The Loose Ends List

by Carrie Firestone

  “So, to change the subject,” she says, “I’m sure last night wasn’t easy for you, honey.”

  “No. It was not.” I look out at the whitecaps swelling under the cloudy sky.

  “Doesn’t this whole trip make you nervous, Mom? Like about the D word? I just feel like it’s in my face all the time.”

  “Can you cut them a little more?” Mom is notorious for scrutinizing her pedicures. “Um, oh, nervous? No. I’m going to miss Gram, like we all will. But death doesn’t make me nervous. Put me in front of a bunch of people and make me give a speech, okay, then I’ll pee in my pants.”

  “Did you just say you’re more afraid of public speaking than dying?”

  “Oh, yeah. Petrified.”

  “Wow. You’re more peculiar than I thought.”

  “What’s peculiar is your choice of nail color. Seriously, Maddie? It’s, like, chartreuse.”

  “Okay, Mom. I’m going to close my eyes and relax.”

  “You do that, honey. Then you won’t have to see your green toes.”

  Paige texted Come visit! so I’m getting her cupcakes from the café.

  Janie is sitting with Holly, who now has a poster hanging from the back of her wheelchair.

  “Mads, come see the poster Eddie and I made for Holly. These are all her favorite pictures.” Janie holds up the poster. The woman in the pictures dances and smiles and hugs Marshall and holds a puppy. She sits on a sled on a mountaintop and wears an evening gown the color of raspberries and poses in a black leotard with her arms stretched up toward the sky.

  I feel like throwing up all over the poster. It’s just so sad.

  “These are great pictures.” I’m careful not to say how pretty she was. “Is that your puppy? It’s so cute.”

  Holly blinks once.

  “No, it’s her brother’s. He lives in Texas. He’s pretty hot. The brother, not the puppy,” Janie says.

  “What are you doing now?” I ask.

  “Wes is bringing baby Grace down to hang out. Holly loves when we hold Grace close so she can observe her cuteness.”

  Holly blinks twice.

  As soon as I’m in the elevator, I take a yoga breath and exhale the poison. I don’t understand why that Nazi Gollum gets to be hobbling around in his nineties while Holly and Paige and Mark are dying so long before their expiration dates. I rest my head against the wall, slamming it a little too hard on the glass. Fuck this. This is worse than the worst thing I had imagined. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

  I’m not sure what to expect when I enter Paige’s room. The last time I saw her, she was frothing at the mouth with her eyes rolled back in her head.

  It’s a relief to see she’s sitting out on the balcony playing with her bee while Lane sits next to her, reading the New York Times.

  “Paige!”

  “Ooooh. What did you bring me?”

  Lane takes a cupcake. “Do you mind if I go in for a shower?”

  Of course I mind. I will be grabbing you by your naked ass if she has another seizure. “No. Go ahead,” I say.

  I look over the railing as he heads inside, making room for me on the balcony. The ocean is angrier than I’ve seen it in a while. It’s not helping my stomach.

  “Yum. Bring that tray over here.” Paige looks pale and tired.

  “How are you?” I say.

  “I’m okay. Just exhausted. I feel like I did a triathlon—my whole body aches. I’m sorry you had to be there. Lane said you were really upset.”

  She sounds like herself. I sit across from her at the tiny balcony table. “Honestly? I really was. I’ve never seen a seizure and didn’t know what to do. I’m so glad you’re okay. Did you even know what was going on?”

  Paige wolfs down a cupcake and bites into another.

  “Not really. It’s hard to explain. After, I felt groggy like I was sedated. I’m still kind of out of it. It’s a crappy feeling. The doctors are tweaking my medication, and I’m amping up the cannabis oil. I’m not missing Rio for anything.” She blinks a few times like she’s trying to focus.

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No, thanks. The cupcake was perfect, and I’ll nap soon. I’m just grateful for amazing Uncle Babysitter. My parents can finally rest a bit, and Gracie doesn’t have to see me like this. Anyway, tell me something good. I’m tired of talking about sickness and all that boring crap.”

