Pack Up the Moon

by Kristan Higgins

  “That’s right.”

  There was a pause. “I was sorry to read about your wife’s death in the paper. She was lovely.”

  Lauren’s obituary had been in the Providence Journal, since she’d been a damn impressive woman and had grown up here. “Thank you,” he said after a pause, remembering to speak.

  “Come in at two,” she said. “We had a cancellation.”

  “Thank you,” he repeated, and hung up.

  By the time they got there, Pebbles wasn’t limping anymore. Still. They were here. It could fill the day.

  In person, the receptionist was all-business, which Josh appreciated. He checked in, sat down and waited. Looked at Cat Fancy magazine, which was a real thing. Checked his phone. A text from Jen asking him over for dinner this weekend. He answered yes immediately. Thank God. He’d see the kids. It would be noisy. Darius would slap him on the shoulder. He’d be back in the land of the living, in other words. He asked what he could bring. She told him to bring some beer. He would do that.

  There was another text from his dentist, reminding him he had an appointment, press Y to confirm, C to cancel. C it was. Wasn’t he suffering enough?

  The thought made him smile a little. Lauren would’ve liked that joke.

  He glanced at the other clients in the waiting room. An older woman was talking in a baby voice to an enormous cat, who stared with murderous eyes at the Great Dane across the room. The Great Dane sat motionless—perhaps scared of the cat—while his owner read something on his phone.

  A youngish woman—thirty, maybe?—sat with a very ugly, patchy dull white dog of indeterminate parentage, and wiped away tears. The dog (he was 93 percent certain it was a dog) looked really old; its bottom teeth—the ones that remained—jutted out, its eyes goopy. Probably here for euthanasia, Josh guessed.

  Its owner noticed him looking and wiped her eyes again. “What’s wrong with your dog?” she asked.

  “Oh. Um . . . she was limping before.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Two and change.”

  “She’s pretty. What’s her name?”

  “Pebbles.” Interact, Josh, he heard Lauren say. “Yours?”

  “Duffy.”

  Josh didn’t ask what was wrong with Duffy. He didn’t want to know, frankly, because he suspected he’d respond with, “Big deal. My wife just died.”

  The cat growled. The Great Dane whimpered, then tried to climb on his owner’s lap.

  “My dog’s really old,” Duffy’s owner said.

  No shit, Sherlock. “Really?” Josh said. “He looks great.” White lies were good for the soul, Lauren used to say.

  “He’s sixteen.”

  “That’s . . . great.” Josh wasn’t aware that dogs lived that long.

  “I know he’s old, but . . . I’m hoping for a couple more years.” Her face scrunched as she tried not to cry.

  I was hoping for a couple more years, too, lady. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Duffy?” one of the techs called, and the woman stood up, old Duffy in her arms, his head on her shoulder like a baby.

  “Thanks for talking to me,” she said, looking back at Josh.

  It was an oddly sweet thing to say. “You’re welcome.” He should say more. “Feel better, Duffy.”

  “Good luck with your dog.” She waved with her bottom hand, and Josh nodded, forcing a smile. If that dog lasted another month, someone should call CNN.

  He looked down at Pebbles, who seemed to agree.

  Shit. Someday Pebbles would die, too, and that would be it, his last tie to Lauren, the only pet they’d ever owned together. Their fur baby . . . no, scratch that, he wasn’t going there.

  But Lauren’s dog, still. “I’m sorry, Pebs,” he said in a whisper. “Sorry we lost her.”

  As he suspected, Pebbles was perfectly healthy. “No more than five miles on a run, okay?” the vet said cheerfully, giving him some anti-inflammatory. “It’s great for her, because she’s a working dog and used to a lot of exercise, but she’s bred for it in spurts, not a marathon. Give her a week off, then ease back into it.” He scratched Pebbles’s ears, getting a cow-like moo of appreciation.

  “Thanks,” Josh said.

  “We were all really sorry to hear about your wife,” the vet added, not looking at him.

  “Thank you.” He was grateful for the lack of eye contact.

