The Loose Ends List

by Carrie Firestone

  “Just do it,” says the loudmouthed secret keeper.

  We get a text from Eddie.

  Wishwell guests: Just a reminder to turn in your clearly labeled medicinal “herbs” by three pm. We will store them in the vault until departure from South America. Wishwell policy requires us to hold on to your electronic devices until we complete our journey. Safe travels to our adventurers.

  We meet in the dining room for brunch before we get off the ship. Dad’s eager to tell us about his new buddy.

  “His name isn’t Gollum, Maddie. It’s Heinz.”

  “So is he a Nazi or not?” Wes asks.

  “I didn’t think it was necessarily appropriate to ask him over coffee at seven AM,” Dad says. “He mostly talked about his nephews and nieces. And his failing heart. He seems like a nice man.”

  “I wonder if that’s what the Bergen-Belsen side of the family thought,” I say.

  “Not fair, Maddie,” Dad says.

  “Enough, honey. Give Daddy a break,” Mom says.

  Janie’s pouting. After all her debating, Janie’s hooked on Pickle. She’s in a terrible mood because she’s leaving him on the ship. Gram can’t take it anymore.

  “For Chrissakes, Jane Margaret, stop it. We are going to Rio. Dr. Do Me will be waiting for you in Asia.”

  “It’s too long,” Janie whines.

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Dad says. “You kids are running around like it’s spring break in Cancún. Have some goddamn respect for your grandmother.”

  “It’s okay, Aaron,” Gram says. “I wanted it to be a little like spring break. I was afraid the kids would follow me around like I was a two-legged stray. Why should I be the only one having fun?” She holds her hand up to silence the table. “I do have one request. As we go off on our adventures, no pining away. When you live inside each moment, it’s hard to have regrets. Okay, kids?”

  “Yes, Gram,” Jeb and I say.

  “Jane Margaret? No pining.”

  “No pining,” Janie mumbles.

  “Good. Now, sit up straight,” Gram says. “You look like a pack of hunchbacks at a pity party.”

  FOURTEEN

  THE RIO BUSES are almost as unnerving as Tits’s Jamaican bus. We’re on our way to see the giant statue of Christ. Gollum stayed behind. I guess we’ll have to wait to see if the Nazi thing pans out. We left Holly and Marshall behind, too. Janie planted kisses on Holly’s head and told her they’d be friends forever and they would see each other soon. Holly blinked twice. Then Janie mauled Ty on the gangway until Eddie had to pry them apart so we could get Janie onto the bus.

  Rio is vibrant and electric. We pass stacks of buildings piled on other stacks of buildings like mismatched LEGOs stuck haphazardly together. The colors are mismatched, too, with burnt orange, bright orange, turquoise, yellow. There are kids everywhere, kicking soccer balls, riding two or three to a bike, racing barefoot on the crowded street.

  Enzo holds my hand a little tighter now that we’re about to say good-bye.

  Gloria’s talking nonstop about her recipes. “Oh, it’s going to be epic, Gloria,” Mom replies, referring to the recipe book they’re making. I don’t know if epic is the word I would use.

  I texted Skinny Dave’s mom before we got on the bus just to tell her I think about him often and to wish her a safe trip back home. I bet Skinny Dave didn’t even write on the Gathering Wall. What would he have written?

  What would I write?

  “I’m going to miss you, Maddie Levine,” Enzo whispers.

  “So how shall we proceed?” I sound like an idiot, but I don’t know how else to say I know you said we are meeting in Rome, but I don’t know when that will be, and I’m getting anxious because I like you.

  “Text me when you get to Rome, and we’ll meet up. I have to say, I’m not the most brilliant long-distance communicator. I’ve gotten in trouble for that in the past.”

  “I mean, we don’t have to text back and forth a million times a day, but it would be nice to know you’re still alive.”

  “I think you would know if I were no longer alive.”

  “Ha-ha.” I turn my head toward the window and watch a woman plastering a guy’s face with kisses.

  “I’ve got an idea. What if we text each other three interesting things each day? It could be something we want to share or something we did that day.” He must sense my anxiety. “That way we have something to look forward to.”

  “That works,” I say.

  I know he’s right, but three texts a day will feel like three sips of water. Not nearly enough.

