Shake Down the Stars

by Renee Swindle

  My stomach surges, and I cover my mouth as I rush toward the bathroom. This time I manage to throw up more than just air.

  • • •

  I ’m surprised when I open the door to the Berkeley house and find Spence in the hallway, putting on his jacket.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been calling all day,” he says.

  I think of how only a few minutes ago I was sitting beside my toilet. “I had a little too much last night. I guess I’ve been sleeping most of the day.”

  “You guess?” He smirks as he grabs his knit scarf and hat.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You didn’t bother listening to any of my messages?”

  I stand there, trying to remember the last time I used my cell phone, let alone where it might be. I snap my fingers and start patting down my jacket. After I find it, I hold the phone in the air and give it a little shake. “Should I listen now?”

  Spence says, “I’ve been going to these meetings. I’ve gone twice now. Roland told me about them.”

  “Roland?”

  “Our old neighbor. The widower.”

  Five houses over. Nice man. Always alone except for his dog.

  “He’s been trying for a while now to get me to visit this group he belongs to.”

  He’s just evasive enough that I understand he would have preferred to tell me about this mysterious group over the phone. I can’t imagine what kind of meeting Spence would be too embarrassed to tell me about except—“You didn’t join AA, did you?”

  “Of course not. The meetings”—he drops his gaze as he wraps his scarf around his neck—“are for people who’ve lost loved ones.”

  His answer catches me completely off guard, and I find myself quietly repeating what he’s said.

  “Roland has been going for a few months, and every time he saw me, he asked me to come along. I finally joined him.”

  “Who’s Roland mourning? His wife died twenty years ago.”

  “Sadie.”

  I draw a blank.

  “His Lab.”

  “He joined a group of people who lost loved ones because of a dog?”

  “Piper.”

  I feel a pang of guilt. Roland and Sadie were inseparable, and Roland was one of those pet owners who treated his dog with the kind of care that bordered on pathology.

  “Sadie died, huh?”

  “Yeah. A few months ago, but the old guy is still having a hard time with it. He said the meetings help. I finally joined him, and I like it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be into it, but then I changed my mind and left you a message.”

  He’s right. I’m not into it. We both hated when people suggested we join certain groups, usually with names like Morning Mourners or Spirits and Humans Reuniting. Even the more straightforward groups didn’t appeal. We didn’t like the idea of broadcasting our problems or exposing our grief. Just thinking about it now makes me want to convince Spencer that he shouldn’t go, that we should keep things as they are—safe and just the two of us. No other mourners allowed.

  “They’re a nice group, P. It’s good for me right now. I need to start getting out more.”

  I think of Elaine’s rant a couple of weeks ago and the countless lectures she’s probably given him since. “Are you doing this for yourself or your mommy?”

  “I’m just giving it a try, Piper. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” He zips his jacket. “You can stay here if you want. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “I’m starving,” I whine. “What do you say you go to the meeting next time, and we order a pizza and watch a movie or that documentary on FDR you’ve been wanting to watch.”

  “I already saw it. Last night. While you were ignoring my calls.”

  “But I didn’t realize my phone was off.”

  He starts toward the door. “I should get going. There’s plenty of food. Have at it.”

  “Wait.” I’m not sure it’s possible to feel jealous of a meeting, but I’m ready to tell him anything to keep our little routine going. “In the spirit of going out more, what if we chuck the pizza idea and go to an actual movie theater and get actual popcorn and the whole bit.”

  He feigns thinking it over. “Nah. I’m in charge of bringing the cookies, and I don’t want to let the group down.” He snaps his fingers. “Almost forgot the cookies!”

  I start to follow him to the kitchen but stop short when I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. I look jaundiced, and my eyes are bloodshot. I take off my hat and use the compact from my purse to do what I can. I plop a couple of eye drops in each eye and comb my hair into a ponytail. If Spence is determined to get out more, I certainly don’t want him doing so without me. I’m just adding lip gloss when he returns with the cookies. I can tell from the gold label on the box that the cookies are from Lulu’s, our favorite bakery. “So I’ll see you in a couple of hours?” he asks.

  “Can I join you?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’m in mourning, too, you know.”

  A smile starts at the corner of his mouth. “I know. I just know how you feel about these things.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’d love to go.” I take the box of cookies so he can open the door. “I was just thinking that I need to get out more myself.”

  He reaches up and gives my nose a pinch. “Liar.”

  • • •

  Friends of Friends in Mourning is held in Elmwood. Our hosts’ house sits at the end of a street so dense with elm trees, a canopy of branches hangs above us. The house itself, a large two-story craftsman with a wraparound porch, takes up an entire corner.

  Diane and Mitch Montgomery, our hosts, greet us with hugs. Diane is dressed in a kind of Moroccan-styled tunic that falls past her knees, loose slacks, and Indian slippers that turn up at the tip. She wears her graying brown hair in a long ponytail held together by a brass clip. Mitch, also long-haired and ponytailed, wears a silk patterned shirt, beaded necklace, and bracelets on either wrist. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

  After Spence makes introductions, Diane tells him to put the cookies in the kitchen and make himself at home. Mitch joins Spencer, his arm gingerly on his back as he leads him to the kitchen.

