I know this feeling. The recognition of it floods through me like acceptance. I curl even closer, pressing my body to his.
He continues, “I decided: that was it. I’d do whatever it took to have that life.”
This is why Elan’s past starts at his American education. This is what is missing. I have it. I know.
Something else: our connection. The way he first noticed me at the Hoffman House party. That was what he recognized. We’ve both come face-to-face with death. He was spared. My fate is still being decided.
Elan shifts so he can see me. “Do you think I’m a monster?”
“No,” I say. “Of course not. You were young and stupid, but it was an accident.”
His breath leaves his body. He draws me into his arms. “Thank you,” he says, his voice closed and thick. “Thank you for saying that.”
I hold him. I’ve never felt as close to another human being.
He’s entrusted me with his scars. I only hope I can trust him with mine.
31.
* * *
I will go to my sister’s for Mother’s Day, just like last year and the year before that and the year before that. “To celebrate your mother?” Elan pauses by the open fridge door, bottle of cold brew coffee in hand.
I nod, reaching past him for a yogurt. “Yup.”
“You don’t find that . . . a little morbid?”
“I find it a lot morbid.”
Elan opens the bottle and takes a swig. “You don’t really get along with your sister, do you?”
“Not really. We had a huge fight last time I was up there.”
“So don’t go. Why would you go?”
I give him a bemused look as I peel back the foil. It’s odd: now that I know about his scars, they’re all that I can see. “Of course I’m going. She’s my sister.”
* * * *
Mother’s Day. A cheesy but nevertheless touching time to celebrate your mom and reflect on all she’s done for you. Except, of course, if you don’t have a mom. Then it is an uncut, unequivocal nightmare. And it lasts forever. Somehow, everyone with a loving, living mother finds this “holiday” sneaking up on them every single year—“This weekend? Are you sure?” The maternally orphaned see an Easter egg and know, like winter, it’s coming. For me, the relentless onslaught of reminders and gift ideas and greeting cards all form a giant billboard that screams: YOU DON’T HAVE A MOTHER BECAUSE SHE’S DEAD. Never thought about it that way? That’s because you have a mom. Everyone else—I see you. Oh boy, do I see you.
When I get to Mara’s, Kathy-from-next-door is sitting in the dim living room, flicking through a gossip magazine. The hairs on the back of my neck straighten. We greet each other with forced cheer. “Mara’s just taken Storm down to the creek,” she says. “She wanted to catch some tadpoles, bless her precious heart.”
“Yes, bless it.” This doesn’t explain what she’s doing here, as comfortable as if it was her own home.
I put the apple pie I brought on the kitchen bench.
“Did you make that?” Kathy asks.
“No,” I say.
“Oh.” Her fingers find the small gold cross on her necklace: Jesus, give me the strength to deal with someone who doesn’t bake. Her turtleneck is so high it’s taken half her chin hostage. “I have a wonderful apple pie recipe,” she says. “I’ll have to give it to you.”
“No, thank you,” I say, very politely. It’s so awkward I’m almost enjoying it.
We both glance in the direction of the backyard. Empty.
I perch on the edge of a lounge chair opposite her and we trade fake little smiles. She taps the magazine cover reverently. “Can you believe it? Jen and Brad back together. And she’s pregnant. I always knew. I never gave up hope.”
I laugh. “You know those things are completely fictional. They probably haven’t spoken in years.”
Kathy’s eyes grow dark. Uh-oh, I’ve popped a Brad-and-Jen bubble. “I heard you’re getting a mastectomy.”
All the air is sucked out of the room.
Kathy folds her hands. “A woman in my church group had one of those, for the same reason you are.” She cocks her head at me, her voice soft. “They butchered her. Eight surgeries, and counting. First the implant burst, then an infection. Every time, she said, ‘I wish I hadn’t, I just wish I hadn’t.’ Her beautiful breasts—gone.”
I struggle to find my voice. “It’s none of your business.”
