Death and Other Happy Endings

by Melanie Cantor

  I sense the sobbing build, slowly, silently until it takes hold of me and I roll over and cry into my pillow, feeling my baby pushing against me. “Poor Marion. Poor, poor Marion. A mother should never have to bury a child. Oh, Emily! What were you thinking? Suicide was not in your Deathopoly plan.”

  I fumble around the mattress and retrieve my phone. I dial Isabelle.

  “Pick up!” I say. “Pick up, Isabelle!” But it goes to voice mail. “Call me, please,” I say.

  I dial Olivia. She picks up immediately.

  “Oh, Liv,” I sob.

  “What’s wrong?” She waits for a bit, allowing me to settle. “Please tell me, Jennifer. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

  I grapple for my voice. “It’s Emily . . .”

  “What’s happened?”

  I come up for air and grab a tissue then blow my nose. “Sorry, Liv. They’re turning the life support off today. She’s going to die.”

  “Oh, Jennifer. I’m so sorry. Truly I am. I’ll come round now,” she says. “I’ll be there asap.”

  I pace the room waiting for Olivia. It feels like an eternity before the bell rings. I open the door and we throw ourselves at each other, baby in between, crying in each other’s arms. I tell her it should have been me and she tells me not to be so ridiculous, Emily made her choice a long time ago.

  Suddenly I feel a pain. I push away and bend forward holding my sides. I’m getting cramps in my stomach.

  “Ow!” I say, stretching toward the wall, trying to pull myself out of it.

  Olivia acts startled. “You’re not having the baby, are you?”

  “Better not be. Way, way too early.”

  “Lie down, for God’s sake.” She hurries me over to the couch. “I’ll get you some water.” Olivia rushes to the kitchen then rushes back and hands me the water. I drink it slowly and lie back down. “Don’t panic,” I say. “I’m going to be okay. It was only a cramp.”

  “You scared me.”

  “I scared myself. Oh, Liv. Poor Em.”

  She nods. Her eyes are genuinely sad, which makes me feel even sadder. We sit quietly together, holding hands.

  After she leaves, I go back to bed, feeling lonely and miserable. This is definitely a day for staying under the duvet.

  The phone rings. I answer absently. “Hi, Isabelle,” I croak.

  “Jennifer?” A man’s voice.

  I check the phone. “Andy. Oh my God, Andy, have you heard the news?”

  “Yes!” he says, sounding massively upset.

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased?”

  I jolt. “Why would I be pleased?”

  “You’re preg-nant, Jennifer. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?” He says it with the same distaste as his wife. “I think you need to explain what’s going on. One minute you tell me you’re dying and the next you’re with child. I never thought you’d try and hoodwink me like this.”

  “Are you kidding me? Hoodwink you? After all your lies. Well, I haven’t hoodwinked. you. I was told I was dying and then I was told it was a mistake. If you’d have let me speak that night you came round, I would have told you everything.”

  He goes quiet. “Didn’t I let you speak?”

  “You know you didn’t. You were wrapped up in your own little domestic soap opera.”

  “Nonsense. If you’d have said something, I’d have paid attention.”

  “Why do I always have to be the one to say something? Why doesn’t it ever occur to you to ask?”

  “Well, I’m asking you now. What did you tell Elizabeth? She’s been acting like a lunatic. She’s so angry at me. As if your baby is mine.”

  “I told her the truth.”

  “Shit, Jennifer!”

  “Not about you feeling trapped in your marriage. I told her the truth about her. That’s all. She’ll get over it. Anyway, Emily’s about to die or maybe she has already,” I say. “That’s why I thought you’d phoned.”

  “Emily? As in Michael and Emily?”

  “Yes. She attempted suicide, but she failed. She’s been in a coma for months. They’re turning off the life support today.”

  The horror dawns on him. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.” His voice sounds appropriately somber. “I haven’t been in touch with them for years. Not since our divorce. Poor Mike.”

  Grief is tugging at my heart. I want to get off the phone. “I’ve got to go, Andy. It’s been a horrible morning.”

  “Sure,” he says. “I’m sorry, Jennifer. I’m sorry for everything. I was a shit.”

  “Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

  He splutters. “Anyone who doesn’t allow his ex-wife room in a conversation to tell him she’s not dying is a shit.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll give you that.”

  “And you’re really pregnant. So whose is it?”

  “No one you know.” There’s a silence, as if he thinks I’m going to tell him. “Bye, Andy,” I say and disconnect.

  6

  Emily’s funeral takes place very quickly. In a way, she’s been dead a long time; she deserves a swift burial. And it’s sunny—as though she’s telling us she’s finally happy.

  Michael, in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and skinny black tie, is in pieces. A man destroyed. I feel desolate for him. He was always so supportive of Emily. You have to admire his tenacity. She wasn’t easy. But no one ever said love was easy.

  The place is teeming with people. Lots of faces I recognize, some more familiar than others. Isabelle has come with me for support. Olivia and Anna Maria have come, too. Emily was our friend. We are united in sorrow. Hard feelings no longer have a place.