  When he got home, he gave Pebbles her pill and a snack, then went to bed and fell into a black, dreamless sleep.

  He was awakened by a pounding at the door, an irritable voice calling his name. Sarah. He stumbled to the door.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, opening it.

  “I texted you three times and called twice,” she said.

  “I was asleep.”

  “When did you go to bed?” she asked, her voice bossy.

  He glanced at the clock. Hours ago. “Um . . . I don’t know.”

  “I thought so. Josh. You have to establish a schedule, buddy. Sleeping for God knows how many hours isn’t going to help you move through this.”

  He bit down on a sharp answer. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “It’s letter day.” She pulled an envelope from her bag. “There are two this time, so I just brought them both. I was supposed to bring this one the other day, but I got slammed at work with an emergency placement.” Which meant some kid had been removed from his or her home, brought to a stranger’s house with a plastic bag of clothes and maybe a toothbrush. She’d told enough stories that he knew. Lauren used to say that Sarah had always been tough, but she had a “heart like a feather pillow.”

  “That must’ve been hard,” he said, remembering to be human.

  “It was pretty horrible, yes.”

  “Why two letters?”

  “She dated this one. I don’t know why. Also, I don’t know what’s in those letters. She didn’t tell me, and obviously, I wouldn’t look.”

  She handed him two envelopes this time. One said Josh, May 1, the other Josh #3. Her handwriting was so round and sweet.

  Lauren had had something to say yesterday. Yesterday, when he felt so alone and forgotten. His heart started thumping harder.

  Sarah tilted her head. “You okay, pal?”

  “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “We should get together. You know.” She shrugged. “Dinner? A movie? An outing somewhere? Let’s hang out. It’ll be good for both of us.”

  Her words were a blur. “Okay. Sure. Thank you, Sarah.”

  “I have to run. I’m going to Long Island for a conference. I’m presenting a workshop on kinship care. So maybe when I get back.”

  He had to drag his eyes off the envelopes. “Um, that’s great. Good for you, Sarah. About the workshop.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. See you next week, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Thank you for doing this, by the way. Bringing these to me.”

  A wave of grief rippled across her face. “Anything for her,” she said, her voice growing husky.

  He hadn’t been much of a friend to Sarah since Lauren died. But she’d been there for him a hundred percent, and for Lauren, too. If he did see her next week, he’d try to remember to ask about the conference, her presentation. He’d try to be a better friend.

  He leaned in for an awkward hug, bumping his chin against her cheek. She smelled nice. Clean and . . . outdoorsy. Not like Lauren, but still nice. He didn’t like a lot of perfumes or scented soaps, aside from his wife’s. But Sarah smelled . . . pretty. “Take care. Have a good trip.”

  “Thanks,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. Then she turned and went down the stairs.

  She was good-looking. He’d never really recognized that before, but she was, and it was . . . it was oddly nice to notice. Blond and tall where Lau
ren had been a redhead and smaller. Attractive, when Lauren had been stunning. To him, anyway. The most beautiful woman in any room, anywhere, anytime.

  Time to read what she had to say.

  The past two months had taught him to savor this, because as many times as he might reread the letter, the first time was always the best. He would do it right this time.

  First, he took Pebbles out for an easy walk. He came back inside, fed the dog her supper and got himself a glass of water.

  Then, because the drizzle had cleared and it had become one of those perfect May evenings, he took the letter up to the rooftop garden, avoiding the edge. A seagull was perched on the post, staring into the distance. The spatters of white on the deck said it was a favorite hangout. “Get out of here,” Josh said. “Shoo.”

  The bird didn’t even glance at him.

  “Seagull. Beat it.” Pebbles cocked her head, amused. “Do something, Pebs,” he said. She wagged her tail and seemed to smile at the bird.

  Fine. Josh wasn’t about to go to the edge, and the bird seemed to know it.

  He sat on a chaise longue solidly in the middle of the roof. Pebbles leaped up neatly next to him and curled into a ball.