  “Let me think. How about gossip?”

  “You know I love gossip.”

  “Your seizure outed my brother’s sordid affair with Camilla.”

  “No way.”

  “Yup. I yelled for help, and Jeb and Camilla came running out in their underwear. You need to stay a little more alert during these seizures, Paige. You’re missing all the scandal.”

  Paige laughs.

  “We won’t tell Camilla that Jeb’s a chronic masturbator. He’ll never live down the time in Bermuda when Janie and Brit walked in on him with Gram’s Redbook magazine.”

  “Oh my God, stop. My whole body is sore. It hurts to laugh.”

  I get up to go. “Are you coming tonight?”

  “I’ll be there. I’m not letting a little seizure hold me back.”

  If that was a little seizure, I’m thinking a big seizure could take the whole ship down, but just being around Paige makes me feel better.

  Now I’m ready to dance.

  THIRTEEN

  THE CANDLELIT BALLROOM is decked out with tropical flowers and oversized feathers for the Latin dance party. Janie sipped champagne and did my hair in a slicked-back bun to go with my flouncy electric-blue flamenco dress.

  None of the patients are here yet. They’ve disappeared to their mysterious group, now joined by the alleged Nazi. Nobody knows what they’re doing down there. They could be painting one another’s genitals with maple syrup, for all I know, or building a time machine. We’re blindly following them around the globe, and they’re keeping secrets.

  “Where is everybody?” Mom and Dad arrive with Aunt Rose.

  “Billy and Wes just finished taking samba and tango lessons in the dining room,” Bob says. “Although they could be giving the lessons. Those guys can dance.”

  The band starts with a samba song, and I’m stuck dancing with the minister. He’s half my size and so rhythmically challenged it’s painful. I scan the room for Enzo, but all I see are a gaggle of Ornaments dancing in a group, my parents attempting the samba, and Bob Johns and Marshall drinking at the bar. Janie’s outside with Ty. I’m beginning to think the patients are the fun ones in the group.

  Enzo finally arrives with Jeb and Burt, who look baked out of their minds, and cuts in on the minister. He flings me out and pulls me in and flings me around the dance floor like a professional.

  “How did you learn how to dance like this?” I’m breathless.

  “My mother forced me to take lessons on our Wishwell trips.”

  The music slows, and he holds me close. He’s wearing fitted black pants and a crisp patterned blue shirt. I tell Dad to go get his bee. I want a picture of us.

  The wheelchair brigade pushes its way in. Paige is in the wheelchair tonight. Janie points to Holly and gives me a thumbs-up. She looks regal, with a sparkly headband on her short hair and a shimmery princess gown. Marshall pushes Holly out to the dance floor as Uncle Billy gets up on stage.

  “Wishwell friends, it has come to our attention that we have a dancer in the house. Mr. Bob Johns has asked to do the honors.” Bob climbs up with his trumpet. Billy holds the mic to Bob’s mouth.

  “Holly, this one’s for you,” he says in his deep voice.

  Bob plays “At Last.” We gather in a circle around the dance floor, listening to the trumpet tell a love story that’s sad and soulful all at once. Marshall stares down into Holly’s eyes and bends to kiss her lips. He takes his place behind the wheelchair and spins her around and around—this time, Holly moves, and we stay still. Enzo drapes his arm around me and grips my shoulder as if his hand is saying
, Please don’t get sick, or maybe that’s what I’m saying to myself.

  The band takes over when Bob finishes, and the dancing goes on for hours. But even as Uncle Billy and Wes and the Ornaments and the “kids” are energized, the patients drop off early, one by one, as if to say, This is how it’ll be.

  And still we dance.

