Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  “You think?”

  “But, to be fair, he did describe you as a kind of loser. I didn’t want to be untruthful.”

  I looked to the heavens. “Oh my God!”

  “What?” George glanced over his shoulder like he’d like to run in the other direction. “Sorry. I have this bad habit of speaking when I should shut up—no filter. Anyway, nice meeting you and I should—”

  “Um, no! You can’t just drop that bomb and walk away. Now you have to tell me: What did he say? If he really said anything.”

  “Are you sure?” George exhaled, trapped. “Look, he just mentioned that you don’t go out much and are risk averse. And that you’re like the living embodiment of wasted potential. And that you haven’t had a boyfriend in forever—except some guy who dumped you and asked for money on Indiegogo for libraries in Africa. And then there was a whole thing about The Bachelor and cats, I think? But that part I didn’t really follow ’cause he said there were two Chris Harrisons or something? And we’d had a lot of beer by then.” He scratched his head, confused.

  I’ve never felt so exposed. And the worst part was that this George person was telling the truth: He and Stewart were close friends. And Stewart had said all that stuff about me. I knew it. Otherwise this dude wouldn’t have known the details. How come I didn’t know about him? I mean, I know I wasn’t as much in Stewart’s everyday life lately—especially in his LA world—but wouldn’t he at least have mentioned this guy?

  Most of all, I was pissed that I couldn’t defend myself to Stewart—he was dead. Now, because I didn’t know what else to say, I grunted, “It was Kickstarter and wells, not libraries. And there’s nothing wrong with cats.”

  “Sure. Okay. I like cats,” George said like he was placating a deranged lunatic. “I grew up with one named Melba. Like the toast.”

  As George eyed me nervously, I shoved my hands in my dress pockets. My fingers were starting to sting from the cold. Across the street, I watched a female jogger lope by, apparently concerned enough about her BMI to run in a storm.

  “Hey,” George tried. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you seem that bad—as last resorts go.”

  All the rage I’d been projecting on the linzer tarts came bubbling up in that moment. All the injustice of having to endure Stewart’s terrible friends. Why had Kate bailed? Why had Gretchen and Jimmy left me stranded for a cheap hookup?

  “Who asked you?” I spat at George. I didn’t need this, today of all days. Like the situation wasn’t horrible enough? Done, I turned and stormed down the sidewalk, so I was being pelted by raindrops.

  “Wait! Um, Last Resort!”

  I whirled around. “What?” I could have kicked myself for responding.

  “Sorry. I forgot your name?”

  “Wren!”

  “Right. Wren. One last thing!”

  “What? What more could you possibly have to say to me?”

  “Your cookies are falling out of your purse.”

  I looked down. Indeed, the napkin stuffed with tarts was hanging out the side pocket of my bag. I pulled my wrap up over my head like a babushka. “My cookies are just fine, thank you.”

  With that, I turned to leave. The momentum sent the napkin and cookies falling to the pavement. There they sat, broken into infinitesimal pieces, turning to soggy pulp in the downpour. And all I could think was, is this what the inside of Stewart’s brain looked like after the aneurysm? All his beautiful thoughts reduced to a pile of mush? The idea was so dark that I almost laughed.

  George moved toward me, but I shot him a glare that stopped him in his tracks. He put his hands up in self-defense.

  “I just wanted to help.”

  “You can help. By going away. Forever.”

  I took a shuttered breath, bending to gather the napkin to throw in the trash. When I stood up, George was gone. And I still had to pee.

  Chapter 11

  Dear Stewart,

  Thanks for dying.

  It’s just like you to bail without notice and leave me alone with all these assholes.

  Love,

  Wren

  Chapter 12

  I woke up the next morning with the dim light of dawn. That’s unlike me. I’m a late riser, but I couldn’t get back to sleep.

