The Loose Ends List

by Carrie Firestone

  I’ve been thinking about Skinny Dave. I wonder if he’s in heaven, up past the glittery constellations, in some paradise-shaped other dimension. I want him to be there, far away from the demons that betrayed him.

  I don’t ever want to get addicted to anything. Not even Enzo Ivanhoe.

  TWELVE

  I FOUND OUT this morning that the reason Gram keeps disappearing isn’t to bang Bob Johns five times a day, like she claims. And she’s not walking funny because she’s having too much sex, also like she claims. Pickle has been giving Gram chemo in her cabin since we boarded the ship. She’s tired and wobbly because she’s trying to keep herself alive long enough to get through this trip. I know I have to maintain Gram’s charade and pretend she’s the picture of great health and freakish geriatric sexuality. But she’s getting sicker, and it’s happening faster than I thought.

  The woman who always tells me to stand up straight walks with a bend in her back now. The woman who yelled at us for being tired after nine games of Scrabble excuses herself after one. The woman whose favorite line was you can sleep when you’re dead naps almost every day. I see now that the cancer is devouring her insides while she delivers witty lines and struts around the ship wearing her bravest face.

  “So what’s the plan, Gram? I know we’re going to Rio at some point, but can you at least give me hints about the rest?”

  I’m drinking a smoothie with Gram and Bob on their balcony while Bob rubs Gram’s bunioned feet with lavender lotion and jazz music plays on an old record player.

  “No,” she says. “All right, fine. It involves planes, trains, and automobiles.”

  “Interesting. I hope we’re not going on one of those propeller planes. Dad will throw a fit.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” Gram says. “Changing the subject, you need to tell me more about Enzo. Stop being coy. How’s the kissing?”

  “Incredible.”

  “See, remember I told you back in Bermuda that the next one would be better?”

  “He seems like a nice kid,” Bob says. “I had criteria when my children started dating. I didn’t want to be the judgmental overprotective type, but I definitely had my criteria.”

  “Do tell,” Gram says.

  “I wanted to see that the young man or lady looked me in the eye when we talked, didn’t shy away from personal questions. Not too personal, of course, but things like, what’s your passion in life? I also wanted to see that they bothered to ask me something, anything, about myself. Even ‘How long was your car ride here?’ was good enough.”

  “Those are fair things to ask,” Gram says. “Although Wessy was so nervous when we met. He would have failed miserably.”

  I can’t imagine Wes being nervous.

  “My daughter’s ex-husband failed all three. He looked good on paper—bigwig lawyer, good education—but he refused to look me in the eye. He evaded all my questions and never once asked me anything about myself.” Bob shakes his head slowly. “That creep was bad news.”

  “Come on, Bobby, fess up: Did Enzo pass? Maddie’s kissed a lot of frogs, and you talked to him for a long time last night. We need to know.”

  “Flying colors,” Bob says. He pats my arm.

  “Eww. Not with your bunion lotion hand.”

  Bob laughs, and Gram hits me with a pillow.

  “Hey, Gram, what happens at the mysterious group you patients are always sneaking off to?”

  “Nothing exciting, Mads. We talk about death. Would you like me to elaborate? I know you love the topic.”

  “That’s okay. I plan to think about you alive and well until you’re not.”

  “Good girl. Oh, speaking of alive and well, Rose is not doing so well. She was always sharp as a tack. I was the airhead of the duo. Now I have to hear the damn Karl-proposing-in-Central-Park story over and over, and about how she can’t eat kielbasa.”

  “And how the plumbing doesn’t work,” Bob says.

  “Exactly. Listen, Mads. I don’t trust your mother. She’s too self-absorbed, with her rigid little suburban routine. Billy loves to be too busy, and Mary’s a wash.” She pulls me toward her and grabs my shoulders. “I need you girls to take care of Rose. Make sure they don’t stick her in a goddamn institution. We have plenty of money to get her the best help at home. Don’t you let them take her out of that apartment. You’ll be in New York now. Treat her to the Saks lunch counter from time to time.”

  “Of course, Gram.” I see the worry in her eyes.

