He and Lauren had once watched a movie or TV show that depicted some young genius—Sherlock Holmes, maybe, or Alan Turing. The character saw various elements floating in patterns and connections that lit up, invisible to everyone else. Lauren had paused the movie and asked, “Is that what it’s like for you?”
“No,” he’d said slowly. “It’s the opposite. It’s literally tunnel vision. I see the problem, and the next sixteen steps, with the complications sitting on the road ahead, like hurdles I have to jump to keep going. Everything else is blocked out—what time of day it is, if I’m hungry, if it’s night or day or raining or sunny. There’s just the path to the solution. I think . . . well, I think I’m different because I can shut everything else out and see to the end of the tunnel.”
She’d looked at him a long time. “You’re remarkable, you know,” she said, running her fingertips up his cheek, touching his earlobe. “Utterly remarkable.”
He’d been unable to invent anything to help her, though.
Move along, loser, he could hear her say.
Finally, the morning came when Sarah dropped off the fifth letter. It had seemed like an eternity since the last one.
“Want some coffee?” he asked. It was a test for himself to see if he could wait, and also to try to be a good friend to Sarah, who missed Lauren, too, of course.
“That’d be nice. Thanks, Josh.”
Shit. He made the coffee, asked her a few questions about her life, tried to pay attention to her answers, rather than the envelope, which seemed to pulse as if it had a heartbeat.
“You must want to read that. I’ll get going,” Sarah said.
“Oh. Yeah. Okay. Um . . .” He never really knew what to say around her. “Thanks, Sarah.”
“You’re welcome. See you soon.”
He went to his office, leaving the letter there on the counter, and forced himself to concentrate on microscopic fibers and electrical impulses. He set the timer so he’d work until five p.m. Only then would he reward himself with the letter. With Lauren’s voice, her words, her presence.
When the timer went off, he leaped out of his chair. Tidied up the apartment, walked Pebbles, got himself a glass of wine—pinot grigio, and yes, it was sweet and girly, but he was a novice drinker still.
Then he went into his study, got the box that contained the other letters, and read them in order—the first one telling him her plan and sending him to the grocery store; the second one instructing him to have people over; the anniversary note; the third letter, which led him to Radley and a better wardrobe; and the fourth, which had him attending beginner karate classes.
And finally, his glass of wine half-gone, he rewarded himself with the latest missive.
A minute later, he put it down, oddly . . . irked.
It wasn’t as long as the others. It wasn’t as sentimental or funny or personal. It was . . . bossy. Brisk, as if she had better things to do.
Hi, hon! Listen. It’s time to get rid of the couch and our bed. In other words, places we had sex. You can’t have memorial sex spots forever. “This is where I shagged my dead wife.” No, Josh. Besides, every time you look at those, I bet you picture me, sucking on oxygen and being sick. So give the couch to the community center (don’t tell them about the sexy times) and donate the bed frame to the Habitat for Humanity store. You may as well donate my clothes while you’re at it. Don’t be that creepy loser who keeps all his dead wife’s stuff, okay?
I have to go for now, but another letter will be coming, I hope.
I love you, Joshua Park.
Lauren
He’d waited a month for this? This was more like a list of chores than a love letter from his dead wife. She may have been sick when she wrote it, of course. Maybe she’d been tired, or even in the hospital. Maybe he was being a petty asshole.
But still. He needed those letters.
He looked at the couch where Pebbles was lying on her back, legs in the air. Got up and went into the unused master bedroom. He had made the bed the way Lauren had liked it, the pillows plumped, two rows of decorative pillows perfectly in place.
If he got rid of the bed, he could sleep in here again, next to her tree. Maybe. He sat down and picked up her pillow, hugged it to his chest and inhaled.
For a second, he couldn’t smell her, and panic flashed through his joints. No! He couldn’t lose that! He buried his face in deeper, and there it was, her shampoo and moisturizer, the faintest smell of Vicks and perfume. His heart rate slowed, and tears pricked his eyes.
