“Wren.”
Caught. I turned out around and found myself face to face with a woman I didn’t recognize. She was middle-aged and frumpy in an ill-fitting black sweater and calf-length cigarette skirt, sapped of any sexiness by clunky boots. She was clutching a wool coat. Her blue eyes reminded me of someone—who was it?
Stewart.
And then I noticed her wavy red hair, chopped into a bob. “Kate.”
It had been so long, I would never have recognized her. In my head, she was still the older, cooler twenty-something sister. The last time I saw her, she was leaving Stewart’s birthday for some bar with an impenetrable list. She had been young; she had been electric; she had been wearing a miniskirt. This woman was—a woman. With children. And unchecked hips. Maybe a minivan. Of course, I knew that. She had moved out of the city with her wife Meryl years ago, when she was pregnant with their first.
“I’m not sure what upsets my mother more,” Stewart had said, “that my sister is a lesbian or a suburbanite. Actually, I do know: definitely the suburban thing. And that’s taking into account the phase when she stopped shaving her armpits.”
Kate shot me a smile, at once warm and sad, and I felt guilty. Why was I judging her outfit or how much she had aged, which we all do? Her brother had just died. Her brother. Stewart. Gone. “I’m so sorry, Kate. I’m really so sorry. I can’t express how—”
She rubbed my shoulder and nodded, eyes red-rimmed and flooding. “It’s so nice to see you though, Wren. Have you been well?”
“I’ve been fine. Not great today.” I felt like I should say more but could think of nothing to add. I had no kids, no life partner, no recent exciting work news, no items on the checklist to present as pleasantries. Everything in my life was status quo, fine. I could hear Stewart saying, “Low bar.”
“How is Meryl?” I asked. “How are the kids?” Had she kept her American Girl dolls and rose tea set for her son and daughter?
“Oh,” Kate glanced around as if the children might appear behind her at any moment to yank on that pencil skirt. “Did you see them inside? Meryl took them out halfway through. They were starting to lose it. It’s all a bit intense.”
“I’m sure. My God.” I hadn’t even noticed Meryl slipping out. I guess parents get good at that kind of thing, nipping agitation in the bud before it becomes a ruckus.
“They’re handling it, I think,” Kate was saying. “Telling them was horrible. Sabrina, you know, she’s older, so she gets it more and is just very sad. She asked me yesterday if I was going to die too. But Matthew keeps assuring me that Stewart will wake up. He says, ‘Don’t be sad, Mommy. Uncle Stu probably just took Benadryl. Remember how that makes me sleepy?’ Or he’ll say, ‘Mommy, maybe Uncle Stu is just acting dead.’ ”
“That’s awful. I’m so sorry you all have to go through this.”
“Yeah, me too.”
There was a heavy silence that I felt compelled to fill. “But, otherwise? Life in Westchester . . . ?”
“Oh, yeah. It turns out that I love it! Who knew I’d be happy as a soccer mom?” she shrugged. Who indeed. “But you get it, Wren! The ease is seductive. Stewart always said that you were so practical! You’d probably love Westchester too!”
Stewart would have laughed for days if he heard his sister say that to me. It was like a gut punch from the grave.
“More like complained that I was too practical,” I managed.
“That sounds right.” She nodded absently; a light above us flickered. “Had you talked to Stewart lately? Were you guys . . . like still in regular touch?”
The question surprised me. She didn’t know? Had some distance developed between the siblings? Had Stewart chosen his fame and superficial friends over his own sister? “Yeah, totally,” I recovered. “I mean, you know Stewart. He would disappear periodically, get busy with the show or whatever Hollywood scene and drop out for a while. But we stayed in touch, for sure. We just spoke a couple of days ago.” Fought. We just fought a couple days ago. No—argued.
Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t feeling tortured about the phone call. I mean, I wouldn’t have chosen for our last interaction to be contentious, but it had been the sort of out-of-love debate that characterized our relationship forever. Stewart always pissed me off when he lectured me about settling; I always made him mad when I criticized his Us Weekly lifestyle. (“Vanity Fair lifestyle,” he would correct. “At least give me that!”)