  It’s our last night on the Wishwell before Rio, and I have cramps. Enzo and I go back to his cabin, and we start kissing. His hands move under my dress, and I feel myself tense up. The same thought keeps running through my mind: I haven’t told him I’m a virgin. I can’t enjoy anything we’re doing right now, with the period thing and the virgin thing and all the Wishwell drama. It’s not happening tonight, that’s for sure. But I have to tell him. I feel like I’m driving a car without telling my passenger I don’t have a license.

  I pull away and clamp my legs together. “Enzo?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m a virgin.”

  His hands stop. His breath stops. “Uh. Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m actually speechless.”

  “Why? Do I look like a slut?” It’s too dark to read his face.

  “No. Not at all.” He pauses. “I just assumed you’d have… been with somebody by now.”

  “I’ve been close. It’s a long story.” I almost tell him about Ethan, but what if he has the same problem? I need to change the subject. “But if we do, eventually, I’m not going to be weird about it or anything.”

  He rolls onto his back and reaches for my hand. We lie still, side by side.

  “Do you think it might be tonight?” he finally says.

  “No. I mean, it might have been. But female issues. You know.”

  “Oh. Got it.”

  I want to ask, Is this our last night together, because we haven’t really discussed that? Instead, I fill the awkward silence with “We’re docking in Rio, and I have no idea where Gram’s taking us. She loves to be mysterious. I’m not even sure who else is coming with us.”

  “Mum has to go back to England for a bit, and I have odds and ends to do for school.” I’m sure he feels my entire body go rigid. “But I might be able to rearrange my schedule and meet you in Rome, if you’re up for it.”

  “I’m not exactly able to jet-set around on my own at this point.”

  “No, but I might have connections on this ship who might have given me access to your gram’s itinerary.”

  I realize what he’s saying. “We’re going to Rome?”

  “You’re going to Rome.”

  I shriek and roll on top of him. I sit up and hold his hands down and look into his eyes. “Swear? You’re not messing with me?”

  He pulls himself up and flips me over. “I’m not messing with you. But don’t tell anyone I told you. I don’t need Eddie giving me grief.”

  The thought of never seeing Enzo Ivanhoe again had been weighing on me. Suddenly I feel a thousand pounds lighter.

  We eventually get up and eat peanut butter with our fingers on the balcony.

  “Question,” I say.

  “You’re full of questions, aren’t you?”

  “What’s group?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do they do on the patients-only floor?”

  “It’s not that exciting.”

  “Don’t tell me they sit in a support group and talk about their feelings.”

  “Not exactly. Do you want to go and have a look?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, now. We just can’t get caught. My mother will punish us by making us talk about our feelings for hours,” he says, pulling his hoodie over his head.

  “In that case, we’d better be careful.”

  I’m chilly in my rumpled flamenco dress and bare feet, walking down the fluorescent-lit halls. We descend the stairwell to the underbelly of the ship. I’ve gotten used to the wave sounds constantly swooshing under my window. Here, it’s only eerie creaking.

  Enzo opens the door and sticks his head out. He grabs my hand, pulls me into a dark room, and flips on the light. It’s bright and cozy with plush carpeting and couches and a long table with neat stacks of paper and bins of sharpened pencils. There’s a whiteboard, a blackboard, and a Smart Board.

  It’s boring.

  “This is it?”

  “This is where the ideas are born.” I can’t tell whether or not he’s joking.

  “What do you mean? Stop being a little clue-giver.”

  “So, they’re making a movie. Lots of movies, actually, but one big movie. Mum fancies herself a Hollywood director.”

  “What kind of movie?”

  “It’s for the movement. There’s a video room down the hall where all the patients make personal films, for family and friends, memoirs, words of advice—whatever they want to get off their chests.” Enzo laughs. “My sister and I used to sneak in and watch the films. One guy confessed a twenty-year affair with his daughter’s best friend. Why would he do that to his wife and daughter?”

  He digs through a random bowl of hard candies and settles on butterscotch.

  “Focus, Enzo.”