  Her mother is dressed entirely in black. She’s wearing a huge black hat and sunglasses. She looks like a film star. I have to duck beneath the hat as she gives me a distracted hug, my stomach nudging hers.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  She removes her sunglasses and dabs her eyes. “You’re pregnant,” she says. “How wonderful.” Which is kind because I can’t imagine that’s what she’s really thinking. She stares at my stomach. “Nothing matters for me anymore,” she says. “Not now. But for you new life brings hope. I’m so pleased hope still exists. I wish you all the luck in the world. Be happy, Jennifer,” she says. She glances at Isabelle.

  “You remember my sister, Isabelle,” I say. “And Olivia and Anna Maria.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Champion,” they mutter in turn. “So sorry for your loss.”

  “Kind of you to come.” She smiles graciously, replaces her sunglasses, and moves on.

  We walk down the long path away from the cemetery feeling numb, the sound of loose stones crunching under our feet.

  Anna Maria has driven Olivia. I warned her against it, but she decided to accept the lift.

  “You in the car park?” Isabelle says.

  “No, it was full, we’re outside.”

  “Us, too,” I say, and we carry on walking.

  Anna Maria’s car is parked on the bank, literally outside the cemetery gates.

  “How on earth did you get away with parking there?” says Isabelle.

  “I told her that,” says Olivia. “We’re lucky you haven’t been clamped.”

  “I knew it would be fine,” says Anna Maria. “Who’s gonna clamp you outside a cemetery?”

  We kiss each other good-bye and Isabelle and I walk hand in hand up the hill toward her car.

  “Thanks for coming with me,” I say.

  “God, that was horrible.”

  “Funerals aren’t much fun at the best of times.”

  “True, but she was so young.” She squeezes my hand. “And I kept thinking, what if it had been you? My heart would have exploded. I don’t know how Marion kept upright. Or Michael.”

 
“Drugs. Did you see the size of their pupils? How else do you cope?”

  “Mum was definitely drugged up at Dad’s funeral.”

  “Mum was drugged up at the smallest opportunity.”

  Isabelle laughs. “She was, wasn’t she? She was always pushing her Valium on me. If ever I was uptight with one of the kids, or with Martin, ‘Here,’ she’d say, ‘Have one of these.’ As though they were smarties.”

  “Maybe they were to her. Maybe back in the day our entire street was on them the way everyone’s on Prozac now.”

  “You, too?”

  “Oh no,” I say. “Why? Are you?”

  “Not Prozac but something similar. Only a low dose, though.”

  “And Martin?”

  “Yeah. Same. You look surprised! I’m more surprised you’re not. Most people I know are on something.”

  God, I think. Is Olivia on something? Is Anna Maria’s demeanor down to a happy pill? It never even occurred to me. I have such an aversion to drugs it’s not part of my thinking.

  “Do you think Mum popped smarties to help her cope with Dad?” I say. “Maybe that was why they always seemed so happy.” I laugh to myself.

  “Who knows? Too late to wonder now.”

  I shrug. “Well, at least we’ve come out of it okay.”

  She sniggers. “What, two fuckups at a suicide’s funeral?”

  A wide grin stretches across our faces and we burst into laughter, falling about. “Oh, stop it,” I say, holding on to my sides. “We’re meant to be mourning Emily. This is so wrong.”

  “Emily will be laughing with us.”

  “No, she won’t,” I say. “She never had much of a sense of humor.” This irreverence only adds to the hysteria. “Maybe we’re laughing to stop ourselves from crying?” I’m crossing my legs; laughter is now a major threat to my dignity.

  “Oh, I’ve had it up to here with crying,” says Isabelle, her hand sweeping over her head, the gaiety beginning to subside.

  “Me, too,” I say. “Have you seen him at all?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I seem to bump into him practically every day, in a way I never used to and not on purpose, I can assure you. My heart still skips a beat. It hasn’t got the message yet. What about you? Any news?”

  “No. Nor do I care.”

  “Yeah, you do!”

  “Honestly. I don’t. I’ve finally come to accept that he was never right for me and I’m fine with that.”

  Isabelle’s expression says she thinks otherwise.

  “Why don’t you believe me? It’s true. I’ve learned what I should have learned years ago. To trust my intuition. I’ve finally realized I don’t have to subjugate who I am so I can be part of a couple. That if I don’t fit, no matter how much I wiggle and squeeze, I’m never going to. And I’m okay on my own. Genuinely. I’m not just saying that to make myself believe it. And that makes me feel powerful.”

  “That’s a very big statement. What about being with someone for the baby?”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen, is it, so I might as well make the best of it. And I will. Somehow I’ll blunder my way through parenthood like everyone else.”

  “Jesus. You’ve become mighty philosophical.”

  “Yeah, I’m a Buddha,” I say. “Soon to be the size of one anyway.”

  We climb into the car and strap on our seat belts. Isabelle throws her bag behind her onto the backseat.

  “This might sound odd,” she says. “But this whole awful drama has done us good. We’ve both learned. Thank you for that.”