“I’m just telling you what I know.”
“No, you’re trying to scare me. What, you think I’m not scared enough?” I’m on my feet, backing away. “Mara had no right to tell you—”
“Lacey, dear, I don’t want you to make the wrong decision—”
“It’s nothing to do with you!” I say. “My body has nothing to do with you!”
“God has a plan for all of us,” Kathy says loudly. “You’re safe in the shadow of the Lord.”
I’m furious. “Jesus Christ.”
Her eyes go black. “Don’t you dare take the—”
“What’s going on?” It’s Mara, at the back door, boots muddy.
“You told her?” I point at Kathy. “You told her?”
Storm is galloping around the backyard. Mara steps inside and slides the glass door shut.
Kathy gets to her feet, simpering. “I heard y’all arguing last time she was here. I was just telling little Lacey about my friend, who—”
“Did you tell her?” I ask Mara.
“No.” Mara folds her arms.
“Well, she sure has some pretty fucked-up opinions about my situation,” I say.
“Lacey,” Kathy tuts. “Language.”
“Oh, fuck off Kathy.” Mara strides through the house to stand next to me. “How dare you talk to my sister about her health after eavesdropping on us. What are you still doing here? We went out twenty minutes ago.”
Kathy tugs at her turtleneck. “I was just being neighborly—”
“You can stop.” Mara points to the front door. “Get out. And don’t say another word to my sister about her choices ever again.”
Kathy glances between us, her color fading. She clutches her cross. Opens her mouth.
Mara steps forward.
Kathy flinches. She scoops up her ridiculous magazine and hurries for the front door.
My sister, the tiger.
* * * *
After lunch, we slice up the apple pie, to have it cold with vanilla ice cream. Just like how my mother used to eat it. As we wait for the ice cream to defrost, we watch Storm drawing on her belly on the living room floor.
“New dress?” Mara nods at the red silk shift Elan gifted me from his new collection. Currently my most treasured possession.
I half shrug. Nothing gets by this woman. I brace myself for a comment about my atrocious spending habits, readying an elusive “I got it for free” response.
“Pretty.”
I’m so surprised it takes me a full five seconds to manage a simple, “Thanks.”
Mara pulls her hair back, her eyes on Storm. “The strangest thing happened to me this morning. When we were down at the creek. These two people walked by; a couple, a man and a woman. The woman looked exactly like Mom. For a split second, I saw her, in the face of this stranger. I actually gasped. And then it was gone. I saw the person for who she was, a little shorter, different nose, different everything.” Mara turns to me. “Has that ever happened to you?”
I rake through past experience. “No. But I wish it had. I wish I knew her that well.”
Mara nods, thinking about this. “It must be hard,” she says. “For you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I remember Mom,” Mara says. “Even though it hurts. Even though it’s really, really sad. Who do you remember?”
A ghost? An idea? Illness, pain? This is the hardest thing about Mother’s Day for me. I don’t, for a second, wish any more sadness on myself, but the people I know who lost their moms last year or five years ago or te
n years ago, got so much more time with them. I only have a handful of memories. None of them much more than flashes, impressions. Who do I remember? “I don’t know,” I say. “But I don’t think it’s the same person.”
Mara grips my shoulder and squeezes it hard. I drop my lips to her fingers and kiss the back of her hand.
“Mo-om,” Storm singsongs. “Is the ice cream ready yet?”
“Yes, darling,” she calls back. “It’s ready.”
We eat on the living room floor. When our bowls are scraped clean, Mara leans over to get the photo albums. I put my hand on her leg—wait.
“Storm, honey,” I say. “Where do you think Grandma is?”
“Dead,” Storm says solemnly. “In the ground.”
“Yes,” I say, pressing back a smile. “Where else?”
“In the photo books that Mommy has,” she says, pointing.
“That’s right,” I say. “Where else?”
“Ummm.” She thinks. “I dunno.”