  “Right, they come down and talk about why they want to do this, their lives before the illnesses struck, and how it’s not a depressing thing. One woman explained it as wanting to find as much meaning in the act of dying as she did in the act of living.”

  “Will this movie be released, like, in theaters?” I can only imagine what Gram is contributing. She loves being on camera.

  “Someday. They’re waiting for the right moment.”

  “I guess that’s more interesting than ‘group.’”

  “It’s fascinating, actually, what people will say when they have nothing left to lose. The way they laugh and carry on down here, you’d never know they were terminally ill. Oh, and they also do graffiti. You have to see this.”

  I follow him through a room with video equipment and what looks like a recording studio into a dimly lit corridor so long it must span the entire length of the ship. I can’t even see the end. There are layers and layers of colorful garlands hanging from the ceiling and graffiti covering the white walls. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  “They call it the Gathering Wall. Somebody got angry at the world one day and went on a rampage with a Sharpie. I guess it went viral.”

  As we get closer, the colors and shapes turn into words:

  I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of being a burden even one more day.—WW

  “In the book of life, the answers aren’t in the back.”—Charlie Brown

  And soon I’ll return to the white rose of Yorkshire, where the sky bathes my soul with a watering can.—PJS

  When I was a little girl, I stomped on a baby bird. I’ve regretted it for sixty-seven years.—MJR

  I thought my last meal would be filet mignon. But all I really want is an animal cracker.—EM

  My child is a murderer. I wish I had aborted him.—Anon

  I look at Enzo, flipping through his bee as if he’s waiting for the bus. The shock of this wall, mixed with everything else, is wreaking havoc on my stomach. I am too young for this shit. I want to run up to my bed, but I can’t take my eyes off the Gathering Wall. Some of the clusters of words look like flowers from a distance. But they are sentences surrounded by me toos.

  I can’t wait to die so I can finally be free.—JD Me too. Me too. Me too.

  I feel my soul stirring, itching to be released.—WFG Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too.

  It is humiliating that I need a nurse to write down my deepest thoughts because my fucking hands died before the rest of me.—Jo Me too.

  You would think the pain would be the worst part. But for me, it’s the diaper changes.—M

  Somebody wrote:

  LOL.

  It goes on and on.

  Quotes from Shakespeare. Quotes from Maya Angelou. Quotes from Lao-tzu. Quotes from Bob Dylan.

  Hanoi was a lovely place. Why did they make me bomb it?—CR
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  I’m going home now, friends. Wish me well.—Mel

  “Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day!”—ST

  The funny, the heartbreaking, the profound phrases continue on and on and on. I scan the walls for Gram’s flowery handwriting. What would she write? I want so badly to know her secrets.

  “You all right? You’re quiet,” Enzo says.

  “I’m okay. Just overwhelmed.”

  “Let’s go. It’s late.” Enzo leads me back to the stairwell. I’ve seen only a tiny fraction of this Gathering Wall. I pause for a second to look at a drawing of a hot-air balloon carrying a load of smiling people through the clouds.

  I can almost hear the voices of the dead, echoing through the creaking sounds. “Get the hell out, you healthy asshole kids,” the whispers say. “This is sacred ground, and you don’t belong here.”

  Enzo points up at the garlands suspended from the ceiling.

  “Can you see what those are?”

  I try to make out the perfect circles hanging from fishing line. I realize they’re the rubber bracelets people wear for causes. Pink for breast cancer. Gray for brain cancer. Purple for pancreatic cancer. Yellow for every cancer. Hundreds and hundreds of bracelets.

  They’ve left their diseases behind.

  Gram’s sitting on the edge of my bed with her Bermuda shorts and spider veins and mug of lemon tea. She’s barking orders at Janie and me to pack faster because we both overslept in our boyfriends’ beds.

  “Bring the wool sweaters and parkas.”

  “What? Are you serious? Oh my God. We’re going to Antarctica, aren’t we?” Janie says.