I noticed that Keith and Blair looked good and drunk now, huddled in the corner of a backless love seat against a windowed wall. I had half a mind to stop Blair from making a regrettable decision with that human embodiment of bad breath, but I figured she was a grown-up.
“We were just so close,” I could hear her repeating now for the hundredth time as I snuck past.
I suppose I could have joined the throng, but the louder the voices got, the less interested I became. So many versions of Stewart filtered through so many lenses. It was overwhelming.
All I could imagine was that tomorrow I’d wake up with a horrible hangover and Stewart would still be dead. That sounded even lonelier than this. I just wanted to hang out and make fun of everything with him. And cry about losing someone I loved with him. And talk about how weird this situation was with him. It reminded me of a bad breakup, when you wake up devastated the next morning and realize that the only person who could possibly offer you comfort is the one person you just agreed never to speak to again.
“Miniature chocolate cream pie?” I was startled by a server who stood in stark contrast to the debauched mourners in a pressed white button down and tight bun. She looked at me hopefully—or so I felt. I always feel bad about rejecting passed hors d’oeuvres like it’s a personal affront to the waiter (which has resulted in me eating some very questionable dim sum), but I shook my head. Stewart hated chocolate. I would skip in solidarity.
I turned in a circle, starting to wonder if I’d ever find my friend. Instead, my eyes settled on a girl—or, woman, maybe?—with a mess of light brown hair. She stood in a corner facing the wall like she’d been punished, wracked with sobs. Right. I had noticed her at the funeral service too, where she was equally hysterical. I wondered if she was someone Stewart dated for fifteen minutes. I sighed. Everyone seemed more in tune with their sadness than I did, even the sycophants.
I was so busy berating myself as I turned toward the foyer that I completely missed the approach of Willow, Stewart’s kooky ex-girlfriend from LA, until she was fully invading my personal space.
“Uh huh!” she said.
“Whoa!” I took a startled step back.
“Wren! Sorry. I was just noticing you from across the room looking so pale. I felt worried and wanted to get a closer look. Have you tried turmeric? You can drink it in warm almond milk—the good kind you make from scratch at home without preservatives and additives—and it neutralizes free radicals and takes down inflammation. It has an unusual taste, but it’s pleasant after a while. Kind of like a pumpkin latte!”
I doubted that.
Willow was probably Stewart’s most serious girlfriend throughout the years. I’ve always found her amusing and harmless. Even now, her eyes were all earnest concern. An ex-model (with what had to be a made-up name), she had a successful line of healing essential oil blends and was always offering up natural cures to ailments I didn’t know I had. As usual, she looked amazing in a batik Ulla Johnson dress and perfectly distressed Isabel Marant ankle boots, both of which I had been coveting. Her long, unbrushed hair should have looked ratty, but instead read as free-spirited. Basically, she was Bohemian Barbie.
cause of death: A disease that allows her to fade away slowly, finding acceptance and peace with the hereafter. The physical body is only a vessel for the spirit, after all.
after-death ritual: Floated out on the Ganges River, surrounded by marigolds. (I saw a ceremony like this on a trip to India with my parents once. Very romantic.)
service: Medicine ceremony with drumming, sound baths, breathwork, and a meditation circle.
processional music: John Tesh. (Or, okay, “Funeral” by Phoebe Bridgers. Stewart notwithstanding, she mostly hung with hipster musicians.)
memorial buffet: Ayahuasca. And, for when the hallucinations wear off, turmeric lattes. Ohm Shanti.
I realized she was waiting for me to speak. “Oh! Thanks, Willow. I’ll be sure to try the turmeric.” I would not try the turmeric. “How are you?”
She bobbled her head from side to side, considering the question. This is what I’ve always liked about Willow: she doesn’t do small talk. She takes every conversation seriously. “I’m holding up, I suppose. This is a hard day for us all. I can’t even begin to imagine what Helen must be feeling. That connection between mother and child—it’s the most sacred bond that exists!”
