Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  Blair rolled her eyes and pretended to be annoyed, but I could tell she was freaked by the way she kept blinking her stupid beady eyes. She wasn’t used to being confronted. “Wren, it’s not my job to—”

  “No. You’re right. It’s not your job. None of this was your job! You swept in and took over, showing up where and when you were never supposed to be and acting as if you were doing us all some huge fucking favor. But really you just needed to feel significant. Well, guess what, Blair? Stomping around, ordering people to do things and disseminating Stewart’s things like you have some special ownership doesn’t change the fact that your relationship with him was surface. You know it, and I know it. We all know it. He tolerated you because you served a purpose.”

  Her eyes flooded—crocodile tears. “I was his best friend. I loved him.”

  “Please. Don’t you dare play the victim. I’m sick of it.”

  “Wren, stop it!”

  “You stop it, Blair! Are you proud of yourself? You’ve turned grieving for Stewart into a competitive sport! You’ve cheapened it and him!” I whipped around to face the vultures. “All of you disgust me! You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  They looked at me like I was from another planet. Like I was the problem. Willow exhaled air from her mouth in what I could only imagine was an attempt to deflect my negative energy. I shook my head. I turned. And I left.

  As I rushed outside, I passed Jimmy in the doorway. By the look on his face—half pride, half fear—he had seen the whole thing. He opened his mouth to say something, reaching out a hand to stop me, but I wasn’t pausing for anything. He hadn’t been around this whole time; he hadn’t given us the space to remember Stewart together. He hadn’t been there for me. It was too late to talk now.

  Chapter 41

  Stewart. Soooo, I might have freaked out a little.

  Remember when Matthew Simonsson kissed Kim Yu and I found out and confronted them both in the lunchroom in front of our whole grade? Remember my reaction then?

  This was worse.

  Chapter 42

  Outside, a fierce wind had started blowing. That can happen in New York City. One minute it’s calm and the next it’s a gale. I remember once being blown into the side of a parked van as a kid, trying to walk home from school. Now, napkins flew off a nearby hot dog cart. A woman crossing the street lost her red scarf and ran to rescue it from the gutter, where old Starbucks cups and cigarette butts danced as if choreographed by Balanchine. (Hit and run, “Vincent” by Don McLean, dim sum—’cause that’s good finger food!)

  I hurried down the street and out of view in case anyone came to look for me. I doubted they would. Willow was the best bet and even she had been staring at me with the kind of pity reserved for lunatics on the train—sympathy at a safe distance. The wind pounded my face and blew my hair back, as I fought against it. It rushed past my ears, obscuring the city’s other sounds: horns, conversations, transactions, birds. I was wearing my leather motorcycle jacket instead of my warm Uniqlo puffer because I thought I was seeing George and wanted to look cute. I chided myself for making myself uncomfortable for some guy, as I crouched low and stuffed my hands in my pockets, throwing a shoulder to cut through the gusts.

  Once around the corner, I stopped and backed my body up against a bodega storefront. You learn that trick as a kid growing up here. On the way to school, you wait for the light ten feet back against a building because they block the wind, especially off the Hudson on the Upper West Side. Which, I suddenly remembered, was where I needed to be shortly to meet Belle Rose. First, I needed to catch my breath.

  I found calm beyond the wind’s reach. People milled past me holding briefcases and afternoon coffee cups; a man across the street wore a sandwich board advertising hoagies. I felt bad for him. That was a crappy job on a day like today. (Hypothermia, “Really Gonna Miss You” by Smoky Robinson, hoagies for all!)

