But then I am hit hardest looking at a card lying on the box of vitamin C. I recognize it once I start reading. I was taking notes on whatever I could grab. My handwriting is neat-ish but all over the page, going in different directions. I didn’t know what I was writing and so I didn’t know what things belonged in the margins and what belonged in the center. Jack was sick and I was asking Dr. Henry what we could do and could we fix this please please please. I wrote useless things that you write because you need to feel like you’re not useless: “Sunday let’s talk. Monday he can test.” “Chills. Keep taking temp.” I have a log-in name and password for Jack’s doctor’s office to get his test results from the flu and strep tests he was allowed to take. So I could let him know and he didn’t have to stay looking at the computer. He had that fever.
Up in the right corner I wrote, “Lynn Ratner.” Lynn Ratner is the wonderful doctor who agreed to give Jack a COVID test on Monday, March 18. He is in his eighties and quarantined for two weeks after testing Jack. He knew Jack was sick. And underneath Lynn’s name, I just wrote, “Owen,” and drew a heart around it.
I think I should test out my shower. It feels a little gross in there. I throw out a lot of the product that was in there. Not all. Never all. I turn on the faucet and watch brown gross water coat the tub for twenty seconds. Same thing happens with the shower.
It’s not comfortable here. It used to feel comfortable.
I went to bed trying not to touch my sheets. I woke up today and did all the laundry I could. My sheets are clean at least tonight. I had time at home because all my work meetings were over Zoom. I had to leave once to take a lab test for COVID. I’m tested every day.
This apartment has become a natural history museum of me, for me. My life was always messy, but I didn’t know what was coming. I didn’t know I’d leave in a state of panic and grief and not come back until I’d had a summer in the woods with Kevin and Lucy and Jack. And not until I ran away and made a joyful, magic show in Vancouver for nine weeks.
This girl who was here before me didn’t know about everything that would happen. Which is actually maybe normal to say about life any time you look back over a year in which a lot happened. But I think rarely do we have times that feel like this—such a drastic and fast separation, and it lasted nine months. Like being sucked into outer space.
So now, we are getting reacquainted.
Yesterday I finished my first day back at work and only had to take one half of a Xanax. I asked a million questions. “Am I allowed to go to my office? Where do I get that test? Can I order food? Where can I eat? Is it okay to drink water in public? Are all these masks okay to wear? Are any friends okay to hug?” I left that night, headed out to find my car, wearing my mask and gloves. I had to find my car because they can’t park at the doors anymore when the tree at Rockefeller Plaza goes up. I hate that tree this year. It makes me feel so unnecessarily endangered. It makes me angry at New York, because aren’t we supposed to be doing this well?
Then I started to feel a little warm, because I remembered leaving on a Friday just like this last December. I was looking for my car. When I finally got in I would text Jack, who had left my apartment that morning. He was still in his suit from the party, he said. He was at another Christmas party that night. He ordered a fruit and cheese plate with his friends. He sent me a picture. I liked the picture he sent. Handsome Jack.
Today I think of that again as I run in and out of work to take a lab COVID test—we do rapid tests the other days—and get back into my car to go home to do all my Zoom meetings. I’m learning the routes I’m supposed to take in the building so that we separate as best as possible. I’m trying to be really good at following the rules.
My doorman John gets on the elevator with me at my building. He asks me if I mind. They say only one person or family to an elevator. I say it’s okay. We chitchat back and forth before he says that he wants to crunch numbers because he wants to be out of this job, this place, in January. He can’t do it anymore. I nod. I don’t know how tough that is for him to say. I say something dumb, even though it’s still something that I mean: “And nothing has to be a permanent decision. It’s not final. You might even start to like doing something else and now you’ll give yourself the time.”
He smiles and says, “Yeah. Who knows what I may start getting into.”
It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t feel awful. Maybe there’s something good to take from that. Because we still have to. We still have to look for those things. We really do. Especially now that it seems like we stopped respecting our own grief and pain and even pandemic.
The next day as I leave for work, a woman allows me on the elevator with her. She says, “This is scary.” I realize I must look like I’m scared too, in my hood and coat and mask and whatever my pupils have become. I say, “It’s my first time back here. I’m only here for work. I’m upstate half the week.”
I don’t know why I even responded this way.
She says “What? I can’t hear with these things.”
I smile, as if she can see, and I say, “Yeah, it’s the same for me. I can’t hear anyone these days.”
I don’t know what to say next. The elevator stops, and I walk briskly out of the building and to my car.
I didn’t know my museum would make me sad. But it does. I think it must be really hard to clean up all of somebody’s things when you lose them. The stuff. Why does she have toilet paper on her table? What’s this open box of vitamin C? What are these notes she scratched? I don’t know what they mean.