Her smell would fade away. He knew that. And even though he could sniff her soap and shampoo and perfume and Vicks VapoRub, he’d never be able to smell her again.
Death was such a selfish bastard.
The dogwood tree was doing well, fertilized by her ashes. Creepy? Today, absolutely. He almost hated the tree right now; the last bits of Lauren, giving life to something other than her.
“You need to get out more,” he said to himself.
Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he texted Jen, Sarah, Asmaa and Donna.
I’m cleaning out Sarah’s closet this weekend. Whatever you don’t want, I’ll donate. It’s what she asked me to do.
They were all free Saturday afternoon. It would really happen, then.
He opened her closet door and ran his hand over her dresses and sweaters, blouses and skirts. He picked up the sleeve of a sweater she’d particularly liked and sniffed the collar, then the armhole. There it was—the faint smell of her sweat. Of her.
He’d keep something. A pair of her pajamas.
Someday, he imagined, he might remarry and even become a father. What would he say about that rogue woman’s garment he had tucked away? These are the pj’s my first wife wore. Sometimes I smell them to try to remember her. I loved her more than I ever loved anyone, including you, punkin. Sorry!
Maybe these letters were bad for him. Maybe Lauren had been right, that it was maudlin and keeping him stuck.
But being stuck here, in his grief, his solitude . . . this was his world now.
* * *
ON SATURDAY, JEN, Sarah and Donna were all in his bedroom, pawing through Lauren’s things while Joshua held Octavia. Asmaa had to cancel; her mother needed her for something, but she asked for a blue scarf of Lauren’s to remember her by. The previously pristine room now looked garish and crowded. It was violated. Every drawer was open, her closet doors splayed, shoes littering the floor as the women did what women do—talked about clothes.
“This dress is so pretty!” Jen said. “Too bad it won’t fit me. Sarah, you take it.”
Sarah held it up, a gauzy, breezy outfit with flowers embroidered on the hem. “I’d look like a fairy in it.”
“Perfect. You could wear it to a wedding or, I don’t know, high tea.” They giggled. “Oh, this dress! She wore it all the time on the Cape.” It was a long, light pink dress, and Jen was right—Lauren had loved its comfort and color. It had tiny roses stitched along the neckline.
“I’d like to keep that,” he said, swallowing.
“Of course, hon.” Jen looked at him, her mouth wobbling.
“How’s your boyfriend?” he asked Donna, desperate to change the subject.
“He’s lovely, Josh. You’ll have to meet him. Oh, I remember this shirt! I bought this for her when she was interviewing! She looked so grown up!” Donna smiled despite the tears in her eyes. Josh smiled back, or tried to.
“Oh, my God, she kept this! Jen, do you remember?” Sarah exclaimed, holding up a long black lace dress Josh had never seen his wife wear. “Halloween, when you had that party and she fell into the copper tub?”
“Yes! It was hilarious! Mom, we were bobbing for apples, and she was trying to impress that cute guy Darius knew? She just dove in and pinned an apple against the bottom. With her teeth! She came up with it in her mouth, and drenched all th
e way to her waist, and her makeup was streaming, and her hair was sopping wet, and she looked absolutely terrifying, like some kind of evil Eve. Oh, my God, we laughed so hard!”
Josh didn’t want to hear stories of her trying to impress some other guy. Having a good time without him. Interested in a man who wasn’t him. He didn’t want to remember that had he not been a stuck-up asshole, he might have been at that party, too.
Their memories of her made her feel too . . . alive. He could just about hear her laugh. The familiar pain stabbed his heart, the blade ragged and sharp. “I’m gonna put Octavia down for a nap,” he said as the tot conveniently yawned. “I might doze off with her, if that’s okay.”
“Sure thing,” Jen said. “We’ll quiet down.” She kissed the baby on her head and said, “Uncle Josh will put you down for a nap, baby girl.”
