Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  And then I spot it peeking out. It’s quite a shock. Handwriting. I pull it out from the pile. I recognize it instantly. It’s my ex-husband Andy’s. I’m rocked sideways, crippled with nerves. I’m holding the letter and I’m shaking.

  I can’t go to work yet. I make myself a mug of ginger tea, pour in a small shot of whiskey, staring at the envelope wondering about its contents, both nervous and elated. I sit down on the sofa, heart in mouth, blow on the tea, take a sip, sit back, then slowly slip my finger under the flap and inch it open. I pull out the contents. There are two sheets (two!) of smart vellum paper, his swanky address embossed at the top of the first. He has proper continuation sheets. All Elizabeth’s influence no doubt.

  I give both sheets a hasty scan. Then, knowing it’s okay to proceed, I start to read:.

  My darling Jennifer,

  I cannot begin to tell you how devastated I was to receive your letter. I’ve sat here, day after day, wondering how to respond. I think that writing has to be the best solution even though my first instinct was to pick up the phone but I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, which is why I’ve taken so long. So here goes.

  First, I’m so sorry. What a terrible shock. I can’t imagine how you must feel or what torment you’re going through. Awful. I hope you have someone to care for you.

  About the end of our marriage, I think I can afford to be more candid now. You see, I was young and foolish and we were six years into marriage and as I told you, your sadness about the loss of our babies made me feel isolated and misunderstood. The thing is I couldn’t understand the depth of your misery. For me, it wasn’t the end of the world but for you, it was and so I felt you and I could no longer connect. I felt you were shutting me out. Which you were. We no longer had sex. A man needs sex and I felt really lonely. So, I guess I started to look around and see what else was out there. Someone who would understand my loneliness. I don’t think I’d be the first guy to do that and I don’t think I’ll be the last but I suppose that doesn’t make it any better, does it? It’s just you seemed to want to be left alone, in your own world, so I obliged. Sorry for being a prick about it.

  I can honestly tell you I never intended to leave you. Is there any comfort in knowing that so many years on? Maybe not. But I didn’t. All I wanted was to fool around—good word that, eh? Fool. And I never realized that was how you felt about my leaving. I thought you were relieved to see the back of me.

  If it’s any consolation, I feel trapped. Perhaps you’ll think that’s what I deserve? To be in a loveless marriage with the woman with whom I cheated on you.

  Jennifer, I wish I could rewind the tape but what’s done is done. I’m so sorry. Nothing I can say will make you feel better but be assured, I still care. Your letter brought that home to me.

  By the way, I didn’t know Elizabeth had called you and said we never wanted to speak to you again. It wasn’t true. I would always have spoken to you. You were once my best friend.

  I’ll be in touch soon. It’s just not easy. OK?

  Please know that I did love you and always will.

  Send in the clowns, baby!

  Your sad fool, Andy

  * * *

  —

  Send in the clowns. I sit and stare at those words! He remembers I love that song. In his own special clumsy way, I think Andy is full of regret too.

  His letter has made me mourn my marriage all over again. Could it have been different? If I hadn’t been so desperate for a child, would he have stayed? If I’d gone full term, would a baby have changed anything? Or is it true that I drove him away with my gloom, dragging him down with each gut-wrenching loss, making him feel worthless too?

  How do you deal with trauma in a marriage so that it doesn’t destroy you? I know that communication is all, but when you’re deep in grief, or irrational with pain, how do you find the words? I couldn’t. So I guess, he’s right,. I did insulate myself. I needed to. And, yes, we stopped having sex, but he went about it in such a clumsy way. If I’m honest, he started to repulse me. But I could have come back from that. I’m sure of it. If he’d only given it a chance.

  Andy’s letter makes it obvious to me that he hasn’t told Elizabeth he’s replied. I bet she would have told him not to. It would be typical of her. Selfish to the end. But I’m glad I’ve heard from him. And that he still cares. I ponder over that line. I’ll be in touch soon. It’s just not easy. Is his marriage over? I do hope not. No matter how much I dislike the woman, I wouldn’t wish her that untold grief.