“Right, right.” Kate narrowed her eyes. “Did he say anything? When you talked to him?”
“Say anything? Like about . . . ?”
“Just anything of note, I guess. I don’t know. Like anything that foreshadowed . . . all of this,” she gestured around us. Most attendees were still on the third floor chatting, but a few outliers were starting to make their way down the carpeted stairs.
“Like that he had a headache or wasn’t feeling well?” I strained, trying to remember the details of our conversation and failing. I had been too busy feeling defensive to listen.
Kate furrowed her brow, looking disoriented, but then recovered herself. “I guess that’s a dumb question.”
“No, no, it’s not dumb at all! I totally get it. How could you not want to know whatever you could about the last days of his life?” That sounded so blasé. It dawned on me again: I’m talking about Stewart. Stewart is dead. “Sorry. That sounds trite. I’m having trouble making this feel real.”
“No, it doesn’t. There’s no wrong here.” Kate began sorting through her purse, a Proenza Schouler satchel that belied her trust fund and urban upbringing, no matter to what suburb she had absconded. “Hey, you don’t have a cigarette, do you? God, I could really go for a smoke.”
I wished I had one in that moment, a Parliament maybe. I felt like she’d given me a glimpse of that cool older girl I’d once known and still wanted to please. “I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.”
“No, no. Of course not. Nor should I. Nor do I. Normally. Stewart would not have approved.” She rolled her eyes, returning her bag to her shoulder. “You know, he became so staunch after he quit. He could go from offender to preacher in a matter of seconds without an ounce of self-awareness.”
I smiled. “Like no one else.” It was nice to hear something true about Stewart, unromanticized.
“Are you coming to the reception now?” Kate asked.
My heart sank. “Oh. I didn’t know about it.” I’d figured there would be some sort of gathering, but I’d still harbored delusions of escaping home to the comfort of Chris Harrison’s haughty mews.
“Yeah, it’s my mother’s nod to sitting shiva, but just one day and no actual religion. You know us: we barely pass as Jews. Ted could care less about his background and my mother’s WASP roots run deep, no matter how many Passover seders she’s hosted. Meryl knows more about Judaism than any of us and she’s Irish Catholic. She studied religion at Wellesley.” Kate brushed an imaginary strand of hair from her forehead, her mind elsewhere.
I noticed that she called her father by his first name. I tried to picture calling my own dad “Graham” and barely stifled a laugh imagining the look he’d give me. I really needed to pull myself together.
“Anyway, it’s at my mother’s place . . . well, our old place, you know. I should get going. I need to stop by and make sure the caterer has everything under control before I get back to Westchester.”
“You’re heading back? So soon?”
“Unfortunately. Duty calls. Meryl and the kids are waiting in the car. Book club tonight; I can’t get out of it. I would normally cancel, but . . . it’s a long story. Then, this week the kids have science fair and I’m heading up a school safety and gun control march. I don’t want to disrupt their lives more than I have to, you know? Plans wait for no man—or woman!”
It was hard to imagine how a boozy book club could trump the reception for your only brother’s
funeral, but then suddenly more details flooded back about that last time I’d seen Kate: She had left Stewart’s birthday party to meet friends at some sceney bar, as I initially recalled—but before the cake even arrived. I could remember Stewart’s expression as she left: the frown before he saw me watching and rearranged his face into a grin. His big sister, always fleeing, especially from his mother.
“You know Kate,” he’d said later. “First person in the lifeboat.” He pretended not to care, but . . . Of course, he had his own lifeboats.
“Okay, I’m off.” Kate slipped her arms through the sleeves of her coat. “Wren, thank you for coming. Seeing you, it’s like a flashback to happier times with Stewart. That means a lot.”
“You too, Kate. Truly.”
“So you’ll come to the reception? Make sure my mom seems okay and everything?”
“Your mom?”