“Nigh-night,” she said. She was an early talker, though she showed no interest in walking yet. Josh didn’t mind. He got to carry her more that way.
Donna kissed the baby, too, then Sarah did the same, and finally Josh was free.
He took the baby into the guest room. “Time for us to sleep, little one,” he said, laying her down.
“No seep,” she said, rubbing her eyes.
“Uncle Josh will sleep with you.”
“Okay.” She was such an agreeable baby.
He lay on the bed and tucked her against him. She put her thumb in her mouth and stared up at him, brown eyes solemn, lashes so long and silky.
“Your aunt loved you,” he said, tapping her nose with his forefinger.
“Hi,” Octavia answered around her thumb. She snuggled against him, and he put his arm around her. She was the first person to be this close to him since the day Lauren died, and she smelled so good—peanut butter and baby shampoo and sweet breath.
“Nigh-night,” she said.
“Night-night,” he answered.
“Yuvoo.”
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Yuvoo.”
“Oh.” He swallowed. “I love you, too, Octavia.”
Then she closed her eyes, and sucked harder at her thumb, and within seconds, she was asleep. Josh could hear the women in his bedroom, sorting through his wife’s things, and he was so relieved not to have done this horrible task alone, so angry that they were laughing, so lonely after that short note from Lauren, so fed up with himself for being a goddamn moody bastard.
But mostly so glad for the warmth of the baby next to him. A little genetic piece of Lauren lived inside her.
Maybe Jen would give him Octavia. It seemed only fair.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, Donna and Jen had left, taking the baby, alas. They’d also taken the majority of Lauren’s clothes, scarves, shoes, purses. Some would be donated, some they were keeping.
Sarah was still here. She, too, had a bag and was scrolling through her phone, at home on the couch with Pebbles at her side.
Would she wear those things? Would he have to see her one day in Lauren’s sweater, or wearing Lauren’s earrings? The very idea made him feel both gutted and a little vicious. She wouldn’t look nearly as good. She’d look like the runner-up she was.
Jesus, he was turning mean. Lauren would hate him these days. Good. He hated her for dying.
“How you doing, Josh?” Sarah asked, pushing a strand of long blond hair behind her ear.
“Fine.”
“This can’t have been easy.”
No shit, Sherlock. “It’s fine. It’s what Lauren wanted.”
She kept toying with her hair. “Is that what’s in the letter? A list of . . . tasks?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Sorry. Not my business.” She forced a smile. “So. You mentioned you’re going furniture shopping?”
“Yeah. Radley should be here in a few minutes. He lives near Jen, and he’s picking up their truck.”
“Great.” She did her signature move of scooping her long hair to one side of her neck.
“Sarah, we get it. You have long blond hair.”
“What?”
“You. You’re always drawing attention to your hair in case someone missed that it’s long and blond. It’s annoying.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Wow. So sorry to offend you.”
“It’s just . . . adolescent, okay? You should be more aware.”
She gave him a pointed look. “I’m gonna give you a pass because I think you’re really sad today, but in my heart, I’m saying fuck off. I miss her, too, you know.”
“I know. Best friends from third grade.” Sarah had used that as an introduction every goddamn time she’d come to an appointment with them. Her way of saying, Hi! I’m important!
“Second grade, actually.”
“If you were best friends, why were you always so . . . pissy with her?” he asked. “You think no one noticed? Even at our wedding, you looked like you bit a lemon.”
“Josh! I did not! I was happy for her.”
“Yeah. And jealous.”
“Yes! And jealous! They can exist at the same time, you know.”
“It was more than jealousy. You resented her. Long before we got married. You always felt like you came in second, and you blamed her for it. She felt it, you know. You only became a great friend when she was sick. When it was easy because you finally had something on her. Health.”
She burst into tears. “Jesus, Josh! That’s so unfair.”