“What about in the apple pie and ice cream?” I ask. “That was her favorite dessert.”
Storm’s face twists. It’s too complex a concept for her.
“Or your pictures,” I try, pointing to her crayons and paper. “Grandma liked to draw, too.”
Storm’s eyes are wide, trying to take this all in.
Mara says, “I see Grandma in the bookshelf. Some of those are her books. All the ones about art.”
“I see Grandma,” I say, “in my bed. Because most of the memories I have of her are when she was lying down.”
“She used to lie on her back,” Mara says. “And Grandpa used to feed her chicken soup.”
The memory comes back to me, faded but perfectly whole. “I remember that.” I’m standing in a doorway, watching, they don’t know I’m there. My father, gently spoon-feeding my mother broth from a white bowl with a green leaf print around the edge. Afternoon light filters through patterned curtains, moving in a soft breeze. It’s not the sterile hospital room. It’s a bedroom: it must be our old house. As I stand there, small in the doorway, I realize that she isn’t just sick and she isn’t getting better. In that moment, I understand that my mother is dying.
I have no memories from that house: this is new. This is the only one.
People talk about cancer as a ruthless, clever foe: something to fight, to outwit. But in my hazy, imperfect recollection, cancer was less like a cunning killer and more like a quiet, relentless rain, slowly drowning the ones it had chosen while leaving you, perfectly dry, to watch.
“Do you know where I see Grandma the most?” I say to my niece. “In your mommy.” I smile at Mara. “Your mommy has the same gray eyes and the same strong spirit.”
Mara strokes Storm’s soft, corn-silk hair and smiles back at me. A little sad, a little serious, but a smile nonetheless. “So you see, darling, Grandma might be gone, but if we look carefully, she’s still all around us.”
For better or for worse. My mother is still inside of me, in the complex blueprint that makes up my physical body. For better, or for worse, she is still with me.
32.
* * *
June
I get my father’s current address off Mara. Florida, where he grew up. I heard once that most people die within a fifty-mile radius of where they were born. I write a letter. My first correspondence in years. “Don’t expect too much,” Mara warns me, over the phone. “He’s still Dad.”
“I know,” I say. “I just figure he should know what I’m thinking of doing.” What I don’t admit to Mara or even barely to myself is: I’m curious what he’ll say. Hell yes or hell no. If he has any advice. Bizarrely, I think I’d listen to it. My letter isn’t long, just one page, outlining the facts and a few details of my life. Enough to say, I’m okay, I don’t need you. Enough to say: But if you get this: reach out.
* * * *
“Mmm,” I groan. “So good. Sooo good.”
Steph gives me a funny look, winding pasta around her fork. “You’re very . . . vocal these days.”
I lick Alfredo sauce off my finger. “Carbs and dairy. Must express appreciation.” My entire body vibrates with pleasure. It needed pampering of the pasta kind tonight, and now it’s purring like a fat happy cat.
“There’s nothing specific that’s inspired this orgasmic gastro gratitude?”
It’s pointed.
I pause. Unsure.
Steph sighs and hands me her phone.
A photograph of Elan and I.
A tiny part of me is relieved: this is why she’s been acting so strange all night, atypically evasive, decidedly awkward. In a post-BRCA world, bad news is no longer limited to celebrity breakups and what wasn’t available at the bodega. But the larger part is horrified.
Sprung.
In the picture, Elan and I are at his local coffee shop, a cute French place on the corner of his block, waiting for our morning order. He’s got one hand on the back of my neck, the other in his pants pocket.
He’s smiling at me and I’m staring up at him. An annoyingly obsequious look on my face, but I do look pretty, and you can see my whole outfit, which is on point: black silk jumpsuit, blush-pink bomber jacket, black nails, pale-pink lip gloss. Behind us, baskets of baguettes and buckets of peonies. The morning light makes my skin look flawless, my hair like spun gold. Objectively, it’s an extremely cute picture of two attractive New Yorkers who look very much in love.