  What a mess! The hoagies, yes. But also my life. Had Blair deserved that level of ire or was I reactive coming off the screw-up with my job, Keith’s interview and the eBay listings by Mallory and Brian? No doubt I was on edge, but the way she commanded ownership over this experience—like a child snatching the biggest piece of birthday cake only to lord it over the others as a symbol of her dominance—made everyone else’s behavior worse. Keith was awful, but maybe he wouldn’t have overcompensated as much if he hadn’t been trying to impress her; she was leading him on. Mallory and Brian were inappropriate and opportunistic, but maybe they wouldn’t have grabbed so much stuff if they hadn’t felt it being pulled out from under them—like they had to make a mad dash for their share. If only they had felt like someone was truly looking out for their best interests, like someone cared about their history with Stewart and what he meant to them. Willow definitely would have been more mellow about her ceremonies and her fascistic positivity if she’d been permitted to enact them as she’d planned, without countless warnings and “suggestions.” Jimmy had bailed on this whole experience. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt such a strong desire to flee if Blair hadn’t come at this grieving process like it was something to win, shoving us all out of the way. She had positioned herself as the gatekeeper to Stewart’s memory. Now, everyone felt one step removed like they had to prove their significance in order to earn their sadness. We all just wanted permission to remember our version of him. We all just wanted to be seen. Blair wasn’t allowing that to happen. Why did one person’s mourning have to devalue another’s?

  Right or wrong, the inside of my head was chaos, a kind of existential aneurysm. I needed to talk to someone. And not the drunk, homeless man tripping toward me down the street, yelling at lampposts. (Cirrhosis, “My Way” by Elvis Presley, the city’s finest soup kitchen.) I ducked inside the bodega to avoid a run-in with him.

  The door’s bell jingled as it swung back into place. The shop was warm, smelling of bacon and damp produce. A few tables were scattered in the back, glossy with grease. I walked toward the rear to draw less attention. Safely tucked by the salad bar, I stared at my phone and tried to figure out who I could call to help me screw my head back on straight.

  Before I could decide, my phone rang. I was startled. I looked around like I was being watched.

  Gretchen’s name flashed on the screen like digital salvation. Maybe she and I had best friend ESP?

  “G?” I heard my voice crack.

  “Oh, thank God. I was afraid I wouldn’t get you! Are you okay?”

  “I’ve had better weeks.”

  “Ugh. I’m so sorry.”

  I picked an Honest Tea up off the shelf and pretended to examine the ingredients, buying time in the bodega. It would be too cold and windy outside to hear, even if the belligerent derelict had passed.

  “I’m so glad you called,” I wheezed. “I’ve been missing you so much lately and I’m all kinds of screwed up. I can’t even think straight. So much has happened.”

  Gretchen laughed. I could picture her tossing her black curls back. “Well, it must have to make you lose it on Blair that way! Tell me exactly what you said! That witch had it coming.”

  I ran a hand through my hair—or tried to. The wind had tied it in knots. I was about to give Gretchen the play-by-play when I realized that something was awry.

  “Wait. How do you know I lost it on Blair?”

  There was a pause. It stretched for a good thirty seconds. I waited it out. Finally, she said, “That’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “Gretchen. Did Jimmy tell you?”

  “He might have,” she mumbled.

  Why hadn’t I seen it before? It was so obvious! The way they’d both disappeared on me; the way she’d asked if Jimmy was definitely coming before every Stewart-related event.

  “What the hell? Why didn’t you guys tell me?”

  “We thought it might make you feel alienated because of the timing. With Stu gone, we figured you might feel
left out if you discovered that the two people you needed most were dating.”

  I almost threw the Honest Tea across the store in frustration. “So you both decided to abandon me entirely instead?”

  “Wren, I’m so sorry. It was stupid.” I could hear her futzing with something—maybe tapping a pen on her desk. “It seemed like a good idea at first, but then I realized I couldn’t be anywhere with both of you because it would require lying to you.”

  “You did lie to me.”

  “Yes, but it was a lie of omission. I don’t care what that romantic lit professor we had in college said: that’s not as bad as straight out lying.”

  “If you say so.”

  Suddenly, I felt done with the conversation. The last thing I needed on top of everything else was to waste my time assuaging Gretchen’s guilt. She was supposed to be my best friend. I needed her. Because my other best friend was dead. Plus, I needed to get uptown to meet Belle.

