Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  “Maybe share the memory of Stu that’s coming up most often for you. That might be one way that he’s sending you a message about what you meant to him. Whatever you share is fine. It’s just about connecting with your authentic truth.”

  As if the universe could sense my worst-case scenario, Keith said, “I think it would be appropriate if I went first.” His eyes were bloodshot from the lavender spray and his skin was blotchy, but apparently the pain had subsided.

  Willow looked delighted—everyone was participating! “Keith, you have our collective ear.”

  “Well, um, I keep thinking about when we both auditioned for our high school production of Grease.”

  I was so busy staring at Keith in wonder that it took me a minute to realize that George was clearing his throat repeatedly, trying to get my attention.

  “What?”

  He gestured with his chin down at our clasped hands, flexing his palm. “I think we can let go now.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d still been holding on. Everyone, including Mallory, had indeed dropped hands. I released him, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” But he wasn’t looking at me. Why was he being so distant? I saw Blair notice and smile faintly. Of course.

  “Are you guys listening? I don’t feel respected!” Keith demanded. “Anyway, it was junior year and we both tried out for the part of Danny. The list went up and we went to check it together and he got the part, which was bullshit because my audition had definitely been better, and I had a better voice. Plus I look more like John Travolta.” Nope. Keith cleared his throat and worked to relax his angry expression, his face coming vaguely unscrunched. “Anyway, it wasn’t a big deal to me ’cause I didn’t even really want the part, and it was just a stupid high school production. I was already auditioning for real plays and movies and getting lots of attention and buzz. But it did kind of piss me off, just because Stu never worked hard at anything and things just came easily to him, and the teacher hated me, and it wasn’t fair!”

  Did this guy hear himself? Willow was nodding, active listening. “Uh-huh. We are here with you, Keith.”

  Speak for yourself.

  “So he turned to me and said, ‘Keith. Dude. I’m sorry. It should have been you.’ And I appreciated that because, you know, he was big enough to admit that my audition had been better and that I was better suited to the part. And that takes some balls, you know? Stu was good like that. That’s it.” Keith teared up, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the burning sensation or the sadness or the fact that he’d wound up with the part of Nerd #5 in Grease. Oh, yeah. I remembered it well.

  “Insightful share, Keith. Who would like to go next? Blair?”

  She shifted, adjusting her floral top across her shoulders. “Oh, me? No, I think I need more time. My memories of Stu just kind of blend into this one feeling that we were just so important to each other—just like two sides of the same coin, you know? I can’t think of a specific story, probably because we spent like every single day together. This is just really hard for me right now.”

  “Totally,” Willow said, and leaned over to rub Blair’s knee. “It’s hard for us all.”

  “Right. But especially for me.”

  I could barely take another moment of this. No way was I sharing one of my important stories with this crowd. My memories were sacred to me. They were all I had left.

  “i’ll go next!” said Mallory. “i remember when we went on a trip to la during the first season of manic mondays, and stu invited us to set and let us eat all this craft service—like candy and stuff—and like meet the other cast members. And he even got us both t-shirts with the show’s name on it. you know the ones, bri? that i cut into tank tops for us? with the super wide armholes?” Then she burst into tears. I was flabbergasted. Brian was nodding.

  Willow gestured toward him. “Would you like to go next?”

  He shook his head. I leaned in to hear him as he mumbled, “That was going to be my share too.” He tugged his hat down on his head.

  “Okay. George? Wren?”

  I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’m just taking it all in for now.”

  Willow nodded and looked at George, who said, “Sure. Okay. I’ll go.” He rested a hand on each of his knees and exhaled. “I just keep thinking about the first time I met Stu. He was so magnetic. I thought I’d never known someone so alive—energetic and caring and warm and brilliant and intense and bouncing off the walls, drumming on the tables. You know how he was. He told me all about his background that day, where he came from. He was so open in certain ways. He told me about many of you all and how much he loved you. You guys meant so much to him. That keeps popping into my head.”

