I Liked My Life

by Abby Fabiaschi

  Today, I only answer for Aunt Meg. It’s not worth ignoring her call. It’s a once-a-week thing, and if I don’t pick up she hounds me until I do. Before Mom died our relationship was weak: I saw her on holidays and birthdays where I spent most the time hanging out with my cousin Lucy. But she and Mom were obsessed with the whole sisterhood thing. They talked every morning during Aunt Meg’s hour-long commute. Mom must’ve blabbed her face off about me, and that’s why Aunt Meg thinks we’re so much closer than we actually are.

  I dread our talks. She knew Mom better than anyone. I’m a little jealous of that, but mostly I’m pissed she missed whatever walked my mom off that building. She’s also a mother, with a daughter my age, and both of them are alive. That obviously shouldn’t bug me, but it does anyway.

  Aunt Meg knows I’m not into our little chats, but instead of taking the freaking hint it’s made her superaggressive. She’s full of stupid suggestions, as if she’s going to replace my mother with a ten-minute weekly pep talk, as if I don’t need a mother at all. Giving advice to someone in mourning is like offering pretzels to someone dehydrated. It doesn’t help.

  “Happy birthday, beautiful,” she sings when I answer, chipper as a former teen model turned successful business executive because that’s exactly what she is. “What are you doing to celebrate?”

  “Not much,” I say, flipping through channels on TV.

  “I know it must be hard, honey, but your mom would want you to celebrate. It’d kill her to think of you moping around on your birthday.”

  “She already took care of that.” I do not feel bad for being bitchy. Aunt Meg set herself up by saying something so stupid.

  “I’m not suggesting I know what you should do, but—”

  I half-listen, deciding whether to hang up or call her out. I don’t know which I’ll pick until the words come out: “Yes, you are, Aunt Meg. I-I don’t mean to be rude, but … you totally are. You want to fix this for me, but you can’t.”

  “Oh, Eve, sweetie, I know,” she coos in a baby-talk voice.

  “Shut up! Please. You have no idea—”

  “She was my sister, Eve. I lost her too.”

  “Yes. You lost your sister. I don’t know how that feels. I lost my mother, the person who did everything for me. You don’t know how that feels.”

  I must be speaking louder than I realize because my father appears in the family room to see what’s going on. He stands at the door, motioning me to surrender. “Look, whatever,” I say. “I shouldn’t have even answered. Thanks for the gift card. I’ll call later or something.”

  I assume I’m in for a lecture, but Dad just walks away. There might have even been a smile on his face. I think my fight with Aunt Meg signaled that he handled the day well. He’s so freaking competitive. I guess you never grow out of wanting approval.

  Brady

  I’m on my way to pick up take-out Chinese at Eve’s request, which the two of us will eat alone. The day Eve turned sixteen she was on the phone with her friends every second she wasn’t physically with them. I delivered my birthday wish while she put one hand over the receiver, telling whoever was on the other end to hold on a sec.

  This year I was promoted to birthday coordinator. My only goal going in was to not walk out of the room when grief punched and—even with the bar that low—I’ve been craving a drink since breakfast. The energy it takes to focus on Eve’s needs drains me. How Maddy made a life out of it is baffling.

  I hadn’t registered how rarely Eve is on the phone these days until birthday calls rolled in and she ignored them. Most of the messages broadcast from the answering machine were painful to overhear. Lindsey sounded timid, like she was leaving a message for someone terminally ill who may or may not have survived the night. It struck me that Eve mourns the loss of her mother while Lindsey mourns the loss of her best friend.

  Some guy called to say John asked him to wish her a happy birthday since he couldn’t from rehab, then added how lucky Eve is that John still cares. Prick.

  Kara Anderson’s message was bizarre. “Happy birthday, Eve,” she mumbled in a way that sounded so involuntary I envisioned someone with a gun to her head. The phone shuffled around as if she tried to hang up but the line never disconnected. In the background there was a weird whimpering that continued until I got to the machine and cut the recording.

  Kara has always been a troubled kid. Last year she and Lindsey spent the night after the homecoming dance. Maddy and I had tied one on while the girls were gone, so I woke up at two in the morning needing a glass of water. I dragged myself to the kitchen in gym shorts and there was Kara, sitting on a bar stool in a see-through white tank top and underpants, eating ice cream out of the container. The second I processed what I was looking at I turned to leave, and she said, “I don’t bite, Mr. Starling,” then laughed as I trotted back to my room. I should’ve told Maddy, but I was out of sorts enough to question my recollection the following morning.

  I’d call Todd and Christie to make sure everything was okay over there, but as the guy with a wife who committed suicide and a daughter who just got in a drunk-driving accident, I’m not in a solid position to offer up familial guidance.

  Eve erased every message. When I asked why she didn’t want to talk to her friends she said, “Trust me. They’d be forced conversations. Everyone’s glad I didn’t pick up.”