“I know Stewart always felt he could depend on you entirely. It’s so nice to know that I can too.”
A wave of guilt crashed over me. I’d let Stewart fade away in the last few months. He’d disappeared into his Hollywood world and I didn’t chase as hard as usual. Fatigue, I guess. I exhaled. I knew I wasn’t the right person to look out for Helen Beasley. The woman barely tolerated me. But I couldn’t say no. I nodded.
Kate looked at me and sighed. Then, before I realized what she was doing, she was wrapping her arms around me for what I realized was a much-needed hug. With my face buried in her red curls, something swelled in my chest—a connection that I’d been lacking since I’d found first out—to Stewart and our past. I really was fond of Kate, whatever her faults. Of course I would attend the reception for her. She was the big sister I always wanted.
Kate released me, and, with a wave, started out the glass doors. Cold air gusted through the crack. She turned back to face me. “Hey, Wren?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell my mom I asked you for a cigarette, okay?”
I smiled at her, assuming she was kidding. She was a mother herself, after all. She returned my gaze stone-faced. I cleared my throat. “Of course. No problem. You can count on me.” I sounded like a girl scout.
“Thanks, Wren. You’re a lifesaver.” She pushed her way through the doors, leaving trails of her adolescent self behind.
Chapter 7
Stewart, how would you have pictured your funeral? Not like this, I bet. It was sterile—that’s the only word for it. Lots of “What a waste” and “He’ll be missed.” No truisms about your pretentious movie taste or how much you hated beets or that weird habit you had of brushing your teeth with hot water. (I still say that can’t be good for the enamel.)
I think I felt the worst for your drama school friends, cheated out of the chance to sing “Send in the Clowns” or songs from Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen to make us feel all the feelings in the heavy silence after the last cord.
I’m joking-not-joking. I’m sure they would have done a beautiful job. But it doesn’t matter because your mother didn’t plan any of that. She hardly even invited any of your flashy Hollywood friends (no complaints from me, but still). The event was the opposite of you: It lacked charisma and spark. It wasn’t alive like you once were. I couldn’t feel you there, no matter how hard I tried.
You wouldn’t have wanted me to plan your funeral either. You would have imagined a cat café with a Liz Phair playlist—which actually would be pretty cathartic between the cursing and the cuddling. Even that would have been more of a reflection of you. It’s like your mother wanted to celebrate your facade. Did she want to protect you? Herself? The Helen Beasley I know (and don’t exactly love) would never have drawn attention away from her brilliant son. That woman would have worn a T-shirt with a picture of your face on it, if Chanel made one.
I guess she planned what she could handle, something that skidded across your surface. The reception, on the other hand . . . that was filled to the brim with your leftovers.
Chapter 8
“Fourth floor,” I said to the doorman, Gretchen towering at my side.
He had clearly been prepped about the nature of the event because he gave us an extra somber nod and gestured toward the elevators like a Buckingham Palace guard. I had pictured being greeted by a doorman I knew because I visited Stewart here so much growing up, but those friendly, goateed guys—Joey, Oswaldo, Victor—were either long gone or off today. This new guy returned to his post, never bending a limb.
I glanced around the lobby. It had been refurbished but looked essentially the same: same massive urn of hydrangea; same gilded mirrors and glossy console tables.
“Nice digs,” Gretchen remarked.
It was an understatement. We were awash in a sea of white marble and open space, deco chandeliers tinkling above. It was the kind of fancy that made you correct your posture to demonstrate that you belong.
The old-fashioned elevator—now automatic but preserved in its wrought iron glory—arrived on the ground floor. We boarded and pressed the button, my stomach leading the way up on the slow ascent. It had been years since I’d ridden this thing, but I still felt like I was trapped inside an ornate music box. The smell was the same too. Silver polish? Floor wax? The musty apartments of fading beauties who welcomed few visitors? I glanced over at Gretchen, half expecting to find Stewart beside me instead.