  The house is filled with fifteen or so guests, who chat by the fireplace or in the kitchen or as part of the group gathered around the spread of food set on the dining room table. Extra chairs have been put in the living room for the meeting. Diane links her arm through mine as she begins to pull me toward the fireplace. She explains that she and Mitch started the group six years ago, after losing their college-aged son when he was walking through campus and was struck by another student speeding by on his moped. She points to a picture on the mantel. Her son stands on a rocky hill, holding a wooden mask next to his face. “That was taken while we were offering service to a small indigenous tribe off the Caymans. He was fifteen at the time, and before we left, the leader of the tribe gave him the mask he’s holding. Mitch and I have been traveling since we were kids. We saw no reason to stop after Chandler was born. When he died, we immediately signed up for the Peace Corps and spent two years in Ghana and later, two more in Antigua.” She holds my arm tighter, her gray eyes shiny. “It never gets easier, but you learn ways to cope. How about a tour of the house?”

  I’m pulled along as she points out various pieces of artwork from her and Mitch’s jaunts around the world. The tour ends with what she refers to as her “pièce de résistance.” We walk down a long hallway that leads to the opposite end of the house, then come to an abrupt stop. I stare at a seven-foot-tall wooden statue of a man with requisite hoop rings in his ears and nose and what has to be a two-foot-long penis. “I know,” Diane says in reference to my staring and utter silence. “He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? He’s direct from
Papua New Guinea. Mitch and I bought him for a steal while we were there. Pretty impressive, huh?”

  I keep my gaze trained on his massive-sized shlong. “I’ll say.”

  For the life of me, I can’t make out why Spence wants to be here. So far, Diane and Mitch are just the kind of couple we find obnoxious. They’re conspicuously moneyed but not doing anything with their money except bargain hunting across the globe, collecting culture just so they can give tours in their home and talk of their adventures with the “natives.” They are all things PC but only as much as it suits them. I know I’m being bratty and judgmental, but I don’t get it. Spence wants to bail on a night of drinking and watching TV—for this?

  Diane and I turn a corner, and I hear his laughter. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard him laugh like this—light and easy. But the sound of his laughter also makes me suspicious, and I instinctively narrow my eyes. We round another corner, and I see him standing in the dining room with a young woman. They’re both laughing so hard, their heads fall back in unison.

  I hear Diane at my side: “Shall I get you some wine? We have another ten minutes before the meeting starts.”

  “Yes, please,” I say, my eyes trained on my ex. “Make it a double.”

  She gives me a curious look and heads for the kitchen. I walk slowly toward Spencer and the woman as though dragging my feet through mud. She’s of the happy variety with round cheeks and big brown eyes that are currently locked on my husband—ex-husband—all topped off with a mop of soft brown curls. And she’s young. No more than twenty-five, if that.

  They take deep breaths as their laughter subsides: postcoitus breathing with dreamy smiles on their faces. Knowing Spence as well as I do, I’m sure he doesn’t realize he’s here because of this girl. But I know she’s exactly the reason he’s here. I walk directly up to him and stand by his side.

  “Oh, hey,” he says. “Tisa, this is my wife—” He laughs, embarrassed. “Ex-wife. Ex. Piper.”

  Tisa smiles warmly. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I steal a peek at Spence: How is it that she’s heard so much about me?

  “We went out for coffee,” he explains.

  I raise my brows. Coffee?

  “Spencer told me you teach at MacDowell,” Tisa says. “I think that’s amazing. Teachers have the most important jobs of all. I think if we followed our authentic paths, there would be more teachers and artists and fewer lawyers and politicians. I truly honor what you do.”

  I have to stop myself from gagging. I truly honor what you do? Ugh. “And what do you do?” I ask.

  Spence answers for her. “Tisa is just back from Senegal.”

  She shares a smile with him that indicates his reply is an inside joke. “That’s the polite way of saying I’m unemployed at the moment. I finished courses at Cal for my master’s in social work and needed a break. My aunt left me money when she passed, and so I used it to live abroad for a year.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah, the time away was just what I needed. The Universe definitely provides.”

  “Isn’t it too busy imploding on itself?” I chuckle lightly, but neither she nor Spencer joins in. Whatever. I hate the way people talk about the Universe as if it were a person or something. “So, is your aunt the reason you’re here?” I ask.

  “Yeah. She died last year.” She leans in. “These meetings do help; you’ll see.”

  “But it’s not the same,” I murmur.

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s not the same. Losing an aunt or a pet is not the same as losing a child.”

  “Piper.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not.”

  “My aunt and I were very close. She was like a mother to me.”

  “It’s still not the same.”

  Spence gives me a look: Can’t you be nice?

  I return the look and then some: No, I can’t. Losing your aunt is not the same as losing your child. It’s not!

  Diane interrupts our silent eye wrestle. “Here’s your wine, Piper. Sorry it took so long. Mitch had to get more bottles from the cellar.”