  “Look, I have to go.” I walked to the register. I had handled the Pomegranate Blue iced tea for long enough that it had become mine whether I wanted it or not. Kind of like the People’s Choice Award.

  “Are you so pissed at me?”

  I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pulled my debit card from my wallet.

  The man behind the counter (mugging, “Just a Dream” by Nelly, Mansaf lamb and rice) pointed to a handwritten sign that proclaimed a ten dollar minimum. Of course, I had no cash. I could either buy eight dollars’ worth of artisanal chocolate or use the shady ATM machine in the corner. I didn’t have it in me.

  I grabbed a dark chocolate bar stuffed with salted cashew butter off a counter display and held it up. He nodded; that got me to the threshold. It was preposterous, but I couldn’t have cared less in that moment. Fine.

  “Wren?”

  “I’m here. Yes, Gretchen, I’m a little mad. Because you lied to me and went AWOL.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. Seriously. I suck. I love you.”

  I rolled my eyes—at no one. “I assume this has been going on since the funeral?”

  “Um . . .”

  “Don’t even think about lying!”

  “Okay, yeah. We hooked up and then, I don’t know. Instead of going home and never speaking again, we just . . . it’s hard to explain.”

  “Not really.” I rubbed my eye with my sleeve, exhausted. “You like him. You’ve always liked him.”

  “Except when I hated him.”

  “Especially when you hated him.” I didn’t feel like talking through the ins and outs of Jimmy and Gretchen’s whirlwind romance at the moment. “Look, I have to go.”

  “Okay. But you said you needed to talk. Do you want to call me back later?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. I don’t know.” I hung up. She was halfway through saying goodbye. I wasn’t even sure if I was angry or disappointed. I just felt alone.

  I thought about calling George, but this seemed like a lot to pile on him. Maybe if nothing had happened between us, it would have felt okay to lean on him. But it seemed very heavy—and boyfriendy—in light of our recent nakedness. I was worried he’d experience it as pressure. Instead, I went back outside and called a Lyft.

  My driver, Craig, arrived four minutes later. The interior of his green Hyundai Sonata was draped with a cloth covering, ostensibly to protect the car’s upholstery. It seemed superfluous since the car was gross. He wore sunglasses, though it wasn’t sunny, and the air smelled vaguely of pot. (Mysterious disappearance, “I’ll Be Missing You” by Notorious B.I.G., Wendy’s.) I buckled my seatbelt.

  “Wren?”

  “Yup.”

  “Cool.” He pulled away from the curb, as I stuffed a whole row of chocolate into my mouth.

  “How’s your day?”

  “Fantastic,” I mumbled, cheeks full. “How’s yours?”

  I wasn’t sure if he answered. I stared out the window as Midtown became Central Park South and then the Upper West Side. Big, nondescript buildings morphed into the landscape of my youth. It was so much. It hurt my heart.

  Chapter 43

  Stewart. Can this be over now, please? I want to be done. When are you coming back to life?

  Chapter 44

  I stood outside of City Diner, trying to get in the right headspace. I couldn’t meet this girl, who also seemed unhinged, until I got ahold of myself. In the window’s reflection, my eyes looked crazy even to me. I took three deep breaths. I would find another job, I could avoid Blair forever after tomorrow, I would give Gretchen and Jimmy the silent treatment, wrap my mind around them as a couple and eventually officiate their wedding. But not right now. None of that could come to fruition at the moment, so I needed to accept my current circumstances and deal with the issue at hand: Belle Rose.

  Sit with the discomfort. Pain is inevitable. Suffering is a choice.

  I wanted to tell Stewart to shut up, but he was in my own head.

  I peered through the window. I could see Belle sitting at a red booth, light brown hair hanging in her face, oversized army jacket dwarfing her small frame. I thought about texting her and canceling, but I’d come all this way and convinced her to meet me. I had a feeling if I bailed, she wouldn’t come again.