  As I’m sitting mulling the possibilities, my cell phone rings. I glance at the screen then do a double take. It’s Harry. I mean, seriously! IT’S HARRY!

  * * *

  —

  I truly believe that no matter how old you are, whether twenty-three or forty-three or eighty-three, when it comes to affairs of the heart, you are instantly a teenager.

  “Hello?” I say, casually, as if I have no idea who it is. As if I haven’t kept his number in my phone.

  “Sally?” he says. Don’t panic. He means me. Harry calls me Sally after my favorite movie. It’s not that either of us look like Billy Crystal or Meg Ryan, it was just something that started after I insisted he watch the film with me one New Year’s Eve. Then the following one. It nearly became a tradition, except two years was all we could manage.

  “Harry?” (sound surprised).

  “Oh, darling. I’m so pleased to hear your voice. What the hell has happened to you?”

  “Oh, God, Harry,” is all I can muster. I am already putty. That’s what he does to me. He gets under my skin and I want to cry with gratitude that he’s called. I sit up straight and pull myself together. I mustn’t allow myself any expectations. Calling me Sally could simply be old habit. Although he might easily have called me one of his go-to favorites: darling or sweetheart or honey. He once confessed to using these variations because he knew so many women he couldn’t possibly recall all their names. I used to be flattered he remembered Sally. As though it was a genuine sign of affection.

  “I’d have called sooner but I’ve been away. I’ve only just got your letter. Fuck, sweetheart! I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Yeah. Sorry for that little number.”

  “I’m sorry. Three months! That’s awful.”

  “Well, less now.”

  “How are you if that’s not too ridiculous a question?”

  “On and off. Today is on.”

  “Good for you. I’m not sure if this will be any consolation, but when my aunt had some form of cancer, can’t remember which . . . blanked it . . . she was great . . . literally until the last moment. If you didn’t know, you would never have known. Died peacefully in her husband’s arms.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “That’s strangely encouraging. Anyway, let’s move on. Tell me about you? Are you well?”

  “Yeah, good. The same. You know. Work work work.”

  Tell me about Melissa, I think but then he says, “Listen! Let’s cut to the chase. I’m so sorry I hurt you and, if we’re being totally candid, I have regrets too.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course.”

  There’s a second’s silence, and I panic he’s said what he has to say and that’s it.

  Say it! Say it! I tell myself. Before you chicken out.

  “Do you want to meet then?” I bluster. “You know, just to talk things through. Get the regrets off our chests. I for one will find it helpful.” I did it. I did it.

  “I’d like that,” he says.

  “You would? Thank you, Harry. That means a lot.”

  “Look, I’m going away again in the next couple of days and I have loads of prep.” My heart sinks. He’s chickening out. “I might sound as though I’m putting you off, but I’m not. I just . . . any chance we can meet tomorrow? Is that ridiculously soon?”

  “Not with my timetable,
” I say.

  “So is that okay?”

  And then I remember.

  How does that happen? I mean, why? I’m meant to be going to Isabelle’s tomorrow. Damn! People are like buses. There’s nothing and suddenly they all come along at once. How the hell do I handle this?

  I think on my feet. I’m sure Isabelle will understand. Actually she won’t, but you know what? I’ll take the hit. This is important to me and you can be certain if the boot was on the other foot, she’d blow me off.

  “Tomorrow is perfect.”

  “Good,” he says. “That’s good news. Can you get out?”

  “I need to. I’m sick of these four walls.”

  “Okay then. Let’s free you of those four walls. Meet at the Shard. Like old times? Seven thirty?”

  “Sounds perfect. The Shard. Like old times.”

  I put down the phone and practically dance around the room. Harry makes me feel amazing! If it weren’t so essential to feel amazing whenever possible, I’d almost hate myself for allowing him to have this effect on me.