  I don’t know whose idea it was to take a tram up Corcovado Mountain, but the wait is hot, long, and annoying. It takes forever to chug up to the top, and I don’t even get to sit with Enzo because he’s helping brace Mark’s wheelchair.

  We finally make it, and the view from the mountain and the statue of Christ the Redeemer is breathtaking. Rio’s domed mountains remind me of alien pods in one of Rachel’s sci-fi movies. Below us, the sea meets the city, and the energy churns upward toward this very spot. I’m feeling especially Zen as Christ and I keep watch over Rio de Janeiro.

  Paige and Lane hug baby Grace between them and gaze out at the view.

  “I’m so glad we’re here,” Paige says when we’re all assembling for a picture. “It’s more spectacular than I imagined.”

  We pose for a group shot in front of a backdrop so spectacular it looks fake. Enzo leaves Mark and Burt and runs over. He squeezes in between Gram and me.

  “Say snow globe moment,” Dad yells.

  “Snow globe moment!” everybody yells.

  I wonder what the guy taking the picture thinks of our unruly crowd.

  “I like that,” Paige says. “Snow globe moment, like we’re suspended in a snow globe.”

  “It’s our family saying,” I explain. “One of them. Our family also likes the phrase ‘you’re an asshole.’”

  Paige laughs so hard she snorts, and for a second I feel panicked. I don’t want my joke triggering another seizure. I turn to go and notice Gram and Aunt Rose sitting side by side on a bench, heads together and chatting away. They look like they could be forty. Or fifteen. Or five.

  On the tram ride down, we all stand in a human blob in front of Mark so he doesn’t slide away into oblivion. Vito plops down on Mark’s lap with his oxygen tank, and Mark starts laughing uncontrollably, which ignites a chain reaction. Even the strangers laugh.

  We get to the bottom, and it’s time for good-byes. Good-bye to the Corcovado. Good-bye to Gloria and the minister. Good-bye to my sorority sister and her adorable family. “Wave bye-bye to Uncle Babysitter,” Paige says. Wes kisses Grace’s plump little cheeks and rushes onto the bus, a hot mess. Good-bye, Vito and the Ornaments. Good-bye, Surfer Mark and Buffoon Burt. Good-bye, Wishwell, for now.

  “Hey, Vito,” Dad yells as Roberta lugs the oxygen tank onto the bus. “Bob and I are going to practice our poker and get you good when we’re back on the ship.”

  “Not a chance,” Vito yells back. “You’d better save your money, chumps.”

  It’s time for the worst good-bye of all. Enzo puts his arm around me, and I look into his eyes. My lip trembles. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. It’s harder to hold back than a sneeze, but I do it.

  “Until Rome, beautiful Maddie,” he whispers. I nod.

  There are no words.

  He helps hoist Mark onto the Wishwell bus. I wave at the tinted windows and hope he’s waving back.

  A guy with gold teeth stands to the side of the trolley entrance with a misspelled sign for the NORTH-ONELL PARTY. We all pile into a white van and set out past the brightly colored slums where people live in layers; favelas, they’re called. Gold Teeth tells us boring stories about the history of the city in a Portuguese accent so thick it sounds Yiddish.

  “How do they let this go on?” Wes says. “Look at those kids begging. This is horrible. I wish we could do something. I feel so bad for them.”

  “So
stop the van and give them some money. That would help,” I say.

  “Yes, but it wouldn’t solve the deeper problem of poverty, Maddie.”

  “I doubt those four-year-olds care about the deeper problem of poverty.”

  Wes furrows his eyebrows at me. “Oh, wow,” he says in a blatant attempt to change the subject, “look at how the poor people have found a way to bring beauty to the Favela with art.”

  “And this is the upscale Copacabana Beach, home to the rich and famous,” Gold Teeth proudly announces. Crowds of people dot the white beaches between the busy streets and the sea. Sweaty girls around my age are drinking from a fountain on a volleyball break.

  “Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl.” Uncle Billy belts out our family’s favorite karaoke song from Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits, and we all join in. Even Jeb’s singing. Gold Teeth chair-dances, and we sing the chorus again.