I told you the notes were written on a card. I turn the card over. Of course. It’s a card from a bouquet Leda sent me. She’s good, really good, at sending flowers. I think it’s from a basketball game I took her to early this year. The night they had the photo of Kobe Bryant up on the wall at MSG because we’d all just found out he was gone. The night Leda and I held hands and cried and cheered, “OW-EN! OW-EN!” while the crowd yelled “KO-BE! KO-BE!” (Again, because we thought Kobe wouldn’t mind.) She sent me flowers after that. “Cecily THANK YOU Cec. I love you and I’ve looked up to your kindness and compassion my whole life—still trying to walk like you. Love, Leda.”
And maybe my museum isn’t only messy and sad.
January 7, 2021
It’s been a year since you left us, Owen. When I think about the year, it’s hard to say what I’ve learned. Why is that my instinct anyway, in being able to process the passing of time? I guess it makes me feel like time is still linear and the math is linear, in that this much time has passed so that means I must have learned x. But I don’t know what I’ve learned or what I know. Because it feels too much like trying to say there is a lesson in this, and one for which we had to trade you. Nobody would ever do that. That isn’t a fair trade.
But I can say there are plenty of things I didn’t know prior to last January. Here are some things I didn’t know:
I didn’t know I’d be living with Kevin in a house in the Hudson Valley.
I didn’t know I’d find love a third time. I didn’t know if it was something I even needed. I didn’t know if it was something I was capable of having—or rather if I was capable of being a good partner to somebody. I didn’t know I’d ever feel comfortable with another person in that position in my life, or if instead I’d start to resent them being there. I didn’t know it would be possible for me to feel safe with another person. I didn’t know I could feel like someone wouldn’t leave me.
I didn’t know I could grow cucumbers. Or tomatoes or lettuce or parsley or dill or oregano or basil.
I didn’t know how much I liked calla lilies and that I could grow those, too. I didn’t and still don’t quite know how to plant bulbs. I didn’t know a whole lot of sunlight would make up for not knowing anything about seeds and bulbs and soils and fertilizers.
I didn’t know deer scream. And they eat the bulbs you plant.
I didn’t know how to cook a tofu stir-fry. Or that I’d like it so much.
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br /> And going back even farther, I didn’t know how big a part of my life my little cousins would become. I didn’t know how much I’d love having you and Leda around, and how good it would feel when I’d see my skinny little cousins showing up at going-away parties and birthday parties and basketball games. I didn’t know how much I’d enjoy showing you both off: yeah, those two amazing and kind and superintelligent and fun-to-be-around humans are actually my little cousins.
And I didn’t know I’d actually lose you. Even after hearing the worst of the worst news that was scary to even say out loud: GBM. You had brain cancer. I still didn’t think we’d lose you.
I didn’t know how much of a guide you’d become in my life. My younger cousin. I knew you were special, and more courageous than anyone I knew, but I didn’t know how much of an impact that part of you would have on my own life after you’d left.
I don’t know where you are.
I don’t know how long any of us have, or how to ever accept that.
I wish you were here. I know you are not. And that’s really the only math I know for sure. It’s been a year, Owen. I miss you and I love you.
February 27, 2021
I’ve been struggling a bit with work. It still scares me to be in the city, living in my apartment building for half of the week. I’m splitting time between the city and the Hudson Valley. It’s a bit of a commute, but worth it for the three days I get to live in my beloved woods, not thinking about where I’ve left my mask. We are double masking these days.
The reason I’m struggling is because I feel the sadness and gloom that have set in around me. I think being back here has made me see and feel what we don’t have anymore. We are trying to do a job that is by nature a collaborative process but in a time where collaboration is difficult and always watched over by a team of people in reflective jackets who look for when someone isn’t wearing a face shield over their mask correctly or when we start to forget the rules and stand too close to one another. It’s their job, and I’m actually fully grateful because they are doing all of this for us. To keep us safe from the virus still raging.
But it’s hard to see these people I love so much and not be able to do something as simple as watch a dumb YouTube video together over a phone. We aren’t allowed to stand close unless we are rehearsing a scene on set. I don’t see anybody’s face unless I’m in a sketch with them. And even then, the most I will see anyone’s face in person is twice on Saturday: once at dress rehearsal and once at air. I don’t enjoy writing as much because we have to do it over Zoom. You can’t really banter over Zoom. It’s stilted and awkward and there’s a camera on your face. Everything feels less funny. The audience is significantly smaller, so performing is much harder. Everything I do feels like I’m bombing. And let me tell you, there is a particular sting in bombing at sketch comedy. I can’t help but feel exceptionally pathetic: making a fool of yourself without the validation of laughter. Yeesh.
It’s not all bleak, though. We are so fortunate to have jobs right now. And jobs where there is a team of people working hard to keep us safe. And the vaccines are here, with more coming. My dad just got his second dose. I feel hopeful.
I was feeling really low this past Saturday. It was our fifth show in a row. So we were tired. Exhausted. I don’t sleep well during show weeks under any circumstances, forget COVID. I’m anxious all week. I’m worried about the live show. Do I have enough in the show? Too much? Am I going to be able to nail this bit in the one chance I have to do it live in front of millions of people? We only get about two real rehearsals. The show is fast and we have to be able to make changes up to sometimes the moment we are physically performing a sketch—seeing writers frantically changing the cue cards five cards ahead of where we are. I’m jittery even writing all of this now.
