“So what will you do?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I think first I might take Stewart’s advice, crazy as that seems. He was right about you, after all. I think? Well, the jury is still out, but you know.”
George smirked, then wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. I didn’t care who saw us anymore. Let them think what they would. Falling for George wasn’t my worst transgression during this whole thing.
“You know, LA is nice this time of year. Maybe you should travel there? And stay.” He raised his eyebrows.
I tilted my head up toward his, resting my chin on his chest. “Hmm. Maybe en route to Asia. Although that seems a little roundabout since I think I’ll start in Turkey. Stewart said that it was amazing in Istanbul, and I haven’t been since I was a kid.”
“Huh. Want a companion for part of the trip?”
“Sure! But who?”
George shook his head at my bad joke and mussed my hair. Around us, a smattering of strangers still milled.
It occurred to me in that moment that George’s funeral was the only one I hadn’t planned throughout this whole process. I couldn’t get it right. Maybe because, even from the beginning, I didn’t want to entertain its possibility.
I hadn’t planned my own either.
cause of death: Painless old age with all faculties intact. Obviously.
after-death ritual: I would rather not think about it, but let’s just say I’m not a fan of the idea of living in a box for all eternity.
service: Large and festive.
processional music: “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. No-brainer.
memorial buffet: Sushi. And that cashew butter chocolate. It’s my funeral, after all. Spare no expense!
Chapter 55
I stood at the podium, microphone at the ready, staring into a kind of mobile darkness. The spotlights on me had rendered the audience invisible, but I could hear their movements, see flickers in the blackness. That was okay. Sometimes you don’t need to see people to know they’re there.
I took a deep breath and then I began:
“Hi. I’m Wren. I’m one of Stewart’s oldest friends, for those of you who don’t know. Since losing Stewart, I—like many of you—have found myself feeling, in my sadness, like the one person I’d like most to confide in is gone. It’s started me wondering, how can we keep him with us? How can we continue to make him known to the world now that he’s gone? What is his story?” I heard my voice waiver; I would insist on its strength.
“So here goes:
“What would I tell them about you? The ones who only knew your contours? You, as a paper doll on which to pin a picture?
“What would I tell the ones who shared excited whispers over green juices the morning after? Who posted the news online with frowny faces and then moved on with their days?
“What was the story I’d want them to know?
“Was it of a little kid, spastic and unchecked, bouncing off walls? Was it of a teenage you, first gawky, then too cool?
“Was it of us falling against each other during those struggling years? You, sitting next to me, wrapped in a comforter, sleep and cigarettes on your breath? For sure, it was not the story we’d all like to forget: You, alone. In those last moments.
“Would I tell them you were funny? Because you were. To me, one of the funniest people in the world. Would I tell them about your talent? Because it was boundless. But what good is something that loses all value in the dark? Would I tell them that you were adorable? Because you were. Some of the time to me, a lot of the time to others. Would I tell them that you were selfish but sweet? You had a soft spot for kindness in others but didn’t require it of yourself.
“I would not tell them that you loved me, although I know now that you did. In a way that was at once simple and complicated as hell. Like a sibling. Like a best friend. Like an object. Like an idea. Like a competitor. Like a book that you once loved and still carry from apartment to apartment when you move—formative, but no longer top of mind.
“What hole did you leave in the world—aside, of course, from the one in my heart? What would I tell those strangers—even the ones who considered themselves your friends?
“What was the story of you?
“What I’ve realized since you’ve been gone is that, you, Stewart, were a man of many stories. I knew you as a dreamer—with a deep sense of irony, but also passion—who went full-throttle at everything you wanted. Others knew you as a caretaker, kind and supportive without judgment or criticism. The world knew you as charming and talented, a genteel, gracious success. There are no doubt infinite incarnations of you.
“We all knew different versions—all of them unique and vibrant—which we’ll carry with us as we move about our lives, missing you, but also holding you close.
“Whoever you were, I loved you, Stewart—dimensionally and unconditionally. And I always will.”
Chapter 56
Stewart, when I stepped down from the podium, your funeral song began to play. It was Judy Collin’s “Amazing Grace.” You know, the version that starts out a capella?
Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found,
Was blind, but now I see
It wasn’t the song I would have picked for you in my funeral plan. Not based on the you who I knew. You probably wouldn’t have picked it either.
But you know what? That didn’t matter. It was beautiful.
Acknowledgments
For me, as for many others, 2017 was a watershed year. The country changed hands. I had my second baby. I experienced loss on a scale I never had before: my uncle, a college friend, one of my closest friends since childhood. I started writing this book. I guess it’s only fitting that I’d end up editing the manuscript during a pandemic.
Perhaps more than any other story I’ve written, it has been so important to me that Competitive Grieving “see the light of day” as a kind of tribute. (That’s how I keep finding myself expressing it; read in what you will.)
Many people are to thank for making that possible: First, a huge thank you to my agent and fellow Brooklyn mom, Faye Bender of the Book Group. Your supportive and direct approach has inspired complete confidence from moment one. I’m so grateful to have you in my court.
Thank you to Addi Black at Blackstone Publishing for falling for and championing this story, to Holly Rubino and Ember Hood for your exacting eyes and to the rest of the team for your support.
Thank you to Nicola Wheir, my literary world Sherpa, for your boundless generosity and humor, insightful notes, and unparalleled hostess skills. Thank you to Peter Harris for your perpetual and contagious enthusiasm and for the long talks as we sorted through the rubble. Thank you to Morgan Arenson for giving me the inside scoop on grant writing. And thank you to my writing group ladies, Emily Barth Isler, Hanna Neier, and Katie Schorr, for your invaluable feedback and for that one extraordinary trip. You know the one.
Thank you to my father, Paul, for teaching me the value of humor, especially in dark times, and to my mother, Lynn, for showing me what a strong woman (and editor) looks like. Thank you to my big sister, Claudia, for reading early drafts, answering countless texts about wording, and supplying baked goods when needed (which is always). Thank you to my in-laws, Hal and Marilyn Weiner, a dream team of negotiation coaches and cheerleaders.
Thank you to my husband and plot guru, Andrew, for believing in me more than anyone else in the world does (and probably more than I merit). Thank you to my “combo shombo” potatoes, Estella and Levi, whose hugs got me through my moments of sadness and whose laughter gets me through everything else.
Thank you to Megan Wahtera and Rachel Leonard for showing me daily what true friendship—and sisterhood—means. Thank you to Tova Weinberg for so elo
quently, openly, and empathically talking me through what it means to both struggle and grieve.
Finally, Nick Zarin-Ackerman, this book goes out to you and your loving, warm family (who is fortunately nothing like the one in this book). This is not your story, but you were with me as I wrote it.
Nick, I would not be the person I am without you. You are a part of me. I miss you every single day.
About the Author
Nora Zelevansky is the author of Will You Won’t You Want Me? and Semi-Charmed Life. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, Elle, Town & Country, the Los Angeles Times, the Wall Street Journal, and Vanity Fair, among others. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and two kids and their enormous cat, Waldo.
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