  I’d like to say my daughter’s perceptiveness is a new part of her, something she found in her grief, but Maddy’s journal documents otherwise. The entry last night recounted a time after Eve got her driving permit when she said to Maddy, “It must be funny to be driven around by the person you usually chauffeur.” They fought over the comment. Maddy was upset at being labeled a chauffeur; Eve claimed she was only joking and Maddy needed to “chill.” When they were less than a mile from the house, Maddy made Eve pull over and walk home. Eve got back ten minutes later, and said, “I get why you’re mad and I’m sorry. You weren’t being a chauffeur all those years, you were being my mother.”

  Damn right, I thought as I read it. But now I’m struck by how often I took Maddy for granted. It frustrated me when she claimed to be too busy to get something done. One time I questioned what she was so busy doing. “Mostly putting together the pieces you leave behind,” she replied. I thought it was a snarky retort until the pieces were left to me. It’s not a dust pile but a landfill, and I’m not accounting for her volunteer work in that assessment. On a regular basis, I came home an hour later than expected, usually without the courtesy of a phone call, anticipating Maddy would be in a good mood with dinner ready. She was; it was. Often the school or library would call at night after someone had bailed, asking Maddy to commit time or resources the next day. I preached she needed to set boundaries and say no. Once I even suggested the reason she got summoned was because she’d been identified as a sucker. “Not a sucker,” Maddy corrected, chin up. “A giver.” In the end she always agreed to help, which I inanely took to mean she had spare time. God, I was a jackass.

  I return with takeout and a troubled conscience, determined to get through dinner without ticking Eve off or losing my cool, but anxious to retreat to my bedroom with a generous bourbon and brood.

  Eve senses my mood has soured, so we eat in silence. She got the gift of intuitiveness from her mother—Maddy could always tell when there was more to a story. I once went on a business trip to Las Vegas when Eve was three. There was a guy, Jason Donahue, who I’d been working for since graduation. He was my boss, but he was also my friend; Maddy and I knew him and his wife, Stacy, well.

  “How was Vegas?” Maddy asked casually at dinner. I must’ve changed my posture, or something out of the ordinary, because after responding it was business as usual, Maddy went radio silent. When dinner was done she marched Eve to bed, without offering a kiss good night from me. I listened as she gave Eve a longer bath than usual and let her pick five books instead of the customary three, dragging out her time away. When she finally returned, I asked why she
was mad.

  “What the hell happened in Vegas?” she responded, hands on hips, certain. Maddy was not a paranoid wife, and I was not a careless husband. How had she sensed there was a story at all?

  “Nothing,” I answered. “Jesus. What’s wrong with you?”

  “You’re lying. Your poker face isn’t any better than Eve’s.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Then it won’t be difficult to tell me the damn story.”

  She pulled it out of me like a splinter. Jason and I went out for drinks one night and Jason left the bar with a hooker. Maddy was horrified. First, she confirmed under intense scrutiny and implied threat of divorce that I had nothing to do with it, had never done anything like it, and would never consider doing anything like it in the future. With that contained, she turned her emotions to Jason’s wife.

  “What if he got a disease or something? Stacy needs to know.”

  “Are you out of your damned mind? It’s none of our business, Maddy. Besides the fact that it could cost me my job.”

  “Your job? That’s what you’re worried about?”

  “Yes … my job that supports this family.”

  Her eyes cut into me. “I support this family too.”

  She wished she didn’t know more than I wished I hadn’t told her. At least once a day we fought about what to do.

  “It couldn’t have been a one-time thing,” she’d blurt randomly, when I thought the topic was dead. “You don’t just say, ‘Hey, it’s Tuesday and I’m on the road, I’m going to try out this whole hooker thing.’” Then the next day, “What if Jason has another child somewhere?”

  “I’m sure he was smart about it,” I’d reply, trying to end the conversation but never succeeding.

  “Smart about it? Smart about getting a hooker? There’s an oxymoron for you.”

  I’d sigh and offer the same line I’d been touting for years without success. “You need to learn how to let other people tend to their own problems. It’s not your job to fix everything.” I blamed that propensity on her mother. Janine never addressed anything, so Meg and Maddy never let anything go. It was a rebellion of sorts.

  She was uneasy every time I had a business trip with Jason after that. She couldn’t shake the story; it hit too close to home. Eventually, I was promoted above him and our friendship dissolved, but I often think about that night. I never had Maddy’s intuitive talent. She always held an element of mystery for me, and I liked it that way. I never felt bored. With the suicide everyone wants to know what was happening behind closed doors. I think they’d be surprised to discover I’m wondering the same thing. I was so rarely here.

  When I got home from the hospital the day she died, there was a to-do list on the counter. I showed it to the police as undeniable proof her death was accidental. The officer read the list and said, “You can take this as whatever you want, sir, but there’s no evidence to suggest anyone was with her, certainly no signs of a struggle, and no reason for her to go out on the roof in the first place. The investigation is over.” He handed it back to me. “Maybe the list was for you.”

  In case he was right, I did everything on it—buying ingredients I had no idea how to use, refilling every bathroom with toilet paper, replacing the kitchen sponge. When I was done, I decided she left it so I’d appreciate the effort that went into making our lives run smoothly. She left it so I would walk in her shoes, even once. But getting a grocery list didn’t scratch the surface. It’s days like today, Eve’s birthday, when I can’t even make it through dinner without my own selfish distractions ruining the moment, that