“But why would you ask a question like that?” she titters, joining my laughter.
“Mom … I love you,” is all I can say in response.
“I love you too, my darling. When are you coming to visit again? Next month?”
My stomach twists into lead.
“Mom, I . . .” I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to tell the truth either. I settle for: “I don’t know.”
“Well, when you know, you let me know.”
“I will.”
She yawns deeply, and I hear a subdued knock in the background. Muffled voices. Clinking glasses.
“Sweetheart, it’s time for afternoon tea and then a nap. You’ll call me tomorrow, yes?” she asks.
I could be imagining it, but I swear I can hear just the subtlest hint of anxiety in her voice—like deep down, beneath the brain-fog, some hyper-intuitive part of her mom-psyche knows that there will be no call tomorrow.
I don’t want to answer the question. Instead, I say one last true sentence:
“I love you so much, mom.”
“I love you too, darling.”
I love you.
Three words that are so much better than “goodbye.”
I hang up. I imagine her sipping her tea, cozy and serene in her bedroom, and I feel so grateful that I got her on the phone, that she was lucid, and that today was a good day.
For one wild, illogical moment, I consider purchasing a plane ticket and flying to see her in San Diego. I run through the mental calculations. An hour to drive to the airport. An hour for checking in and getting through security. Four hours in flight, assuming—best-case scenario—that I can book a direct flight that leaves immediately with no delays. Two hours battling rush-hour traffic to get to the assisted living home. Eight hours of travel-time, minimum. More like ten or twelve, realistically.
By the time I arrive, she’ll probably be asleep. Even if she’s awake, there’s no guarantee she’ll be mentally present. She might not recognize me. She might be experiencing an aggressive, hallucinatory episode. She might scream when I walk into the room. The nurse might ask me to leave. Like last time.
I clench my jaw, weighing the sickening pros and cons.
Eight hours. Eight hours. One-third of my final day. Bare minimum. Probably more.
It’s a brutal choice, but ultimately I decide … no. I’m not flying to California. This conversation with mom was as perfect as I could hope for. She was present. She was feisty. She was … herself. I love her, and I want my final memory of her to be positive and comforting, not an agonized race against the clock.
I got to say “I love you” one last time. I’m grateful for that.
Grateful … but also nauseated.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Stay here or fly to see her, there’s no option that feels completely right. I’m a terrible daughter. I should go. I shouldn’t go. I don’t have enough time. I might have just enough time. I feel sick.
Full-length thoughts shatter into fragments.
I can’t. I hate. I can’t. I … I …
An energy surges through my body, like I’ve never felt before. It’s grief. It’s rage. It’s an emotion that doesn’t even have a word, at least not in the English language. Animalistic. Beyond description. I smash the corded phone into the metal sheathing of the booth until my knuckles are raw, oozing, and coated with flecks of blue and silver paint.
I sob until I’ve wrenched every last drop of saline from my body, tears flooding my shirt, and there’s nothing more that I can give.
Hour Six
I head back into the burger restaurant because I don’t know where else to go.
I rinse my raw knuckles in the bathroom sink. The waitress seems nonplussed when I reenter and even motions for me to return to my previous booth, which is empty. Her expression reads, “If you want it, it’s all yours.”
I’m grateful for a quiet place to sit and collect myself. I order a black coffee with sugar. There’s a copy of last week’s City Pages sitting near my booth—one of those free, weekly independent newspapers filled with horoscopes and classifieds and op-ed pieces on why the state government really needs to stop putzing around and reduce public-school classroom sizes already. I leaf through the pages, not looking for anything in particular, just hungry for a temporary reprieve from my own mind. Because if I really allow myself to feel everything I am feeling, I’m pretty sure I will scream. Or vomit. Or head back out to the phone booth and reduce it to rubble.
I take a deep breath and then sip the sweet, inky coffee. On the back cover of the paper is the usual smattering of classified ads and earnest invitations to join market research focus groups and medical testing programs (“Got herpes? Apply now!”). One ad catches my eye. An illustration of a lily flower swoops over the text.