  Classy. And not about himself. Of course.

  “That was beautiful, George,” Willow purred. “Thank you.”

  “It really was,” said Blair.

  “so sweet!” sobbed Mallory.

  Brian bobbed his head.

  “I didn’t know we were talking about stuff like that. Otherwise I would have said something like that too.” Keith was such a charmer. “Anyway, this is dumb. When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

  Willow’s cheeks flushed; she looked pissed. Don’t cross a true believer. I saw George open his mouth to reprimand Keith, but Willow beat him to it. “Keith, we are all entitled to our belief systems. If it makes you more comfortable, you can think of this as an exercise for us as survivors. It’s a way to help your friends. Help others. Look outside yourself.” She exhaled, long and hard, and forced a smile at him through gritted teeth. “Now. Are your eyes feeling better?”

  He scowled like a ferret.

  She turned back to face the rest of us. “Okay. Thank you all so much for sharing such amazing, vibrant memories of Stu. If you don’t mind, I’d like to share a memory too.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began: “As you all know, Stewart and I had a romantic and sexual kind of soul connection.”

  Uh oh. Where was she going with this? Because if I was going to have to hear about their “tantric love making,” I might have to leave.

  She continued, “But we didn’t always have the same interests.” Thank God. “One Sunday morning, we woke up and he was in one of his down moods. It was a dark day.”

  My ears pricked up. One of his down moods. Like they were a regular thing. This wasn’t in ninth grade; this was maybe five years ago.

  “Usually, I kind of had to leave him alone and let him work those out. But I was feeling brave and so I asked him—begged him, if I’m honest—to please come on a walk with me. At the time, I was living in a guest house in Topanga Canyon. Do you know the area?”

  “Of course,” Blair snapped.

  “Right, so it’s very bucolic. Lots of gentleman farms and the smell of night jasmine and the ocean and old VW busses parked by the sides of the road.”

  “Isn’t that where Charles Manson lived?” Keith.

  Willow ignored him. “Anyway, I don’t remember how I coerced Stu, but I did. Maybe he wasn’t feeling that bad? Either way, we wound up in our coziest T-shirts, sweatpants, and hoodies, walking up the road. We walked and walked. He wasn’t complaining and I wouldn’t dare break the spell since he basically never wanted to go outdoors on days like that.”

  I felt a pang of sympathy for Willow in that moment. It wasn’t easy to be with Stewart; that much was clear. I hadn’t thought about it much from her perspective, but he could be a challenging person. He took up a lot of space. And she was only trying to bring positivity into his life.

  “Finally, we reached a summit. The marine layer was lifting and the air was getting warmer. He closed his eyes against the sun,” she closed her eyes in demonstration, tilting her chin toward the ceiling, “and took a deep breath. Then he looked out and said, ‘The world can be a truly magnificent place.’ We turned around and started back a few minutes after th
at, but I think that moment was transcendent for him. When we got back to my little bungalow, he was still feeling down. He got in bed and went back to sleep, while I stayed up and worked in my herb garden and on my tinctures. But he referenced that moment several times over the next months. I think it became a kind of reservoir for him—a place in his mind where he could return for a sense of peace, gratitude, and joy.”

  I could barely breathe. Everyone was nodding and thanking Willow for her story. I was frozen stiff. What had been happening with Stewart? Why didn’t I know?

  Willow had us all close our eyes again for a few minutes of silence, just thinking about Stewart and breathing in his “essence” in the space, then she rang some bell as a final note, but all I could think about were his “dark days” and this supposed transcendent experience.

  I was rocked to my core. I swigged from my Scotch and didn’t flinch. I realized I was sort of drunk and still really had to pee. I stood up.

  “Oh, Wren. Are you going somewhere?” Willow peered up at me like a schoolmarm asking for a hall pass.

  “Oh! Sorry, Willow. I thought we were done. Are we not?” I pointed toward the bathroom. “I have to go.”