  We speed past the crowds of people and fancy buildings, then more slums, and arrive at the foot of a steep rain-forest hill. We drive into the canopy, surrounded on all sides by massive palm trees, ferns, tangles of vines, and multihued flowers. Gold Teeth finally stops talking long enough to let us out. We buy Coca-Colas from a roadside shack and pile into two pimped-out mega Jeeps. I squeeze in between Mom and Bob, who smells of incense and lime. Bob tells us about his trip to Mozambique, where he almost died from a staph infection after he got a hangnail. I did not know death by hangnail was a thing.

  We stop at an overlook and take pictures of the view of Corcovado below us, where Christ looks like a tiny figurine made of soap.

  “Let’s do big trips like this every year, honey,” Mom says. “I think I have the travel bug.”

  “Just don’t let it get into a hangnail.”

  “Good one.” She puts an arm around me. “You know what? I think I’ve figured out why we all like Bob so much. He’s just like Grandpa Martin.”

  “Mom, Grandpa Martin was a short, pasty white guy who liked golf and Civil War artifacts. I’m not seeing it.”

  “Not looks or hobbies, Maddie. My father was quiet and kind and wise. He let Mother do her thing without complaining. He was always there, but he didn’t need to be seen.” She raises her eyebrows and nods toward Bob, who is taking a selfie with Gram and Aunt Rose.

  “Whoa, Mom. You are so right. Bob is exactly like Grandpa Martin. I guess Gram does have a type.”

  We stop again at a fierce torrent pouring down the side of a steep ridge. A crowd of American tourists blocks the view of the waterfall with their big heads, and we wait for them to pile into their tour bus. The forest buzzes with insect sounds.

  “I need a little boost,” Gram says, taking my hand. She’s breathing heavily.

  “It’s a magic waterfall,” Gold Teeth says. “Make a wish.”

  This guy has no idea that our gram is dying. Mom stands at the edge with her eyes closed. She’s falling for this—she must really believe this magic waterfall will make everything better. I can’t stop wondering how many people like us have stood here wishing for miracles, only to have their wishes fall like bricks to the bottom of the swirling whirlpool.

  Gram taps my shoulder and points to a nearby tree. A little monkey is sitting on a branch. We watch it peel a piece of fruit, then devour it intently. We all fixate on the monkey. It doesn’t seem to give a damn about us as it looks around and licks its tiny hands.

  “We should give it a name,” Uncle Billy whispers.

  “How about Lola?” Gram says.

  “Her name is Lola. She is a showgirl,” Wes sings. We shush him, but it’s too late. Lola disappears into the forest canopy.

  We are too much for the little monkey to handle.

  After spending all that time in a moving vessel, it feels like I’m still moving, even as I linger in the shower at the Copacabana Palace Hotel slathering fancy soaps all over myself. Janie flings open the shower door to tell me she just had a nightmare about bats gnawing through her suitcase. We spend the next hour writing postcards to our friends. I end Rachel’s postcard with: Gram is hanging in there. She’s a trouper.

  We’re dressing for dinner when I get a text from Skinny Dave’s mom.

  Thank you for thinking of me. I’m missing my boy, but ready for the next chapter. Best wishes to you all.

  Apparently the secret chemotherapy hasn’t altered Gram’s obsession with Brazilian meat.

  I put on a short, very tight green dress and silver heels. Janie walks out in an even shorter, even tighter pink dress that highlights her voluptuous boobage. The gentlemen of the Copacabana Palace lobby swoon a little when we make our entrance. I’m disappointed in Janie and me—we should be taking advantage of the opportunity to hook up with Brazilian boys, but she’s obsessed with Ty and I only have eyes for Enzo Ivanhoe.

  I wonder what he’s doing right now.

  “Hubba, hubba. Our girls are all grown up,” Wes says. Even Jeb shows up in nice clothes.

  “My, my. Look at us. Aren’t we sexy beasts?” Gram’s wearing all her good jewels for this.

  The churrascaria de rodízio restaurant, Brazilian for “so much meat you will puke,” rests between Sugarloaf Mountain and the sea. We sit outside on a patio with hanging lanterns that glow dimly as the sky darkens behind the mountain. Waiters deliver platters of sausage, pork, chicken, beef, fish, fried potatoes, and salads. The wine and fresh passion-fruit juice flow, and Aunt Rose drinks cold beer.

  Gram was right. The meal was so good, we barely said a word in two hours other than “yum” and “oh my God, this is so delicious.”