  “Good. And make sure to—”

  “I’ll keep her far away from kielbasa and sauerkraut.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  I meet Enzo for a run. He laps me. I run harder and faster than I have, probably ever. I’m on the verge of barfing, but I want to impress him. I want him to look at me and think, Oh my God, I get to be with that girl.

  It’s sweltering in the Southern Hemisphere. We jump into the pool in our running clothes. The Ornaments are on their lunch break, and it’s just Enzo and me and a swimming pool where the waves mimic the choppy ocean.

  “Come here, hold on to me,” Enzo says. I doggy-paddle over and wrap my legs around him. We bob up and down. The waves pull us, and I hold him tighter.

  “You look beautiful with wet hair,” he says, staring right into me.

  “Really?”

  “You’re a mermaid.”

  He kisses me. We’re moving in sync with the waves, and I feel his whole body tense. I’m a mermaid suspended in the sea, wrapped around Enzo Ivanhoe.

  “Get a room.” Awesome. It’s Burt and Mark.

  “Or better yet, keep going and we’ll watch.” Burt needs a life.

  “Don’t you guys eat lunch?” Enzo says. I climb out behind him.

  “Enzo, you want to come hang out and have some beers?” Mark says.

  “What do you think?” Enzo raises his eyebrows and flashes the side smile as we walk away.

  We spend the afternoon at Enzo’s, getting as close to the edge as we can without jumping in.

  My bee is going crazy. I read Janie’s text in the elevator. Come to Gram’s. Uncle Billy thinks we’re picking up a Nazi.

  The whole family is abuzz on Gram’s balcony. The Wishwell is sailing down the coast of Brazil to some random town to pick up another patient.

  “Why do you think it’s going to be a Nazi?” I ask Uncle Billy. Uncle Babysitter Wes is holding baby Grace by her fingers and helping her tiptoe around.

  “We’re picking up an elderly guy named Heinz from a German town in Brazil.”

  “Stop it. There are no German towns in Brazil,” Janie says.

  Uncle Billy shakes his head at her. “Haven’t you heard of the German enclaves in South America? They’re full of escaped Nazis and their neo-Nazi offspring. I heard the guy we’re picking up is ancient. It makes sense that he’d be a Nazi.”

  “I think you’re the only one binge-watching the History Channel, Bill,” Wes says.

  “I watch the History Channel,” Jeb says. He’s sketching the birds that trail the ship. “I’m going with Nazi.”

  “Is this a replacement for the alcoholic guy?” Janie says. “I don’t think they should have let him come.”

  “His name was Dave, and he was sick, Janie. What’s wrong with you?” Wes snaps.

  “Sorry. Sensitive much?”

  “Enough, people. You’d do damn well to respect these patients, whoever they are. It’s not your place to judge the dying.” Gram’s pissed.

  “Come on, I can’t imagine Francesca would allow a Nazi on the ship,” Dad says. “That’s all a little far-fetched, Billy. Aren’t most of them dead by now anyway?”

  “We shall see,” Mom says in her singsongy I-don’t-have-anything-to-add-about-this-topic way.

  “They won’t send Karl, will they? Oh, I couldn’t bear that. He’s not a good soldier.” And now Aunt Rose thinks it’s World War II.

  I text Enzo: Ask your mom if we’re picking up a Nazi.

  He texts back: ????? t
o which I reply, Just humor me.

  We’ve been hugging the coast for a while, watching the landforms of never-ending Brazil rise up from the Atlantic.

  “How about we talk about the feast we’re going to have in Brazil? My taste buds are damn near dead. I need some flavor,” Gram says.

  “This is creeping me out,” I say. “What if the Nazi gassed our long-lost relatives?”

  “Oh, come on, Maddie. You didn’t even have family in the Holocaust,” Gram says.

  “As a matter of fact, my grandfather’s sister’s husband and his family were killed in Bergen-Belsen,” Dad says. “She had come to New York to try to get them visas. Talk about guilt.”

  “What? How have you never told me that?” I say. Did Dad have his head in his ass during my whole Holocaust obsession phase?

  “He didn’t want you to get even more mentally disturbed, maybe?” Jeb says, not even looking up from his sketchpad.

  “Oh, okay, Jeb. Why don’t you sketch more birds so you don’t have to learn how to talk to people?” I’m getting annoyed.