  Josh sipped his water, took a few deep breaths. He could smell something floral—the lilacs that grew down in the courtyard, maybe—and it reminded him of Lauren’s soap. “I miss you,” he said out loud. Pebbles wagged her tail. The bird glanced back at them, then turned away again.

  Okay. Another sip of water. Then, unable to draw out the moment any longer, he opened the envelope.

  Hello, Josh, my darling love.

  Today is the anniversary of one of the happiest days of my life—the day you proposed. The way the sun lit up those gorgeous trees, you so handsome in your suit, the beautiful, beautiful ring. I felt like the world stopped for a moment. There was that lady in the pink sweats who got all teary eyed and took our picture, remember? And the little boy who wanted to see the ring and asked why you gave it to me.

  He had forgotten that. A cute little kid with curly dark hair and long eyelashes, maybe five years old, asking why Josh gave her a present. Then, upon their explanation, he announced that he was going to ask his friend Hayley to marry him on the school bus the next day.

  We went out to dinner at Cafe Nuovo, and our family was there, you sly devil, you. Champagne. Imagine if I’d said no! But of course, I never would have, and clearly, you were feeling pretty dang confident. As you should have been. I don’t remember what we ate, because I was just floating on happiness, but I’m sure it was delicious.

  I hope you remember that today, honey. I hope it won’t be all sad for you. Please remember how happy you made me, how perfect that night was, how much I loved the ring you picked out. Maybe you can give it to Sebastian someday, when he’s met a woman he wants to marry. Tell him how happy that ring made me. Don’t let it be unlucky. Let it be a reminder of that perfect day, and all the happiness that followed.

  I love you so much, honey. So, so much. Don’t be sad. Okay? That’s a stupid thing to ask. Oh, Josh, I can’t bear thinking of you unhappy. Put yourself back into that day and remember. It was like a dream, the happiest, sunshiniest, most romantic dream in the world. Please don’t be sad.

  Lauren

  He could almost hear her crying. She had tried so hard not to mourn in front of him. Did he fail her in that regard? Was she able to share that sadness, or did she hide it more often than not? Of course, they’d cried together.

  But mostly, they hadn’t. They’d made the most of her time. They really had. Their marriage had been so short, but so happy. Yawning terror combined with utter bliss. Their beautiful catastrophe.

  He sat there in the sun and did as his wife asked him. He remembered the ring; he and Ben had gone shopping for it together. “This ring is a sign of what’s yet to come,” Ben said. “Pick out a winner, son.” And as soon as he had seen that stunning, simple ring, he knew.

  He’d told his mother he was going to propose, and she gave him the biggest hug, then cried, then hugged him some more.

  Then he’d gone to the cemetery where Lauren’s dad was buried. “Mr. Carlisle,” he said, feeling awkward and self-conscious. “I’d like to marry Lauren. I’ll take good care of her, and I’ll always put her happiness before mine.” He paused, then knelt next to the headstone. “She’s the most precious thing in the world to me. I bet you know how I feel.” And then he didn’t feel awkward anymore.

  He asked Donna, who pointed out that they’d been dating only a few months (true, but Josh already knew Lauren was the one). Then she caved, and said he was a fine young man and it didn’t hurt that he had a lot of money, because people who said money didn’t matter were silly, because of course it did.

  And then he’d asked Jen. Because Jen was Lauren’s hero, and she said, “I’d almost marry you myself, Joshua Park,” and hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, a big smacking kiss, and hugged him again.

  He bought the suit just for that night, because he didn’t have one, and Mrs. Kim said it would be lucky to wear a new suit for the start of a new life. He called Lauren’s family and made the restaurant reservation for all of them, the two families, including Ben and Sumi of course, then met Lauren at her job so they could walk down to the park together.

  He’d never been so sure of anything in his life. Lauren Rose Carlisle was meant to be his wife. He would’ve walked a mile barefoot on broken glass just to get her a napkin.

  God, the happiness. The smugness that they’d have a long life together. Kids. Vacations, a house with a front porch and a swing in the yard.

  Being widowed at thirty had never crossed his mind.