  I was uncomfortable. My tank top was bunched up, my head was sore from an all-night ponytail, the radiator was expressing relentless heat into my bedroom. That’s what happens in old New York City apartments; they suck you dry. I tried to will myself to stand up and fold a pile of clothes that had been slumped on the one nice chair I owned—an Eames reproduction—for days. I didn’t move.

  Instead, unable to stop myself, I played a fictional reenactment of Helen Beasley finding out that her son was dead on repeat in my head: As she was scrutinizing a prize orchid, her phone rang and she reached for it, perhaps assuming the call was from a telemarketer, her Pilates instructor, or maybe even Stewart. That’s when the person spoke—but who? I kept getting stuck there. Who found Stewart’s body? I both needed to know the details and was terrified to find out. I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Blair. She could only be smug if she knew and useless if she didn’t.

  I kept picturing Stewart in those last moments too—before and after the life left his body: Was he sitting on the bed or on the couch? Had he felt sick enough to lie down or had he fallen to the floor? Was he looking up at a popcorn stucco ceiling or out the window at the tip of a palm tree frond and a section of blue sky? Was he wearing a T-shirt? Jeans? What color is brain fluid? Did it leak out his ears? Is that a thing? That’s a thing, right?

  I closed my eyes against that image—too gruesome. But, with them shut, I saw Helen’s face projected against my hooded lids. The shock in her blue eyes. Sharp features folding into a wobble. A veined hand to her chest.

  When they spoke the words, “Your son is dead,” did she collapse? Or is that something people only do in Hallmark movies? Did she shake her head in disbelief? Did she throw up? No, women like Helen don’t throw up—they vomit. Did she cry? Did she think, “My life is over. That’s it. I’m just done”? Did she sense the news in advance, intuiting a shift in the cosmos?

  “It’s too horrible,” I sighed to no one at all. “Stewart. Gone. Forever.” I said the refrain out loud this time, testing its resonance. My mind was still rejecting the information like a vending machine with a beat-up dollar bill.

  I couldn’t even distract myself with funeral planning, as I was stuck on a song for that guy George’s service. Maybe something lame by Counting Crows. Who was that dude anyway?

  I picked up my phone: 6:43 a.m. I ignored some New York Times alert as I typed in my password. Somewhere, across the world, a bunch of other people had died. Bengalese refugees. Helpless citizens in Syria. Children in Darfur. The world is a dangerous place. But not to my people, right? Not here, right now, in my safe Brooklyn bubble?

  Suddenly, I felt scared. I didn’t even know of what: loss, death—my own, someone else’s, the people I love. I moved to dial, then realized I couldn’t call the one person I needed: Stewart. What a dumbass I was. What a disorienting realization, like looking for your glasses when they’re on your face.

  I held down my iPhone’s home button just to hear Siri’s voice: “What can I help you with? Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  I exhaled. Then, I gave in, navigating to Facebook and typing in Stewart’s name. I’d been resisting social media for days, but I was out of ideas for ways to feel close to him. I knew what I risked finding: tributes from strangers, page-long rants about how much he’d meant to people I’d never met. I was worried it would make me feel like I didn’t know Stewart at all. I guess in some ways I never did know the person who chose that public life.

  I remembered too clearly the ownership people on my feeds had taken over the deaths of other celebrities throughout the years—long, overwrought t
ribute posts about childhood memories of movies or songs. There was so little restraint or sense that, perhaps, the losses didn’t belong to the whole wide world. The emoting felt like a competition to prove who felt the most hurt or had a right to the most sadness—about the absence of someone who most people had never met, whose identity was merely a projection. Stewart wasn’t an icon; just a TV actor with a budding “serious” film career. Still, I feared the unchecked outpouring.

  My prediction was sort of accurate. On his private personal page, there were no messages from crazy fans, but there were several posts that began with descriptions of the authors’ tears. Why do people—especially ones named “Ginger”—think they deserve applause for crying? I don’t trust people named after spices.