  People used to make a big deal about me being half Jewish, even though we didn’t do anything Jewish, other than latkes and the menorah once a year at Dad’s mother’s house. When I was nine, I went in search of Judaism and stumbled upon the Holocaust section of the public library. Everybody made fun of Maddie’s Holocaust obsession. Nobody knew how terrified I was of being taken away at night by scary soldiers and pushed inside an oven or that I lived it all again when they burned Grandpa Martin.

  It didn’t matter that he was already dead.

  “Can we just have a nice cocktail on my balcony for once without drama? I should have brought Ruth’s family on this trip, too. They were angels.” Gram has scrunch face.

  “Anybody want to head down to the theater?” Bob is the best tension diffuser for this family. “They’re showing The Shawshank Redemption.”

  “I’ll go,” Dad says. “Great flick.”

  Enzo texts.

  “Oh my God, Enzo says Francesca refuses to answer him about whether the patient is a Nazi. She told him to mind his business.”

  “Definitely a Nazi,” Wes says.

  “Definitely,” Billy says.

  “That does it. Everybody out.” Gram ushers us out of her cabin as the ship creeps to port.

  The sun has nearly set, casting dim shadows over the approaching landforms. Janie and I get out the binoculars we borrowed from Eddie’s bird-watching kit. When we get close enough to the port, we notice a group of people standing near the dock area.

  Uncle Billy rushes down the gangway and past them to find an Internet cafe. Now that Wes has confided in me about the baby, I hear whispered blow-by-blows about the adoption process ten times a day. We watch Vito’s kids, otherwise known as the Ornaments, scatter for twenty minutes of port shopping. From here, the town looks more like Switzerland than Brazil, with gingerbread buildings and a massive German beer sign hanging from a lamppost.

  The crowd grows, and we realize the people are surrounding a man. They’re hugging him and hanging on him. A few young women sob uncontrollably as children stand around looking confused and scared.

  “Those are definitely a lot of blond people, for Brazil,” Janie says.

  The ship horn blows a warning that we’ll soon be disembarking from this strange little alleged Nazi port. We take turns with the binoculars. The moaning and sobbing grows to a crescendo when Eddie walks out to escort the patient onto the ship. He’s hunched over, almost skeletal. At first I can’t figure out who he looks like. Then the bright light of the ramp shines on him and it hits me. He’s Gollum from Lord of the Rings. I watched that trilogy with Rachel a hundred times. I know a Gollum when I see one. I can almost picture him uttering precious as he turns to wave a craggy hand at the crowd. A woman lunges at the ship as the crew pulls in the ramp. I guess alleged Nazis have loved ones, too.

  Gollum has come to die all by himself.

  It’s dark now. The lights from the little German town sitting precariously on the edge of Brazil twinkle like a fairy village.

  Paige comes over with leftover pizza after she puts Grace to bed in her parents’ cabin. We tell her about the town and the alleged Nazi.

  “I’m sure he’s not a Nazi, you guys. The poor old man is coming on the ship all by himself. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.” Paige is so nice that it makes me feel bad. She’s lucky she’s not part of my judgy family.

  Paige tries on a bunch of my clothes for tomorrow night’s Latin dance party and settles on a black sequined dress that fits like a glove. It feels like a sleepover with the E’s.

  “Let me do your makeup,” Janie says.

  “Don’t make me look like a ho,” Paige says. “Or you can. Why not? I’ll surprise Lane when he gets back from poker. I’ve never been a ho. It could be fun.”

  By the time Janie’s finished, Paige is the prettiest mom I’ve ever seen.

  “I’m going down to Holly’s to help her sort pictures.” Janie leaves Paige and me to eat gummy bears and read magazines.

  “This is heaven,” she says. “I haven’t done this since long before Grace. Enjoy these little things. When you have a baby, it all goes away.” She gets up and reaches for a bottle of water. She stops and tilts her head and stares at me.

  “What? Why are you looking at me funny?” I say.

  Paige’s arm curls in and goes stiff. Her body starts shaking, and she falls to the floor. She looks up, dazed, and her arm shoots out violently.

  “Paige!” I yell. “Oh my God.”