  We wander down a boardwalk made of snake-shaped mosaic tiles. We’re all drunk on meat as we amble along. Janie and I struggle to keep up with Gram and Bob. Clearly the mosaic path wasn’t meant for ridiculous heels.

  “Will my babies be joining us at the jazz club tonight? It should be a great show.” Gram looks back at Mom, Dad, and Aunt Rose, who are now a block behind us. “I can’t wait to drop those duds and order my Rio drink. It’s caipirinha time.”

  “What’s caipirinha time?” Janie asks.

  “Brazil’s national drink. It’s an elixir made with liquor, sugar, and lime. Only have one, Jane Margaret. We want you in one piece on the beach tomorrow,” Gram says.

  “Sorry, Ma. We’re not spending our one night in Rio at a jazz club,” Uncle Billy says.

  “We are about to go dance off the five thousand calories I just consumed,” Wes says.

  I turn to Janie. “We could go three ways tonight. Coffee and cards with the duds, jazz with the eightysomethings, or dancing with the uncles. I’m going with the uncles.”

  “And I want to try a caipirinha,” Janie says. “After I digest.”

  Usually Jeb blends into the woodwork and we forget he’s with us. But after half a bottle of wine, he’s in rare form.

  “The chicks here are incredible,” he says, trying to drum up enthusiasm from two gay guys and his sister as we wait outside the club.

  “What about your girlfriend, Camilla?” I say.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend. We’re hooking up. Speaking of which, how’s your virginity?”

  I ignore him.

  Janie runs out of a souvenir shop with a Statue of Christ the Redeemer Christmas ornament. “Look what I got Vito. Don’t you think he’ll love it?”

  “Vito will be dead at Christmas,” Jeb says.

  Janie stops abruptly. She has the expression of a little kid whose balloon flew out the car window.

  “It’s… I got it for his cabin,” she says. The tiny ornament hangs on her finger.

  “Why do you have to be a douchebag, Jeb?” I say.

  We keep walking, following pulsing music into a club. The bouncer is hesitant to let us in. I don’t know if it’s because we’re too old, too young, not cool enough, or annoying Americans. But he starts talking to Jeb about his tattoos and ends up waving us all in. My brother actually saves the day.

  The club is dark, and the dance floor is lit with flashing colored lights. The wome
n are dressed so scantily I can practically see their Brazilian waxes. My family insists on ordering multiple rounds of the elixir of Brazil, so I make my way onto the dance floor alone.

  A tall Brazilian guy comes up behind me. I turn around and grind into his firm, muscled torso. What do I care? I’ll never see any of these people again. The E’s would be so proud. Janie finds me on the dance floor. Wes runs out of the DJ booth with a big grin, and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps” comes on. I’m transported to the honky-tonk bar near Aunt Rose’s Charleston house where we spent an entire afternoon last winter break choreographing a routine to this very song.

  Janie and I fling off our heels as Uncle Billy and Wes grab us, much to the dismay of my partner, who soon realizes this is a group routine. The floor clears, and people jump in behind us, and within minutes, we manage to teach the entire club our routine.

  Jeb two-steps behind me with a cute Brazilian girl while my guy is pulling me to the middle of the dance floor. We dance. We grind. He touches me. I touch him. It feels good. It also feels like I’m cheating on Enzo.

  Janie’s chugging yet another caipirinha at the bar while Jeb sucks face with the girl in the corner.

  “Janie’s puking.” Wes grabs me.

  I look up at my guy. “My friend, blah, blah!” I make the universal puking sound. I think my new friend thinks I’m about to puke because he lets go pretty quickly. I run over to Janie who is vomiting an impressive volume of meat mixed with liquor, sugar, and lime. People clear a wide path as Wes and I push her out the front exit. Janie trips and lands sprawled on the sidewalk, flashing her thong to the people passing by. Wes wipes her mouth with a handful of cocktail napkins. Uncle Billy and Jeb come out all sweaty and help lift her drunken body. We drag her to the Copacabana Palace and straight up to bed.

  I wake up way too early and go out for a walk around Copacabana. The streets are much quieter than they were a few hours ago. I find a cute café and order coffee and a sweet bun. I open the New York Times and scan the headlines until a frantic text from Uncle Billy disrupts my grown-up moment.