  So I swept a fingertip under each eye to triage my smeared eyeliner. Then I exhaled, grabbed the metal door handle, and went inside. The air was chilly like the air-conditioning was on instead of the heat, despite the dropping temperatures outdoors. I felt grateful for my scarf, which I tucked closer around my face. Stalling, I stopped at their ATM to take out cash. I figured it would be good to have some, so I didn’t end up in another card-limit situation. Then I crossed to the table. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Wren.”

  Belle looked up, taking me in. Her expression didn’t change. “Hey.”

  I was surprised by two things: first, the cavernous dark circles around her eyes; second, how young she was. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. (Overdose, “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by the Smiths, coffee.)

  I slid into the booth across from her. The leather was sticky and held together by silver duct tape. She was already sipping from one of those heavy mugs, a nondairy creamer tub and empty sugar packets littering the table in front of her. The way she was slumped over reminded me of an overflowing laundry bag. I hadn’t done laundry in ages.

  A waitress appeared on cue. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, a pencil sat behind her ear. She was not a day under sixty. (Emphysema, Barbara Streisand’s “Memory,” blintzes.) They don’t employ out-of-work actors at legit New York diners, only career waiters. Old school. She barely glanced at me. “What can I get you?”

  “Um. I think maybe just tea to start?” We both knew I wasn’t ordering anything else.

  “We’ve got English Breakfast, Earl Grey, and Chamomile.”

  “English Breakfast is great. Thanks.”

  “Should I leave a menu?” Her hand hovered over both, ready to take them away.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked Belle. She shook her head. It seemed to require effort. “I think we’re good.”

  The waitress grunted and left.

  “So thanks for meeting me,” I said. “It’s crazy windy out.”

  Belle rubbed her eyes with her fists like a child and yawned. “No problem. It’s good for me to get outside, I guess.”

  “Yeah. It sounds from your posts like maybe you’ve been having a tough time?”

  She nodded. Then her eyes welled up. I felt pretty bad for her and like a terrible person for laughing at her Facebook messages to Stewart.

  “It’s so hard. I get it.” I sat back in my booth. “So I don’t know if Stewart ever really mentioned me, but our mothers became friends when they were pregnant. We were next door neighbors as small kids and they sent us to school together.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I remember he me
ntioned you. He said you had a cat named Ryan Seacrest or Jeff Probst or something?”

  Jesus Christ. For how long had Stewart been dining out on my pathetic cat lady life? “Close enough. How did you guys know each other?”

  She wiped her eyes with a stained napkin. “We met in this group. They called it Temple.”

  “Like a synagogue? You’re Jewish?”

  “Yeah, actually. Rose is really Rosenberg. But this wasn’t synagogue. Calling it ‘Temple’ was just a joke. It was named after Shirley Temple, I guess? I don’t even know why. Maybe because she worked in the industry for so long and she got out?”

  “It was a Hollywood group?”

  “Kind of. It’s hard to explain. It was like a support group for people who were too famous to go to support groups ’cause they’d be, like, recognized.”

  “A celebrity support group,” I nodded. “Okay. To help them navigate the film business? Like for networking?”

  “No. It was for people to be able to, like, talk about the difficulties in their lives.”

  The waitress returned with my hot water. A wedge of lemon and a bright-yellow Lipton teabag perched on the saucer. I waited until she was gone to continue. “So a place for celebrities to come and talk to each other about their struggles with fame?”

  She nodded. “Basically. Except it wasn’t just about being, like, famous. Some of them had addiction problems and stuff like that.”

  I hesitated, holding my breath. “Stewart?”

  “No, no. Of course not. Stu was so structured and hardcore. He barely even let himself eat In-N-Out, except on special occasions. He kept the rest of us in line.” She half-smiled, then resumed frowning. Her eyes flooded again.

  It was true. Stewart was regimented: shirts ironed, diet strict, outlook positive. That was the directive. I wasn’t sure how far I could push this, but I figured I had nothing to lose. I dunked my tea bag in the water. “Belle, I hope you don’t mind me asking: Why were you there?”