by Amy Waeschle
When the phone rang, Cassidy checked the number then put it down. She didn’t want to talk to Mark or to anyone besides Quinn.
But it was the third call in two days. With her stomach hardening, she picked up. “Hello,” she said, her voice sounding thin.
“Hey,” Mark’s voice murmured. “How are you?”
There was an awkward pause. “Um,” Cassidy said.
“Sorry, stupid question,” Mark said. “I’m sure you feel like shit, same as I do,” he sighed.
Cassidy gripped the phone.
“I got the invite for the funeral,” Mark said.
A feeling of dread washed over her. “Are you going?”
“Yeah. A bunch of us from Seattle are driving together. You have a place to stay?”
“Sally and Tim offered to put me up.”
“Are you going to take them up on it?”
“I’m not sure,” Cassidy said. The idea of being in Pete’s house and seeing his things both filled her with terror and rabid anticipation. She remembered Quinn’s warning: don’t let yourself dwell on this. Take what you need, and try to move on.
But she couldn’t seem to move on—or move at all for that matter. Since returning home she had only left to buy groceries and go to her office. Not that she was getting much work done. Her work felt so distant, and trivial. She wondered when the department would figure out that even though she put in long hours, her work showed little of the quality she was known for. Plus, she had missed a grant proposal deadline, had postponed editing two urgent paper reviews, and was expected to coordinate an upcoming research trip to Arenal.
“Well, Aaron and I were talking, and we want to do a celebration of life for him in Seattle.”
Cassidy began to cry as the image of a room full of people milling about, talking, with red party cups in their hands came into focus. Would she have to make some kind of speech? Her head began to pound. “Sorry,” she said.
“Why are you sorry?” Mark said. “This sucks. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” He paused, and Cassidy managed to regain control. “We’re thinking of Thanksgiving, you know, because Pete loved food and, well, eating,” he added with a soft chuckle that sounded so distant that she imagined herself on an ice floe, far out to sea.
“Okay,” Cassidy said through a fresh batch of tears.
“I can invite everyone, and organize the food.”
“Are you still at the apartment?” she asked. The image of the apartment Pete had shared with Mark appeared in her mind: the tiny table where she and Pete sipped coffee and talked about their day, the simple bedroom where she had slept next to him while listening to the traffic on the road outside and the sirens on the freeway. She broke down, letting the silent sobs take over her body.
“No,” Mark said. “I live with my girlfriend, Suzanne, in Ballard. Our place is really small, or I’d totally do it there.”
“How about Casa de Rocas?” Cassidy asked before she could think it through. “Emily is still there. I bet we can clear the other roommates out for the weekend. Or they may already have plans to leave town because of the holiday.”
“Really?” Mark asked. “’Because that would be perfect.”
Cassidy felt like some kind of animal had her heart in its teeth. So many memories were locked inside the walls of that house. “Okay,” she managed.
It took Cassidy two days to call Emily. First, she pulled down the bottle of Glenfiddich that she and Pete used for special occasions. She ignored the fact that the bottle, new only two months ago as a housewarming present to themselves, was approaching empty. After two glasses sipped over the course of the evening, she dug up her phone and settled onto the couch with a blanket.
Emily answered on the second ring. “Hey,” she said, and the kindness in her voice made Cassidy’s breath catch. Normally, Emily was sassy and bold and hilarious. The idea of the two of them laughing and joking together ever again seemed impossible.
“Hey,” Cassidy replied. She reached for her glass and realized that it was empty.
“How are you?” Emily asked.
Cassidy had been asked this many times since returning from San Francisco. If only she could give a “how to talk to people who are grieving” guide to the people in her life. Step one would be a ban on asking the question “how are you?”
“I mean, besides that,” Emily added awkwardly. “Shit, Cass, I don’t know what to say to you.” She paused. “I’m sorry?” she sighed. “That sounds stupid. I’ve wanted to call you, but I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry for that. You could probably use a friend right now and I haven’t been a very good one.”