She had discovered me shivering on the sidewalk outside Riverside Chapel shortly after Kate left, my summer dress and wrap too flimsy to protect me against the elements. But I would have frozen to death rather than confront what milled about inside. I was standing off to one side, watching passing strangers go about their normal days, en route to shop for facial cleansers or meet friends for Cobb salads.
“There you are!” Gretchen threw her hands up—always with the drama. “I looked everywhere. I almost resorted to asking Jimmy if he’d seen you!”
I relayed the details of my exchange with Kate.
“Seriously? His sister asked you to stand in for her at her own brother’s shiva? What is wrong with that girl?”
“Woman.”
“Women don’t bail on their brother’s funerals.”
“I guess people grieve in their own ways.” I shrugged.
“Sure. But by outsourcing it?” She shook her head. “Rich people, man. I would be such a good one.”
I needed to make an appearance at the reception regardless. But first, liquid courage: we stopped at a nearby bar on Amsterdam, where Stewart and I used to flash fake IDs as teenagers—me in a tattoo choker and halter top; him in a white T-shirt and Von Dutch trucker hat. Oh, the sartorial shame.
Inside, the light was dim and the paneled walls were hung with vintage beer ads. We had our choice of stools. Rag in hand, the bartender took our orders, his kind eyes like twin crescent moons dipping toward mountainous cheeks. Minutes later, as he slid me my Hot Toddy, he smiled: “One of those days.” I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.
The drink was a bad call—too sweet. So Gretchen drank the rest plus her martini, which suited her fine. In the meantime, we sat, our elbows resting on the bar’s ridge, and talked about everything but Stewart: how impossible it is to keep up with all the good TV, our friend Denise from college who overshares her gynecological mishaps on Instagram, how dressed up a person needs to get for remote meetings, the spoiled interns at Gretchen’s office who think they’re the next Mark Zuckerberg, but can’t work a copier. Then, with a regretful glance back at the bar’s warm recesses, we headed out.
And so here we were, riding up in the elevator I’d ridden a hundred times before beside ladies in pearls and my dead friend. I thought about where I would have been today if Stewart were still alive: at my corner coffee shop, eating avocado toast with pickled onions and red pepper flakes, researching new grants to apply for on behalf of my employer. It sounded safe and easy. Like Westchester.
I knew at the reception I�
�d have to approach Stewart’s mother again—and make it through a full sentence this time. I needed a distraction from my surging anxiety: I examined Gretchen. I couldn’t help myself.
cause of death: Old age when she’s 103.
after-death ritual: Cremation. (She hates clutter.) Ashes arranged in a Parisian ashtray.
service: Vodka martinis at a classic hotel bar, maybe the Carlyle or the Pierre. Attended by whomever she hasn’t outlived. Especially her young lovers. With dancing afterward.
processional music: “Only the Good Die Young” by Billy Joel.
memorial buffet: Who needs food when there’s alcohol? Martinis! Champagne! And, okay, oysters. With super spicy horseradish—she loves spicy food. And truffle brie. And a perfect, crusty baguette.
“Why are you staring at me?” Gretchen narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “You’re creeping me out.”
I readjusted my focus on the bronze gates, remembering myself. “I wasn’t. Nothing. God.”
I braced myself. The elevator would deliver us directly into the Beasleys’ apartment, which monopolized the whole floor. No hallway for emotional prep here. I could picture Stewart waiting there on the other side, like so many times before, in a ratty T-shirt, jeans and socked feet—head cocked to one side like I was a delightful surprise.
Instead, the doors slid open to reveal a crowd gathered under mile-high ceilings. A single white orchid glared down at us from a lacquered, ebony table at center. Behind it hung an all-white painting I knew to be a Robert Ryman that the Beasleys had owned since the early ’90s. I’d stood stoned in front of the artwork more than once as a teenager, captivated by its layers.
Guests had begun to tumble from the enormous, open plan living room into the foyer. As we got our bearings, a server stepped forward to take our coats; I handed my wrap over with regret. Surrendering your outerwear is like making a commitment.
Competitive Grieving Page 4