You’ve invested in TCR. Now plan your fabulous farewell. It’s your final day. Do it your way! Email Tasha to schedule your complimentary consultation.
I read the text several times over. “Your fabulous farewell”? That’s the euphemism to end all euphemisms. Could this “Tasha” be some kind of event planner, except for Temporary Cellular Resuscitation? It makes sense in a morbid kind of way. I mean, people plan elaborate parties for birthdays, anniversaries, baptisms, and bar mitzvahs. Why not hire an event planner to expertly coordinate your final day on earth?
Overcome with curiosity, I drop a five-dollar bill on the table—more than enough to cover my cup of coffee, I figure—and I tear off the corner of the paper with Tasha’s phone number and address.
Back inside the pay phone, I curse as I realize that I punched and slammed the dial tone right out of the phone. It’s broken. A feeble blleeeezt is all that emits from the earpiece before spluttering and going silent.
I curse myself again for hastily tossing my iPhone in the garbage can back at the hospital. Without any way to call or text, I feel oddly naked—like one of those “going to work without your clothes on” dreams where you suddenly realize that your coworkers are staring at your bare nipples, and you’re vulnerable, stupid, and alone.
I stare at the shred of newspaper again. Well, she’s got an address and it’s a weekday. She’s probably at her office. Why not pay Tasha a visit in person? I have no other plans. And I have literally nothing to lose.
Hour Seven
Tasha’s office is not far. I walk briskly—nothing like imminent death to put a spring in your step—until the street curves around, bringing me to face a nondescript warehouse-style building right by the railroad tracks.
It looks abandoned and forlorn until you get up close. Some enterprising architect-designer-type has gutted the interior and replaced it with a gleaming, modern aesthetic. Total renovation. Polished concrete floors, probably retained from the original warehouse, but glossed and spiffed up. Exposed brick walls. Rose-gold chandeliers adding a touch of femininity to the otherwise stark, hard-edged space. It’s all visible from the sidewalk through a series of glass panels that reach from floor to ceiling. A placard by the entrance displays about a dozen business names.
001 Red Fox Graphic Design
002 Studio VI Personal Training
003 Your Fabulous Farewell – Tasha Lockwood
I stop there. Yep. That’s her.
I buzz in and a perky voice greets me almost immediately.
“Yes? Hello?”
“Um, hi, I’m looking for Tasha Lockwood? I don’t have an appointment, but . . .” Bzzzzt.
Apparently walk-in clients are welcome here.
I step inside the warehouse, and I’m greeted by a sultry vanilla fragrance that seems to be emanating from every corner of the space—as if perfume is routinely pumped through the air-conditioning vents. It’s a pleasant touch, albeit unexpected.
I seem to be in some type of waiting lounge. The lighting is rosy and flattering. Sleek couches and ottomans
are tucked into each corner in little groupings of twos and threes. I can imagine hip young entrepreneurs gathering here to talk about search engine optimization and social media-driven marketing and viral crowd-funding or whatever the buzzword of the week may be.
The space is oddly empty, but then …
Whoa.
Tasha, I can only presume, comes striding towards me in all her glory.
She’s well over six feet tall in her staggeringly high heels, and she’s clad in a Pepto Bismol-pink dress that looks like a cross between the world’s softest leather and liquid latex, with a plunging neckline displaying a generous pair of breasts. Her legs reach from here until eternity. Her lavender-colored hair is chopped into an asymmetrical bob.
She looks like a cross between Betty Boop and a pixie fairy creature from outer space. As she nears me, I notice pink and purple glitter cascading across her collarbones. Because why not, right?