“I know. It’s kind of all I can think about.” I toyed with the waist of my dress, running my fingertip against a raw edge, and felt a pang of guilt about avoiding my own mother’s calls over the last few days.
“I wonder if Helen kept his placenta?” Willow continued. “She could have it made into a tincture to drink in hot lemon water and create a sense of deep spiritual connection.”
I tried not to gag. This is what I’ve always disliked about Willow: the same part. She is so earnest. She thinks we’d all find enlightenment if we just switched to nontoxic cleaning products.
Regardless, I could not picture Helen drinking Stewart-flavored tea, no matter how much she missed him. “I’m not sure that they saved those . . . parts back in the day, when we were born?”
“Ah, maybe not.” Willow shook her head. I’m not sure if she was lamenting Stewart’s passing or the loss of his placenta thirty-six years before. “This is a super tough one. Of course, we all wish we’d made more of an effort to see him recently. It seems like he was too trapped on the hamster wheel for everyone at the end. You know, I tried to get him into kundalini, but he refused. I felt it could have been uplifting! It’s difficult for any of us to sit still and just be, but it’s that ability to stay present in what is uncomfortable that keeps us alert to our authentic selves.”
The idea of Stewart keeping a regular kundalini practice was laughable—cross-legged in a white turban for hours on end. He could barely sit through a slice at Ray’s Pizza. I said, “I imagine he would have had a hard time with that.”
Willow wasn’t really listening though; she was gnawing on a nail. Even her pillaged nail beds somehow looked cool. She stopped and gazed upward for a moment, as if a vision had just appeared to her out of the ether. “Do you think he was happy? At the end? Was there bliss in his life?”
The question surprised me. I thought about that for a second. I wondered if there was bliss in my life. The word “no” popped into my head and refused to budge. I didn’t want to be a downer though, so I said, “He claimed he was. It’s hard to know what was really going on.”
“We are all unknowable in our completeness. Maybe he was distancing himself from people who cared because he could sense his impending exit.”
Maybe. Or maybe he was hanging out with famous people in VIP rooms and dissing his old friends.
Willow somehow ran her fingers effortlessly through her tangled hair. “It’s such a loss—for everyone left on this astral plane.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I guess it’s always harder to be left than to leave.”
“Well, yes. Although, Wren,” she lowered her voice, “I’m a bit concerned about his crossing.”
“Sorry? Crossing to . . . ?” I realized I still had a headache and it was making me nauseous. Was I creeping closer to my own aneurysm?
“His crossing into the next realm!” Willow leaned forward, her hair falling into her face, making her look unhinged. She smelled like some essential oil blend that reminded me of earth and black-lit college dorm rooms. “My intuitive says that he’s confused and stuck. He doesn’t know how to transcend. We all need to help him do that.”
I felt deflated. In a moment of delusion, I had imagined that Willow and I might be able to commiserate in a real way about loving Stewart, but no. This was Willow. In the end, Stewart had broken it off because—as much as he appreciated her positive attitude toward life—he couldn’t take her seriously. Why did he surround himself with people he didn’t respect? Did it make him feel better about
himself?
“It’s fun to float along with Willow for a while, but then the irony-free zone gets old,” Stewart told me once. “If she ever comes down from the mountaintop, I’d love to share a bourbon with her.”
My flight instinct was kicking in again. I scanned the room for any excuse to walk away. Stalling, I said, “How can we help him . . . cross over?”
“Pray as much as possible to the great Source to help guide him on his prescribed path. I’ve just been saying, ‘Go on your journey, Stu! It’s okay to leave!’ ” She threw her arms in the air, chin tipped up toward the ceiling. “Go into the light . . .”