“It’s okay,” Cassidy said.
“No it’s not,” Emily replied. “But enough of the bullshit. Do you want me to come down there? Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” Cassidy said, this sudden outflow of kindness making her cry again. The thought of Emily visiting and seeing her life in shambles filled her with shame. I should be able to get it together, she thought, thinking of the near-empty bottle of Scotch and the recycle bin full of beer bottles.
Emily sniffed and Cassidy realized that she was crying too. “This is fucked up, Cassidy,” she said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I know,” Cassidy said, the words bursting out, as if pressurized. She choked on a sob.
“How’s Eugene?” Emily asked after more sniffs.
Relieved that the conversation had moved onto lighter subjects, Cassidy took a deep breath. “Busy,” she replied. “Our neighbors are nice,” she added, remembering the daily arrivals of food and the awkward hugs. Her next-door neighbor, a retired teacher, had invited himself over one afternoon to talk about his wife’s death ten years prior and how he coped by cultivating prize-winning roses.
“That’s great,” Emily said.
“How’s the thesis writing going?” Cassidy asked. The details of Emily’s project somehow eluded her, even though they had talked at length about it in the past. She wiped away fresh tears. “Do you know what you’ll do after?”
“Jesus, hopefully a job, and not one on some fracking rig in the middle of South Dakota.”
Normally, Cassidy would have replied with a sharp retort, but words failed her and the line buzzed with the silence that stretched between them. She got up and poured herself another finger of Scotch and a handful of ice cubes. The first sip burned her throat, but it gave her courage.
“So, Mark wants to plan a gathering for Pete in Seattle,” she said, forcing the words from her mouth. “And he wants to use Casa de Rocas.”
“Oh, totally!” Emily said, her voice loud, as if this was the best thing she’d heard all day.
Cassidy added more to her glass, then moved back to the couch. “You wouldn’t mind?” She pulled the blanket over her knees, cradling her glass in her lap.
“No,” Emily replied. “Do you have a date?”
“Thanksgiving,” Cassidy replied, feeling her cheeks pucker with more tears. She sipped from her glass and imagined a giant, glossy-brown turkey on a platter with potatoes and onions, cranberry sauce and stuffing filling decorative bowls, and baskets of bread with the Irish butter he never splurged on placed strategically around the table. Another wave of pain rolled over her and she tucked her knees tighter.
“That’s so appropriate,” Emily was saying in a voice so dripping with empathy Cassidy had to close her eyes tight to stave off an outburst. “I can check with my roommates, see what they’ve got going on.”
“I’ll pay for a hotel room for the night, if they want,” Cassidy said.
“Nish will probably go be with her family in Woodinville,” Emily answered. “And Gary will probably have to work. I think Rachel has some big ski race in Wyoming or something. I’ll ask them.”
“Okay,” Cassidy replied. The Scotch had begun to make her head feel fuzzy. She needed to hang up soon.
“Do you want to stay in your old room?” Emily asked. “I can sleep on the couch.”
A sudden memory of her bedroom blasted into her mind, and she choked on a sob. Her eyes clenched tight as she remembered being curled up in Pete’s arms, his skin warm and his breaths deep and relaxed. She then took a tour of the bathroom and its large white tub where they had lounged away many evenings, and the kitchen where he had cooked countless meals for her and worked side by side with her at the picnic table, their laptop screens erect and fingers tapping. It was all too much. “No,” she managed to say. “The couch is fine.”
“Are you sure?” Emily persisted. “I don’t mind.”
Cassidy wiped her face with her free hand and stared at the ceiling to compose herself. “I’m sure.”
The Monday before Thanksgiving, Cassidy drove to campus with a sense of doom. She felt so tired, and heavy, but the volcanology faculty members on her team had requested a meeting. Deep down, Cassidy knew she needed to reclaim her position as a highly effective postdoc ready to dazzle the world, but her broken heart wouldn’t let her. Sometimes, her computer screen felt like a portal into her memories, and she would sit there feeling lost. That she was headed to a meeting to admit all of this to her fellow staff members had kept her up for most of the night, and now her brain felt foggy.