  Her eyes roll back, and she makes a grunting sound. I freeze.

  There’s a weak voice inside me. It tells me to get help. I rush past Paige. Her arm doesn’t stop punching at air. I run out to the hall and scream, “Help! Help me.”

  Jeb comes running out in his boxer shorts. “What? What, Maddie?”

  Camilla comes out after him in underwear and a tank top. She follows me into the cabin. Paige’s entire rigid body has moved across the floor.

  “She’s having a seizure. It’s okay. It’s just a seizure. Jeb, move those shoes and the stuff away from her.” Camilla presses the EMERGENCY button on my wall. She kneels down and firmly pushes Paige onto her side.

  The nurses arrive within a minute or two. Paige is still thrashing. Her eyes are open and stare straight ahead. They’re dead eyes. “Go on out, honey,” a nurse with a Southern accent says. “We’ll get her comfortable. Go on. Give us a little space to work.”

  Jeb holds my arm gently and guides me toward the elevators. “I need to tell Lane.” I feel my lips moving, but everything is happening in slow motion.

  “Come on. We’ll find him. Let’s go down to the poker room.” Camilla runs out of Jeb’s room, fully dressed.

  I walk slowly with a stitch in my side.

  “That was intense,” Jeb says. “I feel so bad for her.”

  I can’t breathe.

  There’s laughter coming from the poker room. Why is everything funny? None of this is funny. It’s awful. I stand in the doorway. Mom sees me first.

  “Maddie, what’s wrong?”

  “Paige had a bad seizure. Maddie was with her,” Jeb says.

  I walk like a zombie toward Lane. He’s at the back table wearing a baseball hat backward, pointing at Bob and yelling something with a smile.

  His face changes when he sees me.

  “Paige had a seizure. The nurses are with her in my room.”

  “Oh, shit. I knew I shouldn’t have left her.” He gets up, but pauses next to me. “I’m so sorry. That is not easy to witness. But it’s okay. It happens all the time.”

  Mom and Gloria sit me down and give me water. Enzo comes over and hugs me. I don’t want to see any of them right now. I want my gram.

  “I want to sleep with Gram tonight,” the weak voice says. “I just need to be near her.”

  Bob takes me up to Gram’s cabin. He tells me Aunt Rose is with her, that they sleep together most nights. It’s
dark with her blackout shades. Bob turns on the bathroom light. Aunt Rose stirs.

  Gram sits up, disoriented. “What happened?”

  “Gram.” I climb into bed between Gram and Aunt Rose and tell Gram about Paige. I get as close to her as I can and smell the lavender cream on her skin and the faint chemical smell of hairspray in her hair. She holds my hand, and I lie sandwiched between two snoring old ladies. I can’t sleep because of the snoring and the image of Paige and the dull pain in my back where I think my pancreas resides.

  Rachel told me never to Google health stuff. That was after I Googled sweating and decided I had lymphoma. If I hadn’t Googled pancreatic cancer, I would never know there’s a strong family predisposition. If I hadn’t Googled pancreatic cancer, I might be asleep right now.

  I woke up in the middle of the night and went back to my cabin, where I discovered I had my period. I’m sure cramps are misdiagnosed as pancreatic cancer all the time.

  Mom’s buzzed me this morning with pedicures? That’s her way of saying I’m so sorry you had to see Paige’s seizure. Let’s make it all better by painting our toenails.

  I stop for a smoothie on the way to the salon. The deck is empty. I pass the Skinny Dave chair and think of him. I still can’t believe he’s gone.

  Mom is soaking her feet and sipping a latte.

  “I have a new job,” she announces as soon as I sit down.

  “What do you mean, a new job?”

  “Gloria and I have been hanging out a little in the kitchen, baking treats for the crew.”

  “That’s cool, Mom. You have a baking buddy.”

  “It’s a lot of fun. Anyway, Gloria loves to cook, but she does everything from her head. She’s asked me to write down the recipes and deliver them in book form to her grandchildren. Won’t that be a nice gift?”

  “That’s a perfect gift. Is she going to let you have a copy?”

  “Absolutely. She’s paying me in recipes. Roberta is helping, too—you know, Vito’s daughter.” She leans forward to check the nail lady’s work.