, and that was around the time that Matthew Simonsson became my boyfriend. I was deeply focused on flirting with him by Riverside Park, taking off his baseball cap and threatening to throw it over the stone wall, then letting him kiss me against it instead.

  “Anyway, then Stu came back to school,” Morgan went on. “And he was the same, so I figured all’s well. He didn’t come back to that therapist though. At least not at our regular time. So when I heard this terrible news, I wanted to make sure he’d been happy. I hated to think of him being miserable this whole time. I wanted to know that he’d spent his life before the aneurysm feeling like he could get out of bed.”

  “Well, he definitely made it out of bed—for every B-list celebrity with an Instagram account.” The joke didn’t have a shelf life. It turned rancid out there in the silence. Morgan smiled out of generosity, but I could tell that more hid behind her expression. Stewart had been kind to her. I was being unkind to him now.

  Had I underestimated him? Was Stewart kind, after all?

  I watched as a couple of teenage girls tumbled inside the café now, giggling together at the counter as they debated the selection of sweets and counted their pooled money. It was hard to believe we had ever been that young. “Thank you, Morgan. I really appreciate you telling me all this—about Stewart, I mean.”

  “Of course, Wren! You really didn’t know?”

  I shook my head and shrugged. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell me.”

  “We were kids.”

  That was true. And there is a lot that we hide from each other as teenagers—it’s a matter of survival. We know each other as our parents and siblings never could, but there are limits on the other side. In some ways, we all lead secret home lives—parents sleeping in separate bedrooms, sex toys stumbled upon in bedside tables, the infidelities, the rehab stints, the tumbles off wagons, the abuses and criticisms, the disagreements, the unusual foods with strange smells, the illnesses, the nerdy game nights—even the proliferation of Post-it notes and thrift store furniture. We protect ourselves.

  At some point, though, don’t we let our guards down and reveal the truth to our closest people? Once we grow up and realize how screwed up everyone else is too?

  “No, but later,” I insisted. “When we were adults, confessing every horrible thought and impulse to each other. At four a.m., drunk and miserable in the best way in our twenties. I don’t know why he never told me then.”

  Morgan sighed, her lips forming a sad smile. “Old habits die hard, Wren.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Meaning maybe he didn’t want you, of all people, to see him that way. No matter how much time had passed. Maybe he wanted to preserve your image of him. Maybe those weren’t your roles in the dynamic. I mean, you know how he felt about you.” She laughed suddenly. “Or maybe I’ve seen too many therapists!”

  I thought about the deep shame I felt when I was rejected from Columbia, how I still hid that fact from others though I was the only one who cared. How that shame had shaped my life, the dreams I hadn’t pursued. I thought about the people we want others to see us as versus the people we really are.

  I thought about Stewart, about how he was my bright spot, my cheerleader. I thought about how cheerleaders can’t do their jobs when they’re too sad to move. I thought about lying in bed next to him in the dark, how I thought we were just wallowing in teen angst. I thought we were bummed because our parents were annoying and our friends could be dumb and there was too much American History reading and we didn’t understand precalculus. I didn’t understand if he was in real pain.

  I had sensed him near me then—his fingers inches from my own. I wished I could take his hand now. Our arms flush against each other, emanating warmth. Why didn’t I just grab his hand and weave my fingers through? Why didn’t I press my palm against his and let him know he wasn’t alone?

  Chapter 27

  Stewart. Grab my hand.

  Chapter 28

  I could have walked to the Beasleys’ apartment from Cafe Lalo, I was that close. I should have walked. But I felt like I needed to be propelled by some other form of motion, while I sat and thought—about Stewart, about friendship, about Morgan, who was a more quality person than anyone I’d interacted with in a while. Including myself. So I hailed a cab.

  I tried Gretchen. Voicemail. Again. She was so hard to reach lately. That job was working her to the bone. I made a mental note to force her to see a shitty movie with me soon. Something with Seth Rogen and anyone else. She needed downtime to space out and, frankly, so did I.

  That left one last person to call: I took a steadying breath, dialed and the phone rang. I got voicemail.

  “You’ve reached Margaret Pinkus. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave your name and number and, if I’m not off-the-grid, I’ll call you back. Remember: ‘The medium is the message.’ Thanks!”

  Just hearing my mother’s voice on her outgoing message stole my breath. I knew this was going to happen. I squeezed my eyes shut. It was more than I could take.

  “Hey, Mom, it’s me,” I managed. “Hope you guys are good. I got your messages. I’m so sorry we haven’t connected in the last week since . . . It’s been crazy, as you would imagine. Everyone is behaving . . . badly. That’s the nicest way to put it. Anyway, I have a random question for you about Stewart: Do you remember when he was out of school for a month when we were like thirteen or fourteen? They said it was mono. Is it possible that it was something else? Did Helen hint at anything? It’s not important, but it just came up with Morgan Tobler—yup, I saw Morgan; she’s good—and, well, anyway, I thought you might remember, having been an adult and all. Actually, come to think of it, maybe you were on that retreat in the Berkshires that month? I can’t remember. Anyway. Love you. Miss you. I promise I’ll make it up there soon to see you guys. Tell Dad I said, what-up! Talk to you later.”