I looked at Willow as she swayed and then at the others in the room behind her—Keith, Blair, Mallory, and Brian (who I now realized were wearing matching pins bearing Stewart’s face). There was Helen on the couch, a photo of the absent Kate, the theater friends belting at the piano, their voices worse for the drunken wear. I felt anger pulsing to the surface. I couldn’t believe Stewart had left me alone with these fuckers. No wonder his head had exploded.
I couldn’t take another minute. “Willow, I really have to pee,” I interrupted, leaving her mouth stranded open in midsentence. “But I’ll find you later. Great to see you!” I hurried away to hide.
“If you want, later I can check your tongue to see how your liver is fairing!” she shouted after me. “Grief can be very hard on the organs! And persistent urination can be a symptom of an unbalanced vaginal pH!”
The huddle of superyacht owners looked at me with alarm.
Humiliation complete, I decided I really would head to the bathroom—I did have to pee. Then I’d find Gretchen and get the hell out of dodge. The door was locked. Damn. Standing there out in the open, I was a sitting duck for anyone who felt like approaching to project their bullshit all over me (not to mention my dead friend).
That’s when I remembered another, more discreet bathroom in the former maid’s quarters. Yes! I slipped down the hall and made my way through what was now a converted laundry room. At the far end, I saw that the bathroom door was a few inches ajar, thank goodness. I grabbed the deco doorknob and threw the door wide. Then, just as abruptly, I stopped short, my mouth dropping open: Gretchen had Jimmy pinned up against the subway tiled wall and they were making out with a voracity that I never needed to see. So. Much. Tongue.
“Christ!” I yelped. Right. Jimmy. The only other guest who would have known the layout of this house as well as I did.
They broke apart, looking at me and then at each other.
“Seriously, you guys? I thought you hated each other!”
“We do,” Gretchen shrugged. “We’re just embracing life while we have it.”
I cocked my head to the side. Give me a break. “And your raw foodist friend, Jimmy? What about her?”
“Ah. The dingbat.” Gretchen brought the heel of her hand to her forehead. “We plum forgot.”
They were wasted.
“Oh, right.” Jimmy scratched his head, having forgotten about Britnee’s existence until now. “Would you tell her I’m not feeling well and that she should go?”
Gretchen nodded in support. “It will make a dramatic ending to her Insta-story.”
I stared at Jimmy, with his shirt askew, and then at Gretchen, who seemed not to give two shits, and I closed the door and left. I’d pee later. I needed to get the fuck out.
I flagged down the server with the bun and begged her to retrieve my wrap as quickly as possible. Then, to kill time, I crossed to the dessert table, picked up a linzer tart and took a rage bite. Raspberry. It was fucking delicious. I took another cookie, then thought, screw it, and took five. I shoved them into a napkin and inside my purse. It was the first thing that make me feel better all day.
“Your scarf, miss?” I jumped like I’d been stealing silver.
The server held my wrap aloft, her eyes darting for just a split second to my napkin full of cookies.
“I’m eating my feelings,” I announced with as much grace as I could muster.
“There’s powdered sugar on your nose.”
I swiped at my face, balling the wrap up in my arms, and made a beeline for the elevator, cursing the fact that I was still inside the apartment. Was it not possible to leave this godforsaken place? To make matters worse, the more time that passed, the more I had to pee. I crossed my legs and listened for the creak of the slow-motion lift. Miracle of miracles, it finally arrived with a chipper bing!, welcoming me into its recesses. Freedom!
But before the door could close, a hand popped into the gap, alerting the sensor to snap back open. For the love of God! If one exists, please let me leave this hellish place! And please let this be someone I don’t know!
In walked the guy I’d seen talking to Helen earlier: Mr. Crinkly Smile. He flashed me a subdued grin, then moved to the spot beside me, playing that universal game of elevator Tetris, and stood facing the doors. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance at me, then I cursed the heavens as he parted his lips to speak. I was in no mood.
“So,” the guy said. “You’re the ‘last resort’?”
That I wasn’t expecting.
I whipped around to face him. “I’m sorry?”
