Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  memorial buffet: Banchan to the max: kimchi, bibimbap, spicy tofu stew.

  Waiting on the subway platform, I fished inside the plastic grocery bag for my makeshift breakfast and found that she’d slipped me an Emergen-C packet. See? Kind. I was so touched that I almost cried. Almost.

  Thirty minutes later, I made my way from the train to Stewart’s apartment, dodging Soho street traffic—homeless guys milling on corners with empty cups, worker bees en route to design showrooms and meetings. As I neared the building, I spotted George waiting for me outside, dressed in a slate-gray hoodie, jeans, and high-tops. He looked freshly showered, but he hadn’t bothered to shave. Five o’clock shadow hid the faint cleft in his chin. When had I noticed it?

  He smiled at me. “Twinsies.”

  I guess he was referring to my hoodie and jeans too—more fitted, but similarly neutral. I mustered a half smile instead of rolling my eyes, though it took restraint.

  I had promised myself I’d be more patient with George today. He was right about one thing: this process was not going to be fun. Better not to add extra tension. I needed to make him an ally against the vultures. Plus, I was so nervous that I felt like I was about to throw up. I didn’t have it in me to spar.

  I stopped in front of him; he bent down and kissed me softly on the cheek. It surprised me, partially because it was almost tender and partially because it set off a fresh wave of butterflies. He was just being polite, but I recoiled in confusion. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean . . . I was just saying hello. It seemed . . . whatever. ’Cause we’re here and this is so, I don’t know.” He exhaled. I can’t win with this girl. It was written all over his face.

  “No, no,” I said, wringing my hands. “It’s totally fine. I’m just on edge.”

  “Me too.” He peered up at the building’s facade with a mixture of respect and fear, like he was checking out an intimidating woman. I had the sudden urge to have someone look that way at me.

  Instead, I stared at the building too. It was new construction—minimal and industrial brick—with nods to its prewar neighbors in the form of deco-style edges.

  We stood there in silence. Not the comfortable kind of quiet; the awkward kind. What was there to say?

  “Sorry. I’m really out of it,” I started. “I didn’t sleep—”

  “I hear you. I was up too. You should have called me. We could have watched Gilmore Girls reruns together on the phone.”

  “You watch Gilmore Girls?”

  “Joke.”

  “Right.”

  “’Cause you know, we wouldn’t call each other and watch anything. ’Cause we don’t know each other very well. And also you don’t like me.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” I exhaled, not bothering to disagree. “Funny.” I think things had been more comfortable when we were sniping at each other. At least that was honest.

  “I assume you saw the email exchange with Stu’s friends about coming here to take a last look at the apartment and help clear things out—or, what did you call them again? ‘The vultures.’ ” He repeated the nickname in a mocking tone, with accompanying jazz hands, like I’d suggested that as a lame name for a band—like I was the crazy one.

  “Of course. How could I miss all three-hundred-forty-five emails about how touched they were that you reached out, so they could put their stamp on everything? How devastated they are? How essential to the process? How appreciative? How moved?”

  “You think they’re not?”

  “Who knows?” I shrugged. “Each email was an attempt to sound more grateful and despondent than the last person—and to speak for everyone else including Stewart. And also to act as if you wanted them there, as opposed to the other way around. They’re each desperate for you to believe that Stewart was closest to them. I don’t know why they care so much what you think.” I knew I was scowling. Just thinking about the litany of messages made me mad.

  “Really?” George furrowed his brow. “You thought their responses were annoying? I totally didn’t take them that way. They were gracious.”

  “Are you serious?” Was this guy oblivious or just hell-bent on disagreeing with me? If he was anything like Stewart, it was the latter. But then I wasn’t sure he was anything like Stewart. Why should he be, really? Why did I find myself comparing them? And why, I wondered for the hundredth time, hadn’t Stewart told me more about him, if they were supposedly so tight? I shook that off, addressing the issue at hand. “I know Blair was okay when you worked with her, but that was a different context. You don’t mind that she kept saying that she would ‘report to Helen,’ despite the fact that Helen put us in charge?”

  “I don’t really care to be in charge. Do you? I think you’re seeing this in the worst possible light. They’re just trying to help.”

  “Mallory practically suggested bringing a keg! At least before Queen Bee Blair shamed her out of it!”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to some blurring of edges. I’m feeling pretty jittery right now.” He glanced up at the building’s facade again as if it might crumble down on top of him.

  I kicked at a can on the sidewalk. “Look, maybe they do a good performance of normal. Trust me: they’re not. With the exception of Jimmy, of course.”

  “What makes Jimmy so different?” George asked, his tone contentious.

  “Because. Jimmy is the best. Have you met him?”

  “Once with Stewart when he was in LA for work.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “He seemed cool.”

  “Jimmy is a real person, not like the others. He’s everything. The rest of them are pond scum.”

  “Okay,” George sighed. “We’ll agree to disagree. I think you’re underestimating them. People come together during times like this. But, either way, I told them not to come until noon, so we’ll have two hours—just us—to take it all in and set the groundwork for a smooth process.”