  But his wife was right. The sadness shouldn’t cancel out what had been so bright and full and beautiful. Just because the cherry blossoms would fall didn’t mean you should mourn them on the tree.

  “That sounds very profound, doesn’t it?” he asked Pebbles. The dog agreed, licking his face. “We should write that down.”

  Instead, he stayed put, letting the sun warm his face, his arm around the dog, the seagull chilling on the post. He could open the other letter tomorrow or the day after that. Today, he would remember how happy they had been.

  12

  Joshua

  Month three, letter number three

  May

  Hey there, hottie.

  I want you to know that I’m fine. I’m fine as I write this letter—it’s been a good string of days, and we’re here on the Cape. What a gift this house has been, Josh! Waking up to the sound of the ocean, falling asleep under the Milky Way, being able to have all our friends and family come visit . . . Thank you for being so thoughtful and generous and wonderful.

  Your mom is here right now, making us stuffed cabbage with pork, and even though I’m sitting outside, I’m practically drooling. I love your mom. She’s so practical and . . . cool. She’s a badass, really. Please make sure you visit her a lot after I die. She’ll need to take care of you, and you’ll need her. She always said getting knocked up was the best thing that ever happened to her.

  Sometimes, I dream about my dad, as you know. But last night, I dreamed that he and I were about to have lunch with . . . guess who? Your father. He wanted to meet you, and Dad and I were going to screen him first. If he was a jerk, we were making plans to beat him up, and laughing so much. Then the dream changed, and my dad and I were in our old backyard, throwing the softball back and forth, like we did when I played in sixth grade. It was nice to see him.

  I think these dreams are reassurances that my dad will be with me when I die. So I’m not alone, okay, honey? And you know I’ll be watching over you. I’m safe and sound, just like when I wrote this. It’s just next-level stuff here in the Great Beyond.

  So this is the third month without me, and I’m guessing that you could use some new clothes. I know . . . this is not that big a deal in
the scheme of mourning, but since you have no fashion sense and I’m not there to tell you to get rid of those cargo pants and you have an ass that can only be described as Justin Trudeau Level of Perfection—

  Josh laughed out loud. She’d always had a thing for the Canadian prime minister.

  —I want you to go shopping. At the mall.

  Oh, stop panicking! You can do it! Go by yourself, honey. No leaning on Jen or Sarah for help. You’re a wildly successful, gorgeous entrepreneur. Stop dressing like Mark Zuckerberg and/or the Unabomber.

  You know how I loved clothes. Something new always made me feel fresh and excited to get dressed. It’s a little thing, but it works.

  Good luck, honey! I love you so much.

  Lauren

  PS, Give your mom a big hug and tell her how much I loved her. Even though she already knows.

  Stephanie did know. Lauren had left her a letter, too. Apparently, everyone got one—his mother, her mother, Darius, Jen, Sarah, even Sebastian and Octavia, which they were supposed to open on their sixteenth birthdays. Mara from RISD, Asmaa from the Hope Center, Bruce the Mighty and Beneficent, Louise and Santino, her coworkers. (Bruce had emailed him a couple of weeks ago to say that he’d fired that nasty Lori Cantore. Personality conflict, Bruce had said.)

  So. Lauren had obviously sensed death was coming, but she never said a word. Lauren lived in the moment more perfectly than anyone he’d ever known, and she still managed to write to everyone she loved for when she was gone. Only she could’ve been that generous, that thoughtful, spending her time on earth so the people left behind would have something from her.

  He would never find anyone like her again. He would never try. Once you’d had a love like that, it would be futile to try to replicate it. Everything else would be a hollow imitation.

  Was this acceptance? One of the five famous stages of grief, along with anger, denial, bargaining and depression. Someone on the forum had said they didn’t follow any particular order—any one of them could punch you in the face at any time. Sure seemed to be that way, Josh thought. His knuckles still stung as a reminder of the anger phase. Sometimes he wasn’t sure he was doing this whole grieving thing the right way, thought his particular spot on the autism spectrum mixed things up.