  I pressed end and stared at my phone, hard. Having finally tried and failed to reach my mother, I felt as alone as ever in my life.

  I gazed out at the streets, blurred as we passed. It didn’t matter. I knew them by heart. The route to the Beasleys’ house. Each corner and stoop, with its particular slopes and divots, was as much a part of me as the cells in my body.

  The taxi driver kept accelerating then stopping short at each red light, as if that might somehow get us to our destination faster. It was making my stomach drop like a roller coaster that I wanted off. I kept a hand to my chest, holding my heart inside. I tried to see the driver’s face, but I couldn’t make him out through the thick glass littered with stickers. He was in silhouette against the wi
ndshield. At a stop, he pushed his glasses up on his face and for one brief, heart-stopping, irrational instant, I thought he was Stewart.

  cause of death: Car crash (duh.) Hopefully not in the next ten minutes.

  after-death ritual: Burial. With a procession of taxicabs.

  service: Something casual, but big enough to include all of driver friends. All dressed up and wearing aftershave.

  processional music: A rousing rendition of the Beatles’ “Drive My Car.”

  memorial buffet: Road trip snacks. Beef jerky. Doritos. Gatorade.

  We stopped short again, the breaks squealing. I grabbed the door handle and held on tight. Maybe a cab had been a bad idea. The leather seat felt stiff beneath me. The air smelled heavy with aftershave and mildew. I cracked the window, inviting in a blast of cool atmosphere. We zoomed up tree-lined streets past brownstones in various states of grandness or disrepair—mostly well-kept these days—then past Columbus and up to Central Park West. Lush trees came into view. I noticed the leaves were starting to change. Sometimes they fall off before they turn vibrant reds, purples, and yellows, but it looked like this would be a beautiful year. A year full of political upheaval and insane headlines and natural disasters and sickness and health and small miracles and resistance and beautiful fall foliage. A year Stewart would never see.

  “Near corner, please.”

  My mysterious driver did not respond. I spotted George waiting for me outside, shaded underneath the awning, staring down at his phone. Despite what I knew awaited upstairs, I felt myself smile, a different kind of butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and it surprised me. With George, at least I didn’t have to pretend.

  The driver pushed the plexiglass aside and turned to face me, offering me my receipt. He was an older guy with wire rim glasses, pockmarked skin, and a goatee. Definitely not Stewart. I said goodbye and closed the cab door.

  George still hadn’t realized he was being observed. He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting on his feet. I came to a stop in front of him. “Hey. Know a good lawyer?” You would have thought I’d screamed, “Fire!” from the way he jumped.

  He put a hand to his head. “Jesus. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Stressed much?” I nodded toward his phone.

  “Yeah. Just work stuff.”

  “Real job and all.”

  “Right.”

  “So just work stress? Nothing to do with meeting with our dead friend’s mother upstairs?”

  He frowned. “You love to call him ‘our dead friend.’ ”

  “Sorry. ‘Your dead client’s mom’? Is that better?”

  “Not really.”

  Is this thing on? I pulled my jacket tighter around me to protect against the cold. “George. I’m joking. Don’t tell me I actually offended you?”

  “No.” He exhaled, shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry. I do find meeting with Helen anxiety-provoking, especially with you.”

  “With me? How come?”

  “Oh. I didn’t even mean—”

  “It’s okay. You can say it: because she doesn’t like me.”

  George looked flummoxed, but then recovered. “Yeah, I guess that’s why. I don’t know.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, resting my palm on his upper arm. “It’s not your problem. Don’t feel like you have to try to fix things.” I knew I should move my hand, but his muscle flexed underneath and I liked how it felt. He was wearing a navy blue sweater; it was a good color on him.

  He looked me in the eyes, then looked down at my hand on his arm, then looked back up at me again and smiled. I dropped it.

  “Let’s start over.” He leaned down and kissed my cheek, sending a shiver down my body.

  It’s chilly out, I told myself. That’s all. “Hello. Nice to see you. How’s your day going?”

  “Weird. But what isn’t these days?”

  “Well, I’d love to hear more about the weirdness later because we haven’t had enough of that lately, but we should head upstairs.”

  He gestured toward the doors. “After you.”

  “Gentlemanly.”

  “That or it’s a #MeToo move,” he said. “You don’t know. I could be trying to catch a glimpse of your butt.”

  I rolled my eyes. He grinned and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Nope. You first.”

  On our way up in the elevator, he debriefed me: “So I talked to Blair. She’s back at Stewart’s place again today, finishing up going through everything.”

  “Wait, what? I thought we were done!”