  Just us. That wasn’t much of a consolation. I felt like he was final argument-ing me. “If you say so.” The truth is, I was terrified of going into that apartment, being alone with its familiarity and emptiness, but I didn’t want them there either, polluting what was left of my friend.

  A large man walked by with a small dog on a leash, which got tangled for a moment on my leg. I shook myself loose.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he apologized. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, really.” I felt dumb.

  I watched the man and his puppy lope away; I wished I could join them. I turned to George instead. “Do they all know now that Stewart died here? And not in LA?”

  “I emailed them each individually after I realized you didn’t know. It seemed more appropriate than a mass email—and I asked for their discretion on future details.”

  “I’m confused. Why not tell the truth? To everyone?”

  George rubbed the side of his neck, toggling his head. “It’s not that we want to lie; it’s just that we think the details should be private, despite Stu being a somewhat public figure.”

  “We?”

  “Helen.”

  “Right.” We. Helen. Of course. I felt the understanding steal my breath. I thought about the paparazzi photographers lurking across from her building. “I guess I get that.”

  “She just lost her son. So, whatever her reasons, it’s our job to respect her wishes.”

  “Of course. Obviously.” This guy was so damn preachy.

  We stood there silently again, only this time I think we were both deep in thought. I’m not sure what George was thinking about; maybe getting as far away from me as possible. I was imagining Helen finding out for the eight-hundredth time. But now the scene was set in New York: she found out and ran right over. Or took a cab to the hospital. Did she know that Stewart was in town? Of course she did. If losing a friend felt this bad, what must it be like to
wake up every day and remember your son is gone? I hoped I’d never find out. Stewart. Gone.

  The pulsing shriek of a delivery truck backing up at the curb in front of us jolted me out of my reverie. I watched the wheels back over some garbage in the gutter: an empty Starbucks cup, a single glove grayed with dirt and rainwater, then baked in the sun.

  I looked up. George was watching me. I thought I detected a glint of sympathy in his expression. As if he was afraid I might bite, he touched my elbow ever so gently, like a whisper. “You ready?” He didn’t move. Jerk that he was, I could tell he would have waited all day if I needed. He confused me.

  I exhaled and nodded. We headed inside. The lobby was much more spare than at Helen’s uptown digs. It smelled like coffee—the kind in a disposable blue cup—and breakfast sausage. George approached the doorman, who appeared to be watching a YouTube video of a shark attack on his phone. The guy didn’t notice us.

  Finally, George cleared his throat. “Hey, we’re going to 2B. Stewart Beasley’s loft?”

  The doorman shot to standing, tucking away his screen, and winced. “Of course! I’m so sorry, man.” I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for Stewart’s death or for ignoring us. “Mrs. Beasley mentioned that you’d be coming. Go right up.”

  We headed toward the elevator. George pressed the button. It lit up, bright and cheery like a tiny moon.

  I don’t know why, but it reminded me of a school trip Stewart and I took to the planetarium at the Museum of Natural History when we were maybe ten years old. I loved it there, probably because my father treated me to astronaut ice cream whenever we visited together. It was like eating a brick of Neapolitan Lucky Charms marshmallows.

  About halfway through the show on this occasion, I realized I had to pee. Regretfully, I tore myself away from the projected constellations on the ceiling, craning my neck to see them until I had backed all the way out the door. It was always jarring to emerge back into the light and leave that booming voice behind—like the voice of God. Or Spock. Spock-God.

  I was rushing back from the restroom, so I wouldn’t miss too much, when I heard someone call, “Hey! Wren!”

  I flipped around and there was Stewart, sitting against the wall outside the theater doors, leafing through some pamphlet about current exhibitions, sub-Saharan sand vipers and all that.

  “What are you doing out here?” I asked.

  “I had to get out. It’s too much.”

  “What is?”

  “Infinite space. I can’t wrap my mind around it. It’s too massive. It freaks me out.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nodded. “You know what I mean?” He seemed anxious for commiseration.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I lied. “I never thought about space that way. But don’t you also think it’s cool?”

  “Sure! In a, we’re-all-going-to-get-swallowed-up-by-a-black-hole-someday, kind of way.”

  I wanted to go back in—bad. My hand was resting on the theater’s door handle, but Stewart looked pretty bummed. I dropped the knob and crossed to him instead, leaning my shoulder against the wall beside him. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, totally. I’m fine.” He crinkled his nose. “I just really don’t like the planetarium.”

  I slid my back down the wall until I was seated next to him, my legs bent in front of me. Crumbs dotted the carpet. I wondered if they were the remnants of astronaut ice cream.

  “So what now?”

  My mind was so deep in the past that I was barely cognizant as George and I boarded the elevator. The door was about to close when the doorman pressed the button to reopen it. It snapped back like a Hungry Hungry Hippo. “Hey, please let me know if you need anything—supplies or like a dolly or anything to help move things. I told the lady who went up there before you, but I wanted to make sure to tell you too: I’m here if you need a hand.”

  Neither George nor I managed to speak before the doors closed with an accordion sigh.

  We stared at each other. “Who is he talking about?”

  George frowned. “I guess Helen came by this morning.”

  “I thought the whole point was that she didn’t want to have to deal with this?”

