by Britney King
“No promises,” I say in the spirit of under promising and over delivering. Just like she says to do in her book. “But I’ll try.”
Finally, her eyes meet mine. “Thanks, Sadie. You’re a gem.”
“It’s nothing, really. And, hey, if I can’t figure it out, I’ll just have to find your lighting guy and force him to fix it.”
Her whole demeanor shifts then. She stares at me for a long while without saying anything. Eventually, she motions between the two of us. “Don’t you just love this?”
“Yes,” I say, and I find that I actually kind of mean it.
She finishes off her glass. “Whether everything around here feels the same or not—it’s really good to have a friend. To have someone who understands you—well, I don’t know what’s better than that.”
“You have a lot of friends.” I don’t mean to say this out loud. It’s just that I have that annoying warm and fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I’m not being careful.
I expect her to either affirm or contradict what I’ve said the way most people would. But Ann is smarter than that. She goes at it from another angle. “I always find that this time of year holds so much promise.”
“It really does.”
“This time of evening is my favorite.”
“Mine too,” I lie. It’s surprising how easy it is becoming to tell her what she wants to hear. The truth is, nighttime is the absolute worst. Every absence is felt more keenly after the sun goes down. The rest of my evening is mapped out like it was written in the stars long ago. First, I’ll Google Weight Watchers, and then, if I’m really feeling desperate, I’ll search for more drastic measures. Diets that suggest it’s possible to lose ten pounds in a week. Later, after I’ve had my fill of before and after photos, I’ll swear that tomorrow I won’t eat the chips, or the cookies, or buy the expensive coffee with all of the poison and the calories. I make myself believe that tomorrow, I’ll look for a better job. Tomorrow I’ll become a new person.
But like Ann pointed out before the wine made her a liar, tomorrow always turns out just the same.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HER
R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me. Aretha’s voice crackles over the cheap radio he takes on his jobs. He sings along, his face is fixed in concentration as he readies his tools. I have to admit, his enthusiasm is inspiring. I can’t help but hum along quietly too. Funny, he knows the song. But missed the meaning.
Her dissatisfaction over the holiday decor was evident. No one should be upset at Christmas—and I can’t blame her for wanting things to be perfect. She has a lot riding on it.
Just a little bit.
He mouths the words into his hammer before shoving it into his tool belt, which he fastens around his waist. Then he inspects his work area. When he’s satisfied, he climbs the ladder confidently, deftly. He’s a man on a mission—squeezing as many jobs as he can into a short window of time. Chasing the almighty dollar, he cuts corners where he can.
Safety should not be one of those corners. A split-second decision—like, say…whether to put on a harness or not—can mean the difference between life and death.
Shortcuts are everywhere these days. Mediocrity runs rampant. It’s just such a shame he takes this particular short cut on a day like today.
Because life is actually very precise. The angle at which a ladder stays upright and the angle at which it tips is pretty exact. It’s possible to sustain a fall from that height and survive. But then, so is honoring your word.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SADIE
I didn’t see Ann knock the Christmas light guy off his ladder with my own four eyes (I lost my contacts again, don’t ask) but what else could explain him breaking both his legs and his back just one day after our conversation? That doesn’t even take into account the coma and the brain bleed.
Such a shame, Ann said when she called to tell me the news. Now he’ll never get back here, and I really do need you, Sadie. That’s what she said. He’ll never get back here. Thirteen thousand people fall each year in the United States, alone, hanging holiday lights.
Ann knows this, so I know this.
Can you believe that, she demanded to know over the phone.
I can believe it. I can especially believe it from the vantage point of her roof while trying to find what is causing the outage of half of her lights. Turns out, one of the connectors had become loose. Wind, likely.
When I call down to her to let her know that I’ve found the issue, she doesn’t seem surprised. She says it was probably the high wind that caused the lighting guy to fall. She hollers up that she’s just received a text. He died on the operating table.
I say the alphabet in my head. Over and over. It helps to distract myself. To remind me of what’s at stake. Heights are not my favorite thing.
It’s probably better that way, Ann calls up in response to my silence. She tells me it’s better than the alternative. I don’t ask what she means. I’m too afraid I might find out something I’m not yet ready to know.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SADIE
The holiday lighting guy’s death makes the local news but not for the reasons you might think. The headline reads: The Danger of Christmas.
Never mind that somewhere out there, there’s a widow. Somewhere a family is without. A man is dead, and the local media wants you to know there’s a better way. Their spin: Don’t be the fall guy.
When I express my outrage to Ann, she tells me I’m being ridiculous. The story was probably sponsored by a competitor, she says. Brilliant marketing, she says. That’s exactly how she’d play it, she says.
The dangers of Christmas. Can’t be too careful. Better to leave the decorating to a professional. If they screw up, it’s on them.
I know a thing or two about that. A few days later, when Ann calls to invite me to be her plus one to an event, I screw up by not agreeing right away. I can tell by her response: Never mind. She’ll just ask Darcy. When I remind her that she doesn’t even like Darcy, she hangs up on me, forcing me to call her right back and ask what I should wear.