  She held up a hand. “Actually, there’s one last element to this ceremony. But it’s quick, I promise. Don’t bother sitting down. In fact, you can lead us.”

  I stood there, dumbly, as everyone else looked up at me from their seated positions on the rug. I felt like an unprepared preschool teacher. “Okay. What do I do?”

  “Well, I believe, as Stewart is passing onto the next plane, his soul must leave his old body behind and transcend to the next level. We want to encourage this forward motion and his rebirth as a new incarnation of himself.”

  I shifted from one foot to the other. I really had to pee. “How do we do that?”

  “Well, there are many ways: Buddhist chants, mantras, and such. But we’re going to do something a bit more familiar to all of us—something I thought would be more playful. We’re going to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him, as he is being reborn as his new self!”

  For a millisecond, I waited for the punchline before I realized none would come.

  Everyone averted their eyes. Some looked at the floor; others at the ceiling. I imagined they were doing anything they could to avoid looking at each other. I was about to start laughing uncontrollably; I could feel it rising in my chest.

  “So, Wren, if you could start us off? You know how it goes!”

  They all looked up at me with wide eyes. I brought a hand to my throat. I couldn’t believe I was about to do this. Please, hold it together. “Um. Okay. So, I’ll just start then. So, um: H—Happy Birthday to you . . .”

  Slowly, everyone joined in. Happy Birthday to you . . . We sounded awful. Like dying goats. In our defense, it was hard to commit.

  I could feel the hysteria bubbling up inside of me. I croaked, as a laugh threatened to escape from my throat and I fought to shove it down. I was desperate to stay somber. The last thing I wanted was to belittle Willow; and they were all still watching me.

  Happy Birthday, dear . . . Stewart. We all stumbled over his name—choosing different incarnations—Stu, Stewart, Stewy, speeding past it or hesitating.

  Happy Birthday to yo—u!

  and many more! We all looked at Mallory, who had belted the coda. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  Willow gritted her teeth and forced an expression of serenity. “Thank you all for participating.”

  The others had begun to stand up, brushing imaginary carpet dust from their bottoms. I felt paralyzed. “So, guys,” said Blair. “Now is your chance to peruse what’s here and decide what you want as a memento. Take a look around and let me know if you need help because Helen has invited Stewart’s extended family and other friends over tomorrow to choose what they would like. This is your chance.”

  Was she running a sample sale? What the fuck? I felt like she was about to ask me to check my bag. Were there colored dots delineating price ranges?

  Mallory and Brian darted for the hanging rack. George rested a hand on my shoulder. Then, before I could speak, he seemed to remember that he didn’t want to be near me and made a beeline over to Stewart’s book and record collections.

  At a loss, I went to pee.

  Chapter 33

  Stewart. Well, that was fun.

  Would it have killed you to choose a couple of sane friends? Why did you keep these idiots around? Were you really the kind of person who would shrug, “She’s always been nice to me,” about someone who is clearly unkind to others? I used to think maybe you had become that, but now—I’m not sure what motivated you.

  Remember that game you made up when we were kids? “Where would you go?” You dreamed up all these fantastical destinations. I remember you got so pissed that time I said I’d go to New Jersey because there was less sales tax. You told me I was banned from the game. God, I loved to make you mad.

  Right now, I wish I could hop on your pretty Turkish rug and take a magic carpet ride anywhere else.

  If you were alive, I would wait until everyone else left and then I’d make you lie down on the rug beside me. I would stare up at the crown moldings until my lids felt heavy, listening as you made up some elaborate story about the trips we’d take, flying in the dark past clusters of stars. We would open our mouths to catch the vapors of clouds.

  Chapter 34

  I left the bathroom and went in search of Willow. I couldn’t just let her story lie. I needed to know more. I needed to understand what I hadn’t understood about Stewart.

  She was crouched on the floor by the enormous windows, packing her ceremonial items into a woven Columbian satchel. I crossed to her. “Hey, thank you for that, Willow. It was really nice.”