  I guess I was being cynical. Maybe I was jealous because my post would have had to say, “I haven’t cried since I heard! I’m a fraud!” But then I thought about Helen and decided I was okay. She’d shown more stoicism than most of his so-called friends.

  There were pictures posted, too, of course: Stewart on set with craft service people. Stewart at a gastropub with his arm around some “bro” in aviators. Stewart by a pool in Palm Springs, holding a cigar and an alcoholic slushy. Stewart laughing at a bowling alley. Stewart on a mountaintop looking deep. He hated the fucking mountains. He thought hiking was a waste of time because it “got you nowhere.” When the photo was taken, he was likely calculating how many minutes he’d waste walking down.

  He looked handsome though. The afternoon sun caught his angles nicely. And he had had nice angles, if imperfect ones. He wasn’t some standard Hollywood hunk. A nose just big enough to be considered prominent, eyes that narrowed like crescents, a lithe build, a scar over his eyebrow from the jungle gym fall. Did these people know that? Where his scar was from?

  I scrolled through a few more posts. One girl had posted a blood oath: “stu, only u and i understand the depths of what life can be like. u were my partner, i can’t live without you.”

  Jesus. Who was this person? I hoped she had a therapist. I clicked on her profile picture and realized she was the same sobbing girl from the semishiva.

  The comments on the posts were just as cringe-worthy:

  “OMG. Stu is dead? I just saw him at a Sundance gifting suite like seven months ago!”

  I stared at my ceiling; a crack radiated from one corner. Was their Stewart real or was mine? Would the real Stewart please stand up?

  I had several private messages waiting in my Facebook inbox, I realized, including one from Morgan Tobler, the high school acquaintance I was afraid might spoil my Bachelor screening the other night. I couldn’t face them right now. I didn’t have answers anyway.

  My phone bonged; a text from a number I didn’t recognize, to me and another unknown number:

  Hello. I’d like to talk to you both. Please be at the apartment at 2 today for tea. Let me know if that’s a problem. Otherwise, I’ll expect to see you then.

  I stared at the message. The apartment? What apartment?

  The other, more astute, recipient responded quickly.

  Of course. I’ll be there. May I bring anything?

  Who were these people? I wracked my brain. My boss? No. He was scouting project sites in Panama.

  Just yourself. Thank you.

  I sighed and looked toward the heavens. Are you there Stewart? It’s me, Wren!

  What choice did I have? I typed, “Who dis?” Then I reconsidered, erased it and wrote,

  I’m so sorry, but who is this? I don’t seem to have your number in my phone.

  A blinking ellipses appeared, then:

  Wren, it’s Helen Beasley. Remember yesterday when you said to contact you if I needed anything? I’d like your help.

  Ah. That apartment. Damn. What was wrong with me? Who else would text me this week, at 7:00 a.m., in that formal tone?

  Yes. Of course. I’ll be there. You can count on me.

  So you’ve said, despite neglecting to log my information in your phone.

  I sighed, unbunching my tank top for the five-hundredth time. I could only fail with this woman.

  The dots appeared again as if she was thinking of typing more, but nothing came. I wondered what she wanted. Maybe my old photos? I’d gather them together.

  On the upside, maybe I could glean some details about what happened to Stewart, fill in the gaps. I saved Helen’s information in my phone, then peeled back my comforter and forced myself up to shower. It was the least I could do.

  Chapter 13

  Stewart,

  The strange thing about your loss is that I’m praying to feel its sting.

  This dull ache—the constant unease, nausea, and jumpiness at the sound of honking trucks or backfiring busses—it’s like being teased. To always be on the brink of severe pain, but not to know when it might arrive. To peer over your shoulder for fear that a sharp blade of sadness is about to penetrate. It’s like being seasick and waiting to puke.

  I am praying to puke, Stewart. Like we both did into buckets on that overnight whale-watching trip in ninth grade.

  Well, maybe not quite like that.