  I nod. “Funny how the worst thing to happen to you can sometimes end up being the best thing.”

  She looks across at me and puts her hand on mine. “Yeah. True. But can you shut the Buddha up now!”

  7

  Why is it that when you’re expecting something to happen it never does and when it’s the last thing on your mind, that’s when it happens? The doorbell rings but I’m not expecting anyone so I’m tramping around in a big old sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms. I look a mess but I don’t care. I quite like not having to bother. I pad to the door and peer through the spyhole then quickly duck, hiding from view as if my iris can be detected.

  Shut up! I think. If it isn’t Harry.

  “What do you want?” I say, shifting a few inches to the right, standing up and checking myself in the mirror on the wall by the door.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to see you.”

  “Sorry, we’re closed today.”

  “Oh, come on!”

  “Why?”

  “I want to apologize.”

  “Correct password!” I say, quickly finger combing my hair.

  I open the door and there’s a weird moment when we’re just standing on opposite sides of the threshold, staring at each other. I don’t move. I’m like a pregnant barrier.

  It’s the beginning of March and the weather is still harsh. He looks cold. He shoots an unsubtle glance at my stomach. “Am I allowed in?”

  “Door’s open,” I say and step aside.

  “Thanks,” he says, his face all meek. He maneuvers carefully past me. “You look good.”

  “Don’t flatter me. Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Only if you’re making.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Ha! I suppose that’s a no then.” He hovers in the hallway. “Can we sit down anyway?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  He takes off his coat and scarf, hangs it over the stair banister, then moves into the sitting room, slapping his upper arms, trying to get warm. I grab his scarf and pass it to him.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  He sits down on the sofa, perching on the edge like he knows he’s unwelcome. I sit opposite him in the armchair, straight backed. I feel like a sack of potatoes trying to look like a stick of celery.

  “So,” he says, shifting his feet. “I wanted to see you . . .” He pushes the hair away from his face. “To say sorry. I’ve been thinking about you. About us. A lot. About how things ended at Christmas and I don’t feel good about it. I behaved very badly.”

  I’m trying not to react. If he thinks I’m going to make this easy for him, he’s wrong.

  He swallows, realizing he’s on his own in this performance. He arranges the scarf, tying it a bit tighter around his neck. Like a noose, I think.

  “I appreciate now what you must have been going through. I thought my being there for you was a generous gesture but, you were right, it was misguided. I don’t know what I was thinking. I could have been there for you as a friend, if you’d wanted me. From a place of honesty. But I chose one of deception. And when you discovered the doctor had made a mistake, I had to come clean, which made it all seem like some kind of dirty, cunning ruse. But it wasn’t, Jennifer. That wasn’t what was intended. I’m really sorry.”

  I’m enjoying this. “So you believe me now? That it was a mistake.”

  “Of course I do. Everything I said at Christmas was just knee jerk. I couldn’t understand how you could be so angry with me when I had been nothing but decent. Or so I thought. So I hit out. But on reflection, you had every right to be angry. It was an ill-conceived idea.”

  I’m still waiting for the payoff. “Is there a ‘but’? Because I’d rather know now and quit while I’m ahead.”

  “No. There’s no ‘but.’” He clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. Reevaluating my life.” He looks at the floor, then sidelong at me. “I’m not with Melissa anymore.”

  “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “This time it’s true.”

  I hold my nerve.

  His mouth pulls awkwardly and he looks around, locks his fingers together, arms aloft stretching out his shoulders. “It really is
over, Jennifer. I came clean with her,” he says.

  “Are you looking for applause?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “What happened then?” I don’t need to know but this is irresistible.

  “I told her exactly what had happened between you and me. She wasn’t impressed. Threw things and left.”

  “Sausages?”

  “Plates actually. I guess she wasn’t thrilled with where our supposed decent gesture took me. Funny, eh? You think you’re being Superman and end up being Lex Luthor.”

  “That’s about right,” I say.

  He clears his throat. “So I’m going to take myself off. Go traveling.” He looks at me, like he’s hoping he’s finally earned my approval and I’ve been placated. “I need to find myself.”

  “That’s brave.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s not a compliment. Suppose you don’t like who you find?”

  He’s momentarily thrown off-kilter. “You’re funny,” he says. “I always liked that about you.”

  “I wasn’t being funny.” I hate behaving like this but he deserves it.

  “Oh,” he says. That reflex of clearing his throat. “Anyway, I’m giving up work. I’ve had time to reflect. I hate the man I’ve become. I used to love art for art’s sake; that’s why I do what I do. But it’s no longer about art. The people I curate for don’t care about the beauty, or the meaning, or the craft in the paintings I buy for them. They care about the price tag. Or whether it goes with their furnishings. They care about what it tells the world about them. And I’m no better. But I do want to be better, Jennifer. I want to change. I’ll be fifty in two years and I’ve been entirely selfish all my adult life. You brought that into sharp perspective.” He takes a breath. “So I need to start this process of change by making peace with you.”