  I thank her, forcing myself not to chug it all back at once. I’m grateful for my empty stomach; the wine goes straight to my head without a single detour.

  “Everyone okay?” she asks. “Refills?”

  Spence shakes his head no. Tisa holds up her mineral water and says she’s fine.

  When Diane leaves, Tisa gazes at the floor. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to compare.”

  Spence bumps my arm ever so slightly.

  “It’s okay,” I say, but my voice is tight and unforgiving.

  Spence, ever the diplomat, fills the awkward silence: “It’s fine, Tisa, really. We’re all friends here.” He extends a hand toward the living room. “Shall we find a seat?” Tisa offers an apologetic smile as she walks past me. I pretend not to notice and gulp back more wine. Spence pauses as he reaches my side and presses his mouth close to my ear. “Easy now,” he whispers.

  The meeting is reminiscent of AA meetings I’ve seen on TV, except no one here looks remotely down on his or her luck; most of us are drinking our hosts’ expensive wine while our plates brim with gourmet appetizers. We sit in a circle around the living room. I sit two people over from Spence; Tisa sits away from him, too, closer to Mitch. There are two newcomers besides me, so Diane explains a ritual the group uses involving the Native American talking stick. Instead of raising a hand, if you want to speak, you ask for the stick and have at it. Living in Oakland now, I forget how annoying rich people of this ilk can be. I don’t have to wonder how multiculturally “hip” or PC they’d be if Detrane showed up with me, or Sharayray.

  A young blond woman asks for the stick. Dead husband. She says she finally gave his clothes to Goodwill. People nod in support. Next is Roland. He’s silver haired and soft spoken. At six foot four, he dwarfs the chair he sits in. He’s nice enough to say how happy he is to see me here tonight and falls into memories of his time with Sadie at Tilden Park. I close my eyes briefly and wish upon him the courage to go to the pound and get another dog.

  I feel my heart rise to my throat when Spence asks Roland for the stick. I try to beg him with my thoughts not to say anything, but he’s already holding the stick and looking around the room.

  He takes a moment before speaking. “I—I just wanted to say a few things about—” His voice cracks, and he pauses long enough to clear his throat. “I just want to say a few things about my little girl.”

  I let my gaze shift toward the floor and hold my breath. I don’t dare look at him. If I do, I’ll burst into tears; I know it.

  He’s quiet as he tries to gather the strength to continue. When I finally look up, he’s staring right at me. “That’s her mother over there. Piper. We lost her almost five years ago now. I know everyone talks about how special their children are, but my little girl really was special.” He laughs to himself. “Sometimes I’d come home tired, and Hailey would wrap her arms around my neck—” His shoulders buckle as the tears start. We hardly talk about Hailey, and when I see just how much he’s been carrying inside, I start to cry, too. Why don’t we talk about her more? He pulls himself together. More deliberate now, he sniffles and says, “She would wrap her arms around my neck and kiss me. And she’d say, ‘Daddy, no one expects you to be perfect.’” He coughs and takes a deep breath. “I mean, how does a kid learn something like that? My daughter, thanks to her mother over there, knew the names of the planets and a few constellations.” He chokes back any more tears that want to come and takes a long, deep breath. “Anyway,” he says, after a second breath, “she was something else. And I miss her. That’s all. And I want to say thank you for having me here. This has been good for me.”

  Tears continue to stream down my face as people pat Spence on the back and offer hugs. The woman next t
o me tries to put her arm around me, but I shake my head no and go about wiping my face and pulling myself together as quickly as I can. When I’m finally calm, I cross my legs and grip my chair. I don’t look up.

  • • •

  “That ex of yours is one fine specimen.”

  I look over at the woman who’s just sat down next to me. I’m sitting on the Montgomerys’ backyard porch with a small plate of cookies resting on top of my knees. The meeting has ended, and everyone is milling about inside the house over dessert and coffee.

  “Excuse me?”

  The woman turns and stares over her shoulder. I follow her gaze and see Spence through the kitchen window yukking it up with a few other guests; my stomach drops when I see Tisa at his side.

  “Your ex,” she repeats. “He’s a cutie.” She hands me a glass of wine. “Here you are, sweetheart. I saw you from the window sitting out here by your lonesome self and thought, ‘I bet that girl could use a refill.’”

  I thank her. I did want a refill, but I didn’t want to go back inside. For a group of mourners, everyone sure is cheerful; plus, I couldn’t take a second longer of watching Tisa and Spence.

  “I’m Clementine, but call me Clem. I’ve always hated my full name.”

  “Piper.”

  “Piper? And I thought my name was odd. How on earth did you get a name like Piper?”

  “My mother.”

  “Fair enough. My mother and grandmother shared the genteel name of June. I get Clementine. Go figure.” She takes a long pull from her wine. She’s busty with small features and a pout of a mouth. Auburn hair. Late fifties I’d guess, with a light Southern drawl. She was one of the few guests, like me, who didn’t say a word during the meeting, which is a surprise since she comes across as a motor mouth. “Bet you got teased an awful lot with a name like Piper. Let’s hear it.”