  The worst part—aside from missing you—is my inability to wrap my mind around what happened, to make it real, so that I can begin to understand what this new normal might look like. I wake up every day, surprised again by the reality of your absence. Is it true? Are you really gone? Forever?

  But I need you, Stewart. What about that? What about me?

  xo - W.

  Chapter 14

  I was back in Helen Beasley’s lobby, that shimmering crystal palace, and I was dressed in my most polished jeans. I looked in the mirror, my image disjointed by a seam. It was the best I could do.

  What did one wear to tea with their dead friend’s very proper mother anyway? The floor of my apartment—littered with dismissed outfits—was a monument to my cluelessness. I tucked my chin inside the cowl neck of my chunky gray cashmere sweater, turtle-style, and wished I could hide.

  I thought with regret back to my morning. I should have spent those hours being productive, packing my laptop and power cord into my leather backpack and trudging the three blocks to my regular coffee shop. I should have put my stuff down on a wooden table by an outlet, then crossed to the white slatted counter. I should have smiled and said, “Hi!” to the girl in the maroon baseball cap who takes my order daily—plus or minus a poached egg on top—and said, “That’s right!” when she remembered it should be dairy-free. I should have taken my order number and utensils to my table and sat down to check my email, responding first to the proposed date and location for my next book club meeting. (I had left the thread hanging as the last person to confirm, except for Betsey, who never shows up anyway). I should have rescheduled my dermatologist appointment and my dinner with Gretchen and our other college friends. I should have read the day’s New York Times morning briefing. Then, I should have started working because ever since Stewart died, I’d been useless.

  But I was unfocused and not hungry and nervous about meeting with Helen. After trying on eighty-five outfits, I had pored over old yearbooks, staring into the eyes of Stewart’s photographs for a hint of premonition.

  As I waited for the elevator now, tapping my foot against the marble floor with a pleasing clacking sound, I realized I felt like I was going in for a job interview instead of tea.

  What had Helen’s tone been when the doorman called to say I’d arrived? I could have sworn his nod was reluctant, like he was allowing me up against his better judgment. Maybe he thought I was “the help.” Maybe I was.

  Why was I so anxious? What was the horrible thing I thought might transpire? After all, the worst had already happened. Was I afraid of making things harder for Helen? Of disappointing her? Of proving her right?

  In my peripheral vision, I caught the doorman scowling at my
tapping foot. I stood up as straight as I could, sucked in my cheeks and gave him my best haughty once-over; he looked away. Stewart would have enjoyed that. “You do a strangely accurate Queen Elizabeth impression,” he once said, when I was giving him the silent treatment. Of course, that made me laugh and I instantly forgave him.

  As the elevator rose, so did my stress level. By the time the doors were about to open, I was doing full-on breathing exercises. One, two, three. Exhale. I had the irrational thought that, if only Stewart were waiting on the other side, I would be okay.

  Stewart. Gone. Forever.

  I’d heard people say that grief comes in waves. If that was true, I could feel a fourteen-footer crashing over me now. No tears came—nothing as easily explained as that. No, this was devastation that stole my breath. I braced myself with a palm against the cool bronze of the elevator wall. Then, the doors opened with a flood of light from the apartment’s mile-high windows.

  Given no other choice, I stepped inside, looking back over my shoulder to watch the door slide closed behind me.

  “Hello!” In place of Stewart, a plump young woman in a button down and pleated skirt stood waiting for me. Her expression was aggressively cheerful, even by nonmourning standards.

  “Hi,” I wheezed.

  “You must be Wren!” She yanked the jacket off my shoulders. “I’m Madison, Helen’s assistant. It’s so nice to meet you! Stewart always spoke so highly of you!”

  “Oh, thank you. Nice to meet you too.”

  “You’ll be having tea in Helen’s office! You do like tea, don’t you? We have honey, lemon, sugar, milk, and even almond milk because, well, I know you’re”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“lactose intolerant.” (She said it like she was saying “Jewish” in Nazi Germany.)