  But it won’t last. I have to call my sister. With every silver lining there’s always a damn cloud.

  I dance a little longer, though. While I still can.

  * * *

  —

  Isabelle sounds pissed off. “But I’ve ordered in already. There’s this great new deli on the High Street does amazing meals. I know that sounds ridiculous. After all, I have a million cookbooks. But it’s like a local Ottolenghi. Why cook? Honestly, Jen, this area has changed so much. Can you believe our house has tripled in value? Even with Brexit. Crazy, huh? Anyhow, the deli opened three months ago. Bert’s. Superhip and incredibly popular. You have to order in advance. I wish they’d deliver but they don’t. Too posh to push a bike we all say.” She laughs. “And Bert has to like you. He always insists I pick up the order, not Martin.”

  “He probably fancies you, then.” Flattery gets you everywhere with Isabelle.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says, giggling. “He’s gay!”

  But I can tell she’s glad I said it so she doesn’t have to. Her giggle segues into an irritated groan. “Damn. He won’t be happy I have to cancel.”

  “I’m sorry, Isabelle, but I’m not feeling that great.” My fingers are firmly crossed behind my back. I know, I know. It’s not very admirable, but Isabelle will have no sympathy for the truth because her being put out overrides everything.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m being selfish, I know. I keep forgetting what’s happening to you. I don’t really want to remember.”

  “Don’t worry. I prefer to forget, too. And I’m only postponing. Not canceling. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I understand,” she says. “I just hope Bert does.”

  I laugh, then she laughs. I’m relieved she can acknowledge the absurdity.

  We refix for next Wednesday, but from now on there’s an accepted caveat that I may need to cancel. It’s a caveat I should affix to all my future arrangements. We hang up, but she calls back almost immediately to let me know that Bert has agreed to put the order back. Her voice is completely different. She sounds happy in her acquittal from being blackballed. “We’re going to have a beautiful chicken tagine with sumac and coconut couscous,” she sings.

  “Sounds great.”

  “And because I won’t need to cook, I’ll have more time for you. And I need all the time I can get.”

  This is not the Isabelle I expected at all.

  * * *

  —

  My sister’s concern, Andy’s letter, and Harry’s call have changed everything. I feel so much stronger mentally. And despite it getting tougher physically, I no longer feel as obliging when it comes to accepting my death. For all my initial determination to avoid quackery, I’m now wondering if one of Anna Maria’s alternative therapies might help. With so much to live for, I’d like a little bit longer, please. I know, I know. I’m a hypocrite. I’m bargaining without much leverage because I’ve never really paid attention to a God or to the Universe but I’m hoping for some unconditional generosity and that one of them might spare me some extra time.

  I leave a message on Anna Maria’s voice mail apologizing for not having been in touch. She calls back immediately.

  “Where have you been? I haven’t heard from you since that day we had brunch. I’ve left you at least fifteen messages.”

  “Have you?” I say. “That’s odd. I didn’t get any of them.”

  “You are so not tuned in,” she says. “They were psychic ones.” She laughs. “Oh, dude!” she says. “I’m kidding. I’m just pleased to hear your voice.”

  “I need your help, Anna Maria.”

  She drops her jovial tone. “I’m here. What’s the problem? Oh shit,” she says. “I should have asked. Weren’t you having a blood test?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry,” I cover. “It was fine.” I find the truth impossible to launch into over the phone. I’d rather wait to tell her face-to-face assuming I get to see her. “But I’m feeling some negative energy!” I continue, amazed to hear myself speak her jargon.

  “You are?” She sounds strangely thrilled, like she can’t believe I’m talking like this either. “What kind of negative energy? Bad spirits? What color are they? Are you seeing them?”

  “No,” I say, aware that her jargon remains foreign gobbledygook. “I sense a dark cloud hanging over me. And I want to do something about it. It’s making me feel horribly tired.” I’m quite pleased with that. There’s a truth in it.