I can hear the smugness in the pace of her breath. “Dress nice,” she tells me. “Business casual.”
“I don’t—”
“You need this, Sadie. You don’t know it. But you do. It’ll be good for you. For us. Stick with me, and you’ll see. I make things happen.”
I don’t ask what kind of things. Maybe I should have.
Instead, I’m too busy thinking about the fact that she asked me to be her plus one first and what this means. I am reminded of that story in her book about living with purpose—where she talks about how if you add the wrong things in the wrong order, everything gets messed up. I’m beginning to realize that’s what happened with Ethan and me.
Ann tells the story like this:
A philosophy professor once stood before his class with a large empty mayonnaise jar. He filled the jar to the top with large rocks and asked his students if the jar was full.
The students said that yes, the jar was indeed full.
He then added small pebbles to the jar, and gave the jar a bit of a shake so the pebbles could disperse themselves among the larger rocks. Then he asked again, “Is the jar full now?”
The students agreed that the jar was still full.
The professor then poured sand into the jar to fill up any remaining empty space. The students agreed that the jar was now completely full.
The professor went on to explain that the jar represents everything that is in one's life. The rocks are equivalent to the most important stuff in life, such as spending time with your family and maintaining proper health. This means that if the pebbles and the sand were lost, the jar would still be full, and your life would still have meaning.
The pebbles represent the things in your life that matter, but that you could live without. The pebbles are certainly things that give your life meaning (such as your job, house, hobbies, and friendships
), but they are not critical for you to have a meaningful life. I don’t agree about the job part—something tells me Ann Banks has never known a life of unemployment. But I digress. Her point is, these things often come and go, and are not permanent or essential to your overall well-being. So, she’s partially correct. I’ll give her that.
Finally, the sand represents the remaining filler things in your life. This could be small things such as social media or fake friends or other people’s opinions. These things don't mean much to your life as a whole, and focusing on them is likely only done to waste time.
The metaphor here is that if you start with putting sand into the jar, you will not have room for rocks or pebbles. This holds true with the things you let into your life. If you spend all of your time on the small and insignificant things, you will run out of room for the things that are actually important.
It makes sense now why she got so angry before. Ann invited me because I’m important to her. She’s asking me to be her rock.
Now, she’s clearing her throat, and she’s asking me if I’m even listening. I am.
“You need to get out of the house…” she states. “Meet people.”
“It’s not as easy for some of us,” I reply, thinking of the sand, considering what she says about fillers. “I’m not good with people.”
“Now, Sadie…” Her tone is laced with warning. “Don’t confuse the truth with an excuse.”
“I’m not.”
“Good, so you’ll come, then?”
“Yes,” I answer. I can hear the smile in her voice.
And that is that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SADIE
Ann tricks me. We aren’t going to some literary luncheon, as I’d assumed. Nope. She takes me to a funeral. Her lighting guy’s to be exact. When I protest, Ann brushes it off. She says the experience will be good for us. She says we can do hard things together. It’s not in her book, that platitude. I checked. She says strong winds grow strong roots. She tells me she intends to tell the man’s widow this in person. I think she’s joking, but with her you never know.
Her good mood and her good looks wear on me. She looks amazing, in a made-up, sensational kind of way—a way that knows it will be looked at and appreciated. It’s the best I’ve seen her, actually. Her hair is down and it falls in waves around her pale and delicate face, past her shoulders, very nearly touching the small of her back. By the time most women reach Ann’s age, they’ve long since chopped their hair off. Usually into a neat little bob, or as they say, into something more manageable. But not her.
I ask her about it, and she tells me she’d rather die first—and that likely the cause would be boredom. Who wants something manageable, she asks. Where’s the fun in that?
Ann appreciates transcendence, she says, which is why she’s obsessed with funerals. She crashes them like weddings. Or at least, she tells me, she used to—when she had more time, by which she means before she was famous.
Already, I am not a fan. But then, no one I ever knew could afford to be buried properly, so Ann tells me it’s not like I can be sure.
“Lighting guy,” as she refers to him, has an open casket, which makes me pretty sure, pretty quick. His real name is Darryl, and his funeral is quiet and depressing. Family members and friends sit shoulder to shoulder, tight-lipped and tense, in rows divided by a long aisle. It’s like a wedding, only less joyous, a house divided with his and her families on either side.
Death brings out the worst in people.
Ann knows this, so I know this.
It’s amazing, what they can do with makeup, Ann says.
Embalming is a very clinical process, Ann says.
It takes less time than you might think—she explains. The actual embalming only takes between forty-five minutes and an hour. But dressing the body and the application of makeup…well, depending on the circumstance, that can take a lot longer. They take as much care as possible, Ann says. It’s important to make sure the body is respected. It’s important to ensure that decomposition is slowed down as much as possible, and that the body is returned to its most lifelike and natural state. A relaxed, natural-looking body is much less traumatic for loved ones, especially where the deceased died in a traumatic way.
Darryl’s death was very traumatic.