Before we’ve exchanged a single word, she pulls me in for a tight, full-body hug that lasts, oh, just a little bit too long for most people’s comfort. She smells like ripe strawberries and … I can’t help myself. A rush of grief washes through me—grief for my father’s lost battle with cancer, for my mother’s slow dirge-crawl into senility, for my own death just hours before, for the supreme over-ness of it all—and I cry. My tears fall, hot, hard, and sloppy, creating rivulets of glitter on her shoulders.
She holds me closer as if this is fine, normal, expected, not a problem.
She makes comforting sounds, shushing and nodding, the way a mother might comfort a hysterical child.
My sobs echo in the empty entrance hall. One minute. Two. I can’t seem to stop, but then suddenly, I am done. Depleted. After I’ve emptied myself fully, I feel exhausted, like a child who has cried herself to sleep.
I silently pray this is the last time I burst into tears today. Jesus Christ. Enough already.
Tasha peels her latex-encased breasts away from my chest. She smiles kindly, long lashes framing a pair of lavender eyes that match her pastel-alien hair.
“Better?” she asks. I nod.
She grabs my hand like we’re BFFs skipping towards Mr. Johnson’s “Intro to American History” class in seventh grade and tugs me towards her office.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s plan your farewell.”
Hour Eight
I sink into a tufted chair encased in silver crushed velvet with gold tassels. I get the impression that when it comes to clothing and makeup and furniture and pretty much everything else, Tasha’s personal motto is: “But why stop there?”
“Do you have an approximate sense of when you are going to pass on? Do you have a terminal illness? A life expectancy estimation from your doctor, or . . .” she gives me a no-judgment glance, “. . . will you be determining the final date on your own?”
Tasha eyes me expectantly with an expression of absolute warmth and understanding. I get the feeling she’s impossible to shock. I also get the feeling that most of her clients probably have the foresight to contact her, uh, before they are already dead.
I fidget nervously. Maybe I’m wasting her time—and mine. Maybe it’s too late for me.
“Um, so . . .” My fingers wander across the arm of the chair. “. . . It’s already happening. I mean, they already, um, I already . . .”
Tasha’s eyes widen, but she retains her composure. Such a pro.
“So you are, ah, I see. You are already . . .”
“Dead,” I finish bluntly. We lock eyes as the D-word reverberates from my lips.
“I’m doing my ‘bonus round’ right now. I’m about eight hours in, which means I have about sixteen to go.”
She removes a fresh notebook from a desk drawer and begins to take notes with a hot pink pen. Something about her unflappable composure makes me feel like I can confess anything to her. And the fact that she’s a complete stranger makes it easier. She’s like a priest. A bubblegum pink priest with three-inch-wide heart-shaped earrings.
I find myself gushing and babbling as if I’m right inside a confessional booth.
“So, like, I woke up. I walked outside the hospital. I saw this couple in love, kissing in front of the hospital, and I just lost it. I felt so lonely. I mean, seriously, so lonely it actually hurt. Then I had a cheeseburger. Then I called my mom. Then I found your ad in the paper. And now here I am.”
I’m talking quickly, almost panting for breath. Her face is absolutely serene and inviting—so I continue.
“I want to do something to make this day mean something, you know? I want it to matter. I don’t want it to just slip away. But I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know the ‘right’ way to spend this time. I mean, this is it. Like really it. I need this day to mean something. I need … I need what’s left of my life to mean something.”
I feel tears prickling yet again, and she hands me a Kleenex, withdrawn deftly from some invisible compartment of her desk.
“Can you help me?” I finish, softly. “I mean … is it too late? Can you plan a, um, special day for someone like me? Someone who is already gone?”
Tasha says nothing. Her eyes look glassy, as if she, too, is fighting back tears.
She stands—remarkably steady in shimmering purple-and-gold platform heels that a drag queen might deem “a bit over the top”—and she swings over to a compartment in the corner of her office. She withdraws a tall, slim bottle filled with a pale turquoise liquor and pours two champagne flutes halfway full. She tops them off with sparkling wine, arranges both glasses on a silver tray, and returns to the desk. Still not a word.