  She looked up at me and then stood, draping a giant streaked scarf around her neck. “Thanks, Wren. I wanted it to be cathartic. I hope it was for you, even though you chose not to share.”

  She was evidently displeased with my level of participation. “It was cathartic. Thank you.” She nodded once and started to turn away. “Hey, can I ask you, that story about Stewart? When was that from? About five years ago, when you guys were dating?”

  “Oh. No, no. It was during that brief stint when we got back together about eighteen months ago. It’s so crazy. If only I’d known that he had such limited time left on this plane.”

  I tried to remember if I knew about that—their period of reconciliation. I didn’t think Stewart had mentioned it. I shouldn’t have been surprised by his omissions anymore.

  “Wow, okay. That was recent,” I recovered. “Those ‘down days’ you mentioned—they happened a lot? I’m asking because, well, to be honest, I barely knew about them.”

  Willow didn’t look surprised. “Oh. Yeah, well, it wasn’t the kind of thing he would have wanted to share. Especially not with someone like you.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, pursing her lips.

  “Someone like me?”

  “Someone he wanted to see the best in him all the time. Someone from whom he wanted approval. Someone with impossibly high standards with whom he exchanged judgment.”

  I digested that, trying not to be offended. My head was swimming, from the characterization, from the alcohol. “You’re saying he only wanted me to see a certain version of himself because he was afraid I would judge him?”

  “Well, we all do that. Don’t we? Tailor ourselves for our audience instead of behaving like our authentic selves and living our truth?”

  “I thought we were being our authentic selves with each other.”

  She shrugged. “Well, maybe you were. But only portions of them.”

  I stared at the floor. “I just wish I would have known that he was sad.”

  “He only was sometimes! You know, Stu. He believed that being sad was giving in. And he never wanted you to think he gave in.”
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br />   I nodded, only half sure I knew Stewart at all anymore. I looked beyond her, out the window, but it was dark outside and light indoors and I could only see my own reflection, distorted by the angle.

  “Wren,” Willow commanded. I trained my gaze back on her. “Everything happens for a reason.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes!” she insisted, her eyes blazing. She seemed to believe what she said without question. She was one fixed free spirit. We regarded each other. She stood tall, fists balled, like she was ready for a fight. I realized in that moment that her belief was the tissue paper that separated her from total meltdown. Exhaling, she kneeled back down to finish packing. “Plus, there was always going to be a power imbalance with you two.”

  “There was? Why?” I held my breath. Was this the insight for which I’d been waiting? The truth about me and Stewart?

  “Aren’t you a Sagittarius with Scorpio rising? He was an Aquarius with Cancer. He was too sensitive a soul for you. You would have had to align your chakras weekly to meet each other’s needs. And even then . . .”

  “Right.” Disappointment rose and fell in me. I felt it physically, the hope draining from my body. How absurd I had been to expect real guidance from Willow. She meant well, but she saw the world in such narrow terms. I wished I could find answers that appeased me in the stars. “Thanks again, Willow.” I wandered toward the center of the living room in a daze.

  All I could think about was this terrible trip I had once taken to visit Stewart. We were in our late twenties, right after his show had hit and become huge. I was out in LA to see him because it had been a while and things were still a little strained between us. I wanted us to be us again. Also, I was still doing some editorial writing—I hadn’t heard from Columbia yet—and was talking to a fashion website out there about possibly becoming their East Coast editor.

  Stewart invited me to the set, where I was served Vitamin Water and craft service sushi by friendly interns with acne and eager smiles, but mostly I spent a long day watching him shoot the same scene again and again from an uncomfortable folding chair. Afterward, he invited me out for drinks with the cast; we drove in a packed car. When we walked onto the restaurant’s back patio as a group, the atomic makeup of the air shifted. Everyone around us grew more animated—performing themselves, pretending not to care, hoping for a juicy story to attach to their star-sighting.