After returning from San Francisco, one of the faculty, Dr. Bill Fischer, reached out to reassure her that she could take all the time she needed. But a month had passed and they were all surely growing impatient. It was even possible that they were preparing to kick her out of the program, a thought that filled her with panic.
Cassidy walked into the building and down the dim hallway, passing geological maps of Oregon, artwork depicting volcanoes erupting, and an informational poster about tsunamis. Ahead, the open main office door cast a bright rectangle of light into the hallway. She stepped inside, intending to stop in and pick up any mail from her cubby. Almost immediately, the chatter of one of the secretaries on the phone and the clacking of keyboard keys, a muffled conversation, and someone’s laugh all faded to silence. Cassidy felt eyes tracking her as she shuffled towards the collection of mailboxes mounted into the far wall.
“Hello, Cassidy,” someone’s voice from behind her finally said.
Cassidy didn’t turn around. The silence pressed down on her. She reached into her mail slot for the piled-up clump of papers and manila envelopes. The silence continued. Nothing to see here! she wanted to shout. Her head pounded—the bright lights bore into the backs of her eyes, making them throb. Her heart felt like it might race right out of her chest. The air around her changed, becoming dense and pressured, as if someone had closed all the windows. She reached up to wipe her brow, but the motion unsteadied her, and she had to grab the wall for support.
Everyone was still looking at her. She felt their eyes watching. She pretended to look through her mail, shuffling each piece slowly. A small envelope addressed to “Cassidy and Pete” was tucked between a welcome packet for a conference and her latest copy of Nature Geoscience. With shaking fingers, she examined the return address. It was from a postdoc in the physics department that she and Pete had met at a party earlier that fall. The red envelope was decorated with green stickers in the shape evergreen trees. Her heart’s rapid thumping knocked into her throat. A party. For Christmas. Cassidy imagined Pete in his chinos and cream-colored fisherman’s sweater, a mug of mulled wine in his hand as he mingled in a crowd of other dressed-up adults and students.
Cassidy began to cry, silently at first, the tears streaming down her face. Her balance faltered, and she slumped into the wall, pressing her face against the cool, smooth surface. A moan escaped her lips and the mail fell from her hands, landing on the floor with a cascading flump. Her legs wobbled and she gasped for air.
There was a rustling sound near her, and she heard people’s voices, but they sounded distant, as if from the end of a tunnel.
The air pressed against her lungs, and she wondered what was happening. Why couldn’t she breathe?
“Are you okay?” A man’s deep voice blared in her ear, and she cowed backwards. Her heel caught on the carpet and she stumbled. The man’s dark eyes seemed to bore into her. She reached out to catch her fall, but finding nothing there she tumbled to the floor.
“What’s going on?” a female voice called from the far end of the room.
“Someone call 911!” another voice said. “I think she’s having a heart attack!”
The man who had been speaking to her crouched down.
Am I having a heart attack? Cassidy’s chest heaved with breaths she couldn’t control. Every nerve seemed alive—as if the sounds reverberating in the room hit her like electricity. The man reached out his hand.
“Don’t,” she gasped, waving him off.
“Okay,” the man said, eyes flashing with confusion. “Are you having chest pain?” he asked.
Cassidy looked away. Was she? “I don’t know,” she managed.
The man’s face tightened. “The paramedics are on their way,” he said. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
Cassidy realized that everyone in the room, plus several new faces, stood staring at her: the two secretaries, several staff, and a handful of students.
“I’m fine!” she cried. Her nearby mail lay strewn all around her, and she made feeble attempts to gather it, but the room began to spin.
Then, one face she recognized stepped forward: Bill Fischer. “Cassidy?” he said, his worn face tight with concern. He stepped by the other man and knelt down.
Cassidy began to cry again. What was happening to her?
“Give her some room, everyone,” Bill called out to the crowd. He turned back to Cassidy. “What happened?”