  “Are you drinking lots of water?” she says. “It’s very important you stay hydrated. Drink lots. More than feels comfortable. That’s the first thing.”

  “Okay,” I say. As it happens, I have been drinking lots of water. I feel thirsty all the time. I have this salty, metallic taste in my mouth that won’t go away.

  “Now I can send you reiki but I think under the circs it’s better we go to see someone.” Her voice is sounding more and more in charge. She sounds triumphant; after all, she’s been proselytizing for years and thinks she’s finally made a convert. “There’s a woman I know, an amazing reiki master, called Rita. Does aura cleansing, too. Totally picks up on what’s floating around you. I haven’t seen her in a while, but she’s the best. I trust her. Some of them can’t be trusted you know. So many quacks out there.”

  “Really? I’m surprised?” I must ditch the skepticism.

  Anna Maria passes over it. “But Rita’s for real. When do you want to see her? I’ll try and get her to squeeze you in. She’s so in demand.”

  I’m wondering what I’m squeezing myself into. “I’m free next week,” I say. “Except for Wednesday night when I’m seeing my sister.”

  “Well, the sooner the better. How about this Saturday, babe?”

  “I can’t do that, either.” Olivia and I are going shopping for her wedding dress. Nothing takes precedence.

  “Sunday then?”

  “Yeah. Sunday’s good. If she does Sundays.”

  “Dude! Energy never sleeps. She’s twenty-four seven. She’ll probably be booked up she’s so popular but it’s worth a shot. Charges forty of your earth pounds. You okay with that?”

  “Sure. If it works.”

  “Of course it works. You only have to believe. Right! I’ll check if she’s free and buzz you back.”

  Ten minutes later she calls back. I’m already starting to believe.

  Anna Maria says the universe is smiling on us. The reiki master has two free appointments from noon on Sunday despite being soooo popular, so Anna Maria’s going to have a session too.

  Rita lives in Neasden. Anna Maria is picking me up. I think she wants to make sure I don’t change my mind. She has no idea how much hope rests on this. Changing my mind is not an option.

  Day 69

  I’m trying to stay cal
m. It’s not working. I exit the lift, quickly checking my face in my pocket mirror, then walk, stomach aflutter, down to the AquaShard bar, peering through the open tread stairwell exactly as I always did. Harry is already there, sitting by the window. There’s a drink on the table, no doubt his usual vodka tonic. He’s looking at his phone, his expression lit by the glow of the screen, silvered in the inky darkness of the room, his thick dark fringe flopping forward. He’s in his casual garb. Round-necked black cashmere sweater, the hint of a long-sleeved white T-shirt at the collar, skinny black jeans. A surge of excitement rushes through me.

  Deep breaths.

  Deep breaths.

  I walk toward him and he glances up as if sensing me, throws his phone down, and leaps to his feet. He tilts his head, tentative, checking me, then, as if he’s given himself permission to be upbeat, proffers a huge relieved grin.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. “I’ve been so worried.” He draws me into his chest and gives me a hug. I smell the familiarity of him and am reminded of everything I’ve missed.

  “Were you expecting me to be hunched and shriveled?”

  “I don’t know what I was expecting. I’m just so glad to see you. And you look defiantly gorgeous. How do you do that?”

  “Death becomes me,” I say. “And troweled-on makeup and this dimmed lighting.”

  He smiles. “Good old Sally. Still able to make a joke in a crisis.”

  Is that what I do?

  We sit down on the chenille velvet chairs looking out over London, which sparkles like a million twinkling lights at our feet, as though responding to the beat of the music that pulses through the bar. My own pulse is in overdrive. Tower Bridge, beautiful in daylight, is even more elegant by night; Tower 42 with its green illuminated rooftop glows as brightly as a polished emerald cube. I love this view. I love London. More than I ever realized.