As we near the casket—it’s the respectful thing to do, Ann assures me—she points to his chest. Touch it, she says. I don’t. It doesn’t stop her.
“You see?” she whispers. “They use paper to puff up his chest.”
“Really?”
“Yeah—for one, his ribs were crushed when he fell. But also, they removed most of his organs.”
It doesn’t feel like an appropriate time to inquire about how she knows all of this. She just does, and apparently, she wants to make sure I know too. This is why she goes on. “Once your body is filled with embalming fluid, it’s nearly impossible to make any adjustments. So, they have to set your facial features first.”
Someone walks up to the casket and stands shoulder to shoulder with us. Ann stops talking. Her expression turns somber.
“Rest in peace,” the woman says to Darryl. She leans down and kisses his forehead. She moves on.
“They use photos to make sure they get as close to a natural looks as possible,” Ann says, peering into the casket. “Did you ever meet Darryl?”
I shake my head. She knows this.
“That’s too bad. I assure you they did a good job.”
Ann touches my arm, and I think finally she’s ready to move along. “His eyes are kept closed by small pieces of cotton. Can you imagine?”
I can’t. I hate cotton.
“You see there…” she motions. “His jaw is wired shut. They even stitch your lips together. Although, they use glue more and more these days. Less work, that way.”
Later after we’re seated, Ann tells me about the moisturizer that is applied to prevent drying, to ensure a lifelike, relaxed appearance. “I bet they don’t use the cheap stuff, either,” she sighs. “What a waste,” she says. “All of this for the living.”
Eventually, the elevator music stops and people begin taking their seats. As the room fills up, Ann reaches over and intertwines her fingers with mine. She squeezes my hand. “I’m so glad you came, Sadie. You have no idea how much I need you.”
“No problem,” I manage to say, willing her with the power of my mind to move her hand away. Her touch is electrifying and being needed is terrifying. I remember what happened the last time I felt this way, and it didn’t end well. Only Ann doesn’t move her hand. In fact, unless I’m imagining things, she shifts in her seat so that she is closer, so that her thigh rests against mine.
My chest tightens like all of the little air pockets closing up, and it’s all I can do to hang on for the ride. I don’t want to breathe. I don’t want to move. I know this feeling. This feeling makes me do very stupid things. Like open my mouth when I really, really shouldn’t. “She doesn’t seem that sad does she?” I whisper to Ann forcing the air from my lungs. “Darryl’s wife.”
“She had a hefty life insurance policy. She’ll be fine.”
I ask her how she knows this.
“People talk, Sadie,” she answers and then she looks over at me. She leans closer until I can practically feel her lips move against my ear. “Sometimes,” she explains. “The only way out of a bad marriage is till death actually does do you part.”
I shift in my seat. “He was only forty something…”
“You can’t be sad about everyone who dies. None of us are meant to live forever.”
Her thumb strokes mine. I scan the room and pray this is over soon.
“Divorce,” she tells me, “is so expensive. And no one wins, in the end.”
I think of Ethan. “I don’t like funerals.”
“Oh Sadie,” she chides. “For heaven’s sake. Don’t be such a baby.”
“I’m not being anything.”
“You need to get comfor
table with death.”
“Nobody is comfortable with death,” I argue.
“I am. Don’t you see? This is proof that we all get what’s coming to us, and it’s so fucking beautiful, don’t you think?”
My mouth hangs open. I don’t know what to think.
Ann pulls her hand from mine. “Jesus. You’re as white as a ghost. Don’t take everything so seriously.” Her voice is flustered. “I’m just kidding.”
“Ethan’s parents are the beneficiaries of his life insurance policy. If he passed, I’d get nothing.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?” she asks, and she sort of half-laughs, almost mockingly.
“No, not really.”
“Good.” Her lips press to one another. I can’t take my eyes off of them and I hate myself for it. “That just means they’d all have to die together.”
She looks like she’s joking. But I can’t be sure she is.
“YOU DIDN’T KNOW HIM, did you?” a booming voice asks. Ann is up front, near the casket, speaking to the family, and I am standing at the door pretending to study all the pamphlets. A fish out of water. I’m ready to get out of here. My plus one, however, seems to feed off the attention. They hang around her like moths, so much so that I was desperate to break away. Everyone tells her how wonderful it was that she took time out of her busy schedule to pay her respects. They say it shows her true character. She beams. She’s in her element. I feel like a hunted animal, banished to the outskirts.
“I’ll take that as a no,” the voice says, and it’s then that I realize he is speaking to me. When I turn, a man in a suit and tie, both of which are about two sizes too big, is peering down at me. “You’re a faker.”
“And you? What are you? The doorman?”
“Ah. Funny,” he remarks, and when he smiles, the deep lines around his eyes crinkle. “No, just a friend.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and balances on his heel and still he towers over me. His green eyes search mine, for what I’m not sure. For a soul, or perhaps just a response. I make a point to focus on the gold flecks in his eyes just so I don’t get lost. He extends his hand, and for a second, or maybe an eternity, it’s suspended in the air between us, just hanging. “I’m Chet.”