It was. But he didn’t say anything else. Just shrugged, like an asshole.
“How dare you!” she shouted, jumping to her feet. “How fucking dare you, Joshua? I loved her like a sister. I hate to break it to you, but you’re not the only one who lost someone. You’re not the first, you’re not the last, and you’re not unique. This poor-widower-who-can-barely-feed-himself act is getting a little tired, don’t you think?”
“I think you should leave,” he said, looking at the wall over her head.
“Oh, believe me, I’m already leaving. You’re welcome for the help, by the way. Asshole.”
She breezed past him and Pebbles, who was wagging her tail, hoping for a pet. A second later, the door slammed.
“Good,” he said.
But it wasn’t. He’d been a dick, and he felt himself flush with guilt and shame.
“Hello, Joshua! Can I come in?” Radley.
Josh went into the living room. “Hey. Yeah, of course.”
“Hey, I passed a woman on the stairs. She was angry and crying?”
Shame heated his face. “Yeah. Lauren’s friend.”
“Uh-oh. Want to talk about it?”
“No. Let’s get this couch downstairs, and then the bed, okay?”
“You’re the boss.”
Josh and Radley removed the cushions and throw pillows from the couch. Lauren had bought them from her beloved Target, and when, goddamnit, when would he stop thinking of her every second of the day?
“Heave ho,” Radley said as Pebbles sniffed and wagged and licked Radley’s jeans. They wrestled the couch out the door and onto the elevator, came back for the cushions and pillows, went down and loaded everything into the truck, then repeated the process with the bed.
That one was harder, emotionally speaking.
The bed where he’d first made love to Lauren. The bed where they’d spent their first night as husband and wife. The bed where they’d held each other so close the day of her diagnosis. The last place she’d been in this apartment, that night when she woke up, gasping for air.
“You okay?” Radley asked.
“Yes.”
The new mattress would be delivered later today, and the movers would take the old one with them.
They drove to ReStore and dropped off the bed, which was made out of burled maple and snatched up immediately by a young co
uple.
“Should I tell them it’s cursed?” Josh asked.
“Probably not,” Radley said. “This place is great. I should totally shop here.”
“What’s your place like?” Josh asked. It occurred to him that he should have asked by now.
“Unremarkable. I share an apartment in a two-family house,” he said. “Nice street. Want to come over some night for dinner?”
No. I never want to go anywhere. “Sure,” he said.
“Okay, pal, let’s go see what you like at West Elm, shall we?”
It didn’t take long. He didn’t really care what his couch or bed looked like. He looked for all of three minutes, chose a couch, a floor model that they could take. Then he picked out a bed that, for a chunky fee, would be delivered today. He agreed.
“How about some throw pillows? These ones that look like llama fur?” He looked at the tag. “Oh, my God, I’m half-right. They’re Mongolian lamb’s wool!”
“Sure,” Josh said. “Uh . . . you pick out the colors.”
“I think it’s important that you pick out the colors, Josh. This is a big step.”
He sighed. “Yellow?”
“Yellow is good.” Radley smiled. “How about a few other things, too? Something cheery, maybe? These vases are very cute. Oh! And these lacquer trays will make it so you look classy when you eat in front of the TV.”
Suddenly, Josh did want all new things. He wanted his place to look less like the place Lauren didn’t live anymore. “Yeah. Sure. The vases and trays. And . . . uh, how about these bookends?”
“No need to ask me. I’m just here to nod wisely at the right intervals. As one does when one is a therapist.”
Josh picked up a small lamp. A few shelves that seemed ugly but might be cool. A small sculpture that looked like a strand of DNA. A cluster of mirrors. As he staggered to the checkout, grabbing a basket (Lauren had loved baskets), it dawned on him that Radley might need something, too.
“Can I buy you something?” he asked, clutching an armful of boxes and items. “You’ve been great.”
Pack Up the Moon Page 17