I love this photo as much as I feel invaded by it.
My heart is smacking my ribs. The caption reads: Spotted at my local! NY-designer Elan Behzadi + his beautiful ladyfriend #streetstyle #newyorkmoment
It’s a British girl’s account, someone Steph follows called SJ. London gal taking on the Big Apple! her bio reads. I love fashion, pugs & Keanu Reeves. She only has three thousand followers. This picture already has more than a thousand likes. Because she’s tagged Elan. That means it’s on his Instagram, too.
“Do you know her?” I ask.
“Not personally,” Steph says.
“I can explain. I just need to message her.”
Identifying myself as “the girl in the picture,” I ask SJ in a nice but urgent way to take the post down: It’s a little complicated, I type, but we’re not a public couple.
Now, all I can do is wait. And face Steph, who is looking at me with puppy-dog eyes and a brave little smile. I’d almost prefer it if she was furious: that, I’m familiar with. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, in a soft no-judgment voice.
I don’t. But now I have to. I explain how, after her initial reaction, I didn’t feel comfortable telling her that Elan asked me out. And then about the limo, and dinner at Golden Century, and staying over on weekends, and then weeknights, and how even though he’s a genius, he still feels misunderstood, and how he feels sad, and how much I want to cure him of that sadness, and how brilliant he is, and how being around him is like having backstage tickets to my favorite band every night of the week, and I can’t believe this is my life and basically, for the past month or so, I’ve fallen head over patent-leather heels in love with Elan Behzadi.
“You obviously really care about him,” Steph says.
“That’s an understatement. I’m basically president of his fan club.” I catch myself gushing. “As well as being his equal in all matters of love and, um, life.”
“That’s great, Lace.” Steph touches my hand. “I’m happy for you.”
I don’t quite believe her. “Are you?”
“What do you think Vivian will say,” Steph asks, “when she finds out?”
“She won’t find out. But even if she does, it’s none of her business.”
“But it is her business,” Steph says, “Clean Clothes is literally her business.”
Ouch. “If it was only up to me, I’d probably tell her,” I say. “But Elan thinks it’s better to keep our business and personal lives separate, and so do I.”
“So it’s Elan’s idea,” Steph says. “To be secret.”
<
br /> “His life is very complicated.” Even to my ears, it’s an excuse. But I can’t stop myself explaining that if we were to go public, then it’s on the record, permanently. “It’s only been a month.”
“Or so,” Steph says. “A month or so. Two months?”
I’m starting to get annoyed. “We’re still working out how we feel.”
“But you know how you feel,” Steph says. “You just said you’re in love with him.”
My restraint snaps like a cheap chopstick. “Steph, why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind? You’ve obviously got some therapy thoughts about this. What, is he stringing me along? Am I being naive?”
Steph bites her bottom lip. “Are you still doing the bucket list?”
“I’m having a lot of sex, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But ‘a lot of sex’ wasn’t on the bucket list.”
“That was the point,” I say. “The outcome.”
“So you’re not doing the bucket list,” Steph clarifies. “What about your BRCA stuff? Have you seen another plastic surgeon? Talked to Patricia? What about rescheduling with that woman from the forums you were supposed to meet up with—Bee?”
“I’m still only twenty-five, Steph,” I say. “It’s not like I’m forty-five: I’ve got time.”
“It’s one hundred percent your choice,” Steph says, hands up in placation. “I’m just wondering . . .”
“What?”
She levels her gaze at me. I brace myself. “Are you putting his needs over yours?”
This is not what I expected. I pivot, trying to find the best way to disarm this.
Steph continues, “Sometimes in a relationship where there is a built-in power imbalance, like there is with you and Elan, it can be easy to prioritize the needs of the more powerful person. I’m your friend, not your therapist. I’m always going to support you, no matter what. But my advice is: don’t get too disconnected from your own agenda.”
The Bucket List Page 21