Cassidy felt the snot collecting on her upper lip and tried to wipe it away with the back of her hand.
“Are you hurt?”
This only made her cry harder. Yes! she wanted to cry. Yes, I’m hurt and broken and it’s never going to get better and nothing I do is going to make it better. But all she could manage were more tears. Her body felt heavy and frail at the same time. She was unable to contain the sobs that vibrated her frame against the wall. “I can’t breathe,” she gasped.
A new sound broke through the crowd, and Cassidy looked up as a man and woman dressed in crisp blue uniforms approached. The woman carried an orange-colored box by its black handle. Chunky black radios hung from their thick black belts. Their solid black shoes stepped towards her like small monsters and she scooted back, terrified. The two medics knelt down and introduced themselves, then one attached blood pressure cuff to her arm while the other asked a series of questions.
Before she knew what was happening, her body was lifted onto a gurney and wheeled down the hall.
Twenty-One
Casa de Rocas, Seattle
Thanksgiving, 2016
Cassidy stood at the kitchen sink, her hands braced on the counter. A wave of nausea rose up in her, but she concentrated on the bar of pink soap glued to the back of the basin and on her breathing until the attack ebbed. The reminder to breathe was the only positive thing that had come from her trip to the ER—that and the pills.
The doc had given her strict warnings not to mix them with alcohol, but before the party, Emily had brought out the whiskey, and Cassidy hadn’t been able to resist. Shortly after, a feeling of mild giddiness had bloomed inside her, as if a curtain opened to reveal the light outside. For that brief period of time, the crushing heaviness of her pain since walking into that hospital room dissipated.
Mark arrived to help set everything up, and seeing him overwhelmed her senses with exploding emotions. He swept her up in a giant bear hug, and the feel of his body pressing against hers brought on feelings she didn’t understand--joy, sadness, anger. She held on tight, wanting his embrace to last, his compassion and closeness filling her with a strange form of energy. She realized it was the closest she had allowed another person get to her besides Quinn since Pete’s passing. Mark’s big frame felt surprisingly reassuring, as if he could block the hurt and sa
dness. But it also made her miss Pete even more, and she broke down in his arms, sobbing against his chest. Mark stroked her hair and held her. In that space of several minutes, her body tucked into Mark’s, she felt loved again. Her brain swam in the intoxicating sensation for a moment longer until he stepped back. Mark’s look of pain mixed with longing connected with hers and the feeling between them seemed to glow brighter. Mark looked away.
Cassidy busied herself with preparing for the party, refolding the napkins, icing the keg, sweeping the kitchen floor for the third time. Somewhere around the end of her second beer, Cassidy started to feel dizzy, and slow, as if her brain was receiving everything at a reduced speed.
The house filled with the people on Mark and Aaron’s list. Tara arrived and shared a brief hug with Mark before she found Cassidy. The two of them cried in each other’s arms for a long time. Most of the other guests were strangers. A few faces from the funeral in Walla Walla she recognized as Pete’s closest friends from college. Somewhere in the back of her mind Cassidy remembered meeting them, though she failed to recall their names or exact connection to Pete.
Her cup containing the remainder of her third beer waited at the end of the counter. The wave of nausea passed and Cassidy turned around. She should probably eat something. Emily stood at the edge of the loaded picnic table talking with a woman Cassidy didn’t recognize. Mark stood deep in the living room, and as she watched he tilted his head back and laughed his booming laugh. Tara sat on the couch talking with another stranger, looking haggard, her gaze occasionally darting in Mark’s direction.
Emily caught her eye and gave her the “you okay?” look.
Cassidy grabbed her beer and joined Emily.
“Hey,” Emily’s voice said, her tone sweet and soft, which made Cassidy want to cry again.
“Cassidy, this is Wren,” Emily said. “She worked with Pete at the Seattle Times.”
Wren’s big brown eyes flicked her way. Her round face and small, pointy nose gave her an owlish look. She tucked a lock of her shoulder-length brown hair behind her ear. “Hey,” she said.