Arranging herself in her seat, she nods towards the drinks, picks up one of the flutes, and raises a glass towards me. I pick up the other one, mirroring her movements. Bubbles rise like mermaid kisses from the base to the top, fizzing into nothingness.
Tasha tilts her glass towards mine.
Clink.
She downs her drink in one go and I follow suit. Warmth floods my body, my anxiety lifts, and I have the subtlest sense of time slowing down. Like lying on your back and staring at clouds that move almost imperceptibly across the sky, so slow, it’s like it’s not even happening. I wonder what was in that drink. Then I decide: I don’t care.
She sets her empty glass down on the table and reaches across to clasp my hands. Her eyes shine with determination.
“What is your name?” she asks, still holding my hands firmly.
“Nora,” I reply.
She nods, giving my hands a gentle squeeze.
“Well, Nora … I have some very good news for you.”
“What?”
“Today is not over yet.”
Hour Nine
“Since time is of the essence, we’re going to shorten my standard client intake process.”
Tasha produces a pair of lavender-rimmed reading glasses seemingly out of thin air.
Her cheeks are flushed from the drink—or possibly sheer elation. I can tell: this is a woman who genuinely loves her work.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask, curious. “I mean, planning ‘farewell days’ or whatever you call it?”
Her cheeks flush a deep shade of rose. She gives me a small smile that can only be described as “adorably sheepish.”
“Actually, ah … I opened my business last week,” she confesses. “You are my very first client.” Her tone quickens. “But prior to doing this work, I was the creative director for the top wedding and event planning agency in the city. Before that I majored in hospitality with a minor in sociology. And in high school I was president of the . . .”
“Stop, stop!” I giggle. “You don’t have to sell me on your credentials. It’s OK. You’re hired. Besides, it’s not like I’ve got tons of time to shop around, right?”
I make a pathetic attempt at a wink, which probably just looks like a facial convu
lsion. I’ve always been severely wink-challenged.
She gives me a gracious “thank you” grin and winks back. Perfectly, of course.
“Speaking of ‘hired’ . . .” I continue. “What do you charge for your services?”
She shakes her head dramatically.
“No charge. Like I said, you’re my very first client. Let me design your final day. It will be invaluable training for me. Truly, it would be my privilege.”
I ponder her offer, feeling slightly uneasy. I’m one of those weird people who likes paying full price for people’s services. I never like feeling like I’m taking advantage of anyone. But she seems completely assured in her decision. OK. Fine. I’m in.
“Deal,” I say. “But let me at least write a testimonial for your website or Yelp or whatever.” She laughs, and we shake on it.
“OK! Let’s get back to those intake forms. Just a few questions here. Full name?”
“Nora Hamilton.”
“Any relation to Alexander?”
“Nope. I wish.”
She smiles, pushing her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. “Next question,” she continues. “Age?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Occupation?”
I heave a sigh.
“Uh, can we skip that one?” I attempt a light-hearted tone, but I can’t mask the heaviness beneath the words. “The truth is that I never really figured out what my ‘calling’ was supposed to be. Sad, right?”
She peeks up from her notepad, pen poised in hand.
“Not sad. What are some jobs you’ve held in the past?”
I exhale sullenly. This is a touchy topic for me. I’m a chronic flip-flopper when it comes to my career. My résumé looks like a computer program randomized a bunch of bizarre job titles and slapped them together on a piece of paper. It’s a hot mess.
“Jobs I’ve had? Um. Let’s see. Lifeguard. Library assistant. Blogger, if that counts. I managed a coffee shop for a while. Then I worked at a specialty health food store that sold gluten-free pancake mixes and stuff, which was hilarious because I’m like, obsessed with bread. Um, then I worked as a hostess at a fancy French restaurant. Then I tried to write a novel … but that didn’t really go anywhere. After that, I went back to hostessing and waitressing because at least I could make decent money doing that,” I cringe. “God. This is pathetic, right?”
So This Is the End Page 3