I played Governor Whitmer again for the first time since the SNL at Home. It was written as a piece of the cold open and the sketch is about the vaccine rollout. I don’t really care what it’s about, though. I know there’s only one thing I’m thinking about.
It’s just one quick shot, so I try to hold the bottle so the bright orange and blue label can be seen clearly as I take a gulp. A Bell’s Oberon. The same beer the governor sent to me at Megan’s Airbnb in May.
I’m getting the beer right this time.
I didn’t know there would be a “this time,” a “next time.”
But here I am.
Here we are.
After the show something really special happened. A couple of us stayed around for the first time. It wasn’t a big group. I can’t really even use the term party. We were listening to music and dancing and chatting, even if we were still double masked and physically distanced.
I am standing in the back of the room alone for a moment just watching my friends. I realize I haven’t done anything at all like this in about a year. And I miss this so much. I love them so much. We are going to be able to have this for real again soon. How lucky to even have this night together.
And before I leave, a girl with long dark hair and a mask approaches me. As I realize who it is, I start to tear up.
It’s Remi. The girl from work I barely knew who I spoke with over the phone while her mom was hospitalized with COVID. I haven’t seen her in person since then.
We break a COVID rule and hug each other because we need to finally hug each other. We’ve needed this hug for almost a year.
She starts to thank me and wants to tell me how much it meant to her to speak with me while her mom was sick, and I tell her, “No no no, thank you, it meant so much to me to be able to feel helpful in any way.” We are spilling these words out even though we really don’t even have to say anything at all. Because we know. Of course we know. We went through this scary thing together. During those early days where you knew so little about COVID, you might end up on the phone with a coworker you barely knew because there was really nobody else to ask to give you any kind of information on this virus attacking people we loved.
Almost a year after COVID shut down the world, I’m hugging Remi in a room with my friends and coworkers dancing and laughing around me. We just did a show together. Jack is better. Remi’s mom is better. We are all still here.
We are lucky.
I am lucky.
March 1, 2021
What’s the ending? I asked when I started writing this. Would you even know?
I’m at a Knicks game. Bulls vs. Knicks. I’m with Owen and Leda and my friend and SNL castmate Michael Che. The photographer gets photos of us crazy cheering. Owen’s got his fists in front of his face and I’ve got one raised in the air and my mouth is wide open. Leda is doing the same. We are crazed. We are family. I don’t remember if they won or lost. We go out afterward and get a drink at an Irish bar. We laugh at Michael ordering bangers and mash. Owen orders a beer. We are laughing. It’s a normal night. I like seeing him like this. It makes me think he’s gonna be okay. I know he’s gonna be okay.
It’s the last night I will see Owen.
But I don’t want to end that way. I don’t like that ending for any story.
In real life I don’t have an ending. Or know it. Or believe there even is one, or if there is, then only one. I’m still very much in the middle. Or somewhere. Maybe the beginning of a new world. Maybe the end of an old life. I honestly don’t know. I’m somewhere in time and space.
It does seem likely, though, everything will have changed permanently. Some people seem to think that implies a negative change. I think I used to be a person like that. Maybe part of me still is. But then there’s a part of me that wants to be more open now, to allowing love to grow, even in times of grief and fear. I’m trying to get comfortable with living with the unknown day to day, just as my hero did for almost two years.
Here’s a thing I know for sure: I had a cousin named Owen who had red hair as a little boy and he was a serious kid and he loved birds. He taught me about love during his life and he’s teaching me about love after.
“Do as It May” by the Evening Fools
And while I know
The days may be unfriendly to me soon
If even every shoulder turn cold, I know I can turn to you
And you will shine, baby
A beacon on a tower ’cross the sea
Leading me through treacherous tides
Stronger than you could believe
If even all sounds comin’ ’cross my ears are screamin’
I don’t have to hear them just with one whisper from you, babe
And every time you tell me it’s all right ain’t nothing that I can’t survive
As I meet my troubles day to day
Long as I got you, girl
Let the world do as it may
Long as I got you, girl
Let the world do as it may
And even though
Mountains need a-movin’ every day
From the air she conjures the time for her darlin’ all the same
And while I try, baby
To make myself be worthy of her heart
Every time her kindness unfolds
Sends me right back to the start
And what does one do
To deserve being lucky as I?
What gracious star has fallen
For this to be true
Or is her love a generous lie?
But I don’t need the answer ’cause
Long as I got you, girl
Let the world do as it may
Acknowledgments
First of all, I want to thank my amazing editor, Sean, at Simon & Schuster. From the day I heard my literary agents almost yelp with excitement while saying your name, I knew I was working with a rock star. Not only would this book not have happened in general without you, I can think of about fifteen days just off the top my head that I would have probably thrown my hands up in the air and given up without you talking me off a ledge in some way or another. Thank you for holding my hand through all of it and making me cry at every detailed and thoughtful email response to the writing I sent you. I’m so happy and so lucky you are part of my story.
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