  “I know. But she must have changed her mind.”

  “Or maybe it’s Kate?” I hoped that might be the case, both because I felt more comfortable with Stewart’s sister and because I felt weird about the fact that she wasn’t participating. Wasn’t this the family’s purview? I planned on emailing her for approval on any items we chose for the tribute.

  Indeed, the police tape on the door had already been cut. Police tape. On Stewart’s door.

  Stewart. Gone.

  I felt sick to my stomach. I readied myself for an onslaught of emotion and for the remnants of anything gruesome. If there was one thing I did understand about death, having watched my grandfather leave this planet, it’s that it’s not pretty.

  I had a plan: I would walk in. I would stand in the middle of Stewart’s space, preserved from the night he died. I would breathe in reality; breathe out grief. I would absorb what had happened as fact. I would stop feeling shocked. I would finally believe that he was gone. I would feel him in the silence of the place. I realized I was afraid of the smell.

  George turned the key in the lock and swung the door open. But inside, instead of quiet, there was a bustle of activity. Music was playing—something by Lady Gaga. The air smelled like mochaccino and Method cucumber spray cleaner. A stocky housekeeper was stuffing an old comforter into a garbage bag. Piles of items, from clothing to books to artworks, were leaning against walls, categorized. I looked at George; he looked back at me and shrugged.

  There was a rustle from a nearby closet and out popped Blair, her artificial waves pulled into an immaculate ponytail. Even her T-shirt was perfectly worn but also pressed, as if chosen out of a J. Crew catalogue for the occasion: The Dead Friend Tee, cotton, $68.

  A rush of heat flooded my face. Rage. I thought, What the fuck is she doing here? But I knew. Of course I knew. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She would run this show, regardless of Helen’s wishes.

  “Oh!” she said. “You’re finally here.” Like we were late. She grinned at us. She actually grinned. And put her hands on her hips like she was supposed to be there. Like it was painting day on some fixer-upper TV show about starter homes. Like she was about to start talking about backsplashes.

  I said, “We thought you were Kate.”

  She said, “Who’s Kate?”

  “Stewart’s sister.”

  “Oh, right! He never mentioned her. Were they even close? They must not have been.”

  “Well, they were . . . siblings.”

  “Well, he barely ever mentioned her to me.”

  George’s mouth gaped open like the hood of his sweatshirt. I swear I heard him swallow, hard. The sound of eating crow. I sucked in my cheeks. Let them go with a pop. I was half-horrified, half-vindicated.

  “The vultures,” I whispered.

  He didn’t respond.

  Chapter 19

  How on Earth did you tolerate these people, Stewart? They are horrible, horrible humans. Okay, maybe not “Russian collusion, take healthcare from babies, ignore global warming, rape teenagers, #MeToo, slave to the NRA even when kids die” terrible, but despicable nonetheless.

  And, yes, Stewart, I am “on one of my high horses,” as you liked to say. Because I deserve to be. Because—monsters! Why did you choose these people as friends? What did they offer you? Their loyalty? Their social status at some point? A sense of superiority? How did you not punch Blair in the overly injected face?

  You once said, “Sometimes it’s nice to be the coolest person in the room.” You could have been the coolest without these animals, Stewart. At least when you weren’t saying stupid shit like that.

  Didn’t you realize that?
>
  They bust in and emote all over everything—their need viscous and sticky. They demand attention; they demand recognition. They use up all the oxygen in the room and then demand more.

  Is that why you died, Stewart? Was there no more oxygen left for you to breathe? But more importantly: How am I supposed to grieve with all this noise?

  Chapter 20

  George recovered from the shock of seeing Blair and, to his credit, played it off like he was fine with her presence. Better not to show that you’re rattled. That’s when animals attack.

  “I thought you could go through all that,” she said, gesturing toward Stewart’s paperwork, already sorted (and no doubt read) on the windowsill. “That’s your thing! Right, George? All those papers?” She banished him to a far corner of the living room. He went to work, looking confused about how he’d landed there.

  I wanted to ask Blair if there was anything interesting in the stacks, just to watch her lie about not having snooped, but it wasn’t worth enduring some sanctimonious response about it being none of her business. As if she had respect for boundaries.

  “You guys, I am so sad! I can barely breathe,” Blair groaned. “This is so hard! I just want to like collapse!”

  Then go home. Please.

  George grunted.

  I wanted to say that no one asked her to be here, but I figured that wouldn’t improve the situation. So I didn’t respond; I just hovered in the entryway, close to the exit. I wasn’t ready to give up that option. Apparently overcome, she sprinted over, embraced me, and started rubbing my back. I endured it with my arms hanging. I really wanted to knee her in the groin.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, probably because my body was rigid.

  “I’m fine. This is just a lot.” You are a lot.

  Blair let me go, nodding with saccharine sympathy.

  Released, I looked around, too distracted by the pop soundtrack to meaningfully digest that I was standing inside Stewart’s apartment, the place where he died. I walked myself over to his bookshelf, running my hands over his collection of plays—thin colorful bindings, sharp staples glinting. I could feel Blair’s eyes on me.