  “So did I, but apparently she felt that it wasn’t quite organized enough, so she’s doing a last appraisal with her label maker.”

  “You mean correcting our choices, recategorizing, and putting her stamp on absolutely everything?”

  “Right.”

  I threw my hands up. “George! You’re such a sucker!”

  “I know, I know. Though I prefer ‘nice guy.’ I told her that Mallory and the other vultures were not permitted inside under any circumstances.”

  “I assume you didn’t call them ‘vultures.’ ”

  “You mean, did I reveal your affectionate nickname? Maybe I did; maybe I didn’t. You’ll never know. Unless you ask them next time you see them. Like, ‘Did George tell you that I call you ‘the vultures?’ That’s a good idea.”

  The elevator pinged its arrival and the doors opened. Why did the entrance to this apartment always remind me of stepping onto a massive ship in Star Wars, the doors sliding open to reveal so much blinding white? I half expected an army of storm troopers to march up with Bellinis and cocktail napkins.

  As if on cue, Madison appeared. “Hi, guys! Fantastic to see you both. Can I take your coats? Let me take them. It’s warm in here and cold out there! Come, come, come.”

  I hustled out of my jacket, handing it to a housekeeper, who appeared as if from nowhere. I noticed that George took his time. I guess he wasn’t as rattled by Madison’s frenetic energy.

  “Hi,” he smiled. “Always a pleasure.”

  “Nice to see you too.” She blushed. “Both of you, of course.” Not convincing. Madison cleared her throat. “Anyway, come this way. Helen is in her office. It’s so chilly today, isn’t it? Fall is here!”

  George was able to match her stride without much effort, being taller than I. He leaned in toward her conspiratorially, as I shuffled behind them. “How’s she doing today?”

  “It’s a hard one!” Madison beamed. “She’s been locked in her study all day, dealing with estate issues—Stu’s trust fund, what have you. We found an old album from a family trip to the Amalfi Coast when the kids were small. She’s been poring over that. I tried to open a window for fresh air, but she wasn’t having it. Too cold, apparently!”

  Madison knocked on the door of Helen’s office, lightly enough that I guessed she’d been reprimanded for being too loud in the past.

  “Come in.”

  Helen was seated behind her desk, wearing a white sweater and riding pants—not for riding. She looked “dressed” by anyone else’s standards, but it was as casual as I’d seen her in years. My first thought was, she looks tired. Like something has gone out of her face. Like she’s lost something.

  Of course she had.

  “Good of you both to stop by.” She pulled off her tortoiseshell reading glasses. “Have a seat.”

  George crossed and gave her a kiss on the cheek, so I did the same. It was more of an air kiss in her vicinity really; her cheek smelled of expensive face cream.

  “So everything got sorted?” Helen asked.

  “It should be,” George said, settling on the love seat beside me. “We separated out what we thought you, Ted, and Kate might like to keep and then everything that seemed appropriate to display at the tribute.”

  “Yes. Blair mentione
d that she was finishing up today. What a lovely girl she is. She’s been so helpful. How lucky that she could make the time.”

  I restrained myself from gagging but couldn’t help stealing a glance at George. He was avoiding my eyes as he nodded. “Yes. She was . . . there.”

  “She and Stewart spent so much time together. I wonder why they never dated. Do you know?”

  I figured Helen was asking George, but when I looked up, she was eying me expectantly. “Me?” I put a hand to my chest. “Oh. I think Blair probably wasn’t his type. Kind of . . .” I struggled for a nice way to say it: controlling, insecure, aggressive, vapid, high-strung, materialistic, full-of-shit, star fucker. “Tightly wound.”

  Helen squinted at me. “Huh. Really? She just seems effective to me. Like an adult.”

  I was at a loss. Stewart didn’t date adults. Not in that way. But I wasn’t going to argue with his mother.

  George swooped in to save me. “Eh. She was probably just too tall.”

  Helen turned her gaze on him and smiled with genuine affection, even warmth. I was catching a glimpse of the “pussycat” Jimmy knew. “Probably. Anyway, I’ll be able to stop by tomorrow morning to look through what you found, then we can send what’s necessary to the TV Institute. After that, you can have Stewart’s friends back over in the evening to pick out the memorabilia they’d like.”

  The idea of watching the vultures pick over Stewart’s belongings like raw flesh made my head hurt. Again.

  “And Kate will be able to get there before that too?” I asked. “I put some items aside that I thought she’d particularly want—old photos of them together and stuff like that.”

  Helen avoided my eyes, shuffling papers on her desk. “I’ll make sure anything Kate might want is brought here.”

  So Kate wasn’t going to see Stewart’s apartment one last time? Or go through her brother’s belongings herself? What was wrong with this family? Were they trying to outsource their pain like Gretchen suggested? Or did Kate just not care? Was that possible? I knew how close they’d been as kids, having survived a kind of boot camp with their parents.