“I heard Helen call you Stu’s ‘last resort.’ Catchy nickname, by the way.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m hoping it doesn’t stick.”
“Joke.”
“Funny.” There was an awkward silence. Before I realized it, I heard myself add, “That’s not how it was—with me and Stewart.”
He nodded. “Oh, I know.”
I knew I shouldn’t take the bait, but I couldn’t help myself. I looked his way. Up close, his eyes were twinkling for sure—with even more mischief than I’d realized before—and they were brown and flecked with yellow. Trouble. That was my first thought. I said, “Oh, yeah? What do you know?”
“Stu thought you were the greatest person alive,” he shrugged. “He used to bore the pants off me telling stories about you guys as kids and even as adults. He said you were brilliant and beautiful and sharp and had so much integrity, blah, blah, blah.”
I felt my breath catch. His words were the first thing since Stewart died to almost break me, despite the delivery. Stewart. Gone. The only person in the world who thought I was that amazing. Maybe the only person who really, truly knew me and loved me anyway, flaws and all. Pressure rose in my chest. With all my emotional might, I shoved it down. No breakdowns in elevators with strangers, thank you very much. “I appreciate you saying that.”
“No problem. It’s the truth. About what he said. No idea if it’s actually true.”
I smiled.
The stranger smiled back and then faced forward again. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. “He also said you were kind of a loser though.”
The elevator jolted and then settled into its destination; the metallic doors swept open to reveal the lobby. He motioned for me to step out first, but I was frozen with my mouth hanging open, so he shrugged and exited. Shaking my head clear, I scrambled after him as he pulled on his coat. “Are you for real? Who talks to people that way? At a funeral?” I demanded. “Who are you?”
“Have a good day,” he nodded to the doorman as the uniformed man opened the glass doors to the street. The insanely rude stranger sauntered through, taking his time, then turned back to face me. “I’m George.” He held out his hand. I looked at it without moving. He grinned and put it back in his pocket.
“I’ve never heard of you,” I mumbled, trying to think back. I tended to zone out when Stewart talked about his random buddies, since they came and went and mostly sucked. There was something vaguely familiar about the name—had Stewart mentioned a George? Had I been listening? Like ever really listening? “You’re what? Like an aspiring actor?”
“I am not.”
“A working actor?”
“No.”
“A restaurant investor?”
“Nope.”
“A club promoter?”
“Nope. Jeez. Why don’t you just cut to the chase and ask if I’m a douchebag. That’s basically what you’re suggesting.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Are you a douchebag? ’Cause you seem like one.”
George considered the question. “Maybe a little. But in more of an Adam Levine, well-intentioned kind of way. Seriously, I’m a friend from LA.”
“Clearly,” I snorted, gesturing toward his hair—perfectly mussed with product.
“What does that mean?”
Outside, the wind had picked up and small droplets of rain had begun falling from the sky, forming pointillist patterns on the concrete. We were protected under the navy blue and gold-trimmed awning, but the air felt damp when the wind blew—sharp gusts that cut through layers. I shivered.
“You might want to put on your scarf thing.”
I’d been cuddling my wrap like a teddy bear, and, if I hadn’t been so cold, I would have refused to put it on out of spite. Resigned, I attempted to pull it across my shoulders, getting repeatedly tangled in my purse strap. Finally, George held out his hands, and, despite misgivings, I shoved my bag in his direction while I slipped the wrap on. Then I yanked my purse back without a thank you.
“You seem kind of pissed,” he said. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”
I glared at him, dumbfounded. “Be honest: you’re actually some deranged fan, aren’t you?”
He ran a hand through his Bradley Cooper hair. “Look, I’m sorry,” he groaned. “Stu always said you had a killer sense of humor; I thought you’d take a joke. But you’re right—it’s a funeral. I tend to make inappropriate jokes when I’m uncomfortable. Very low emotional IQ.”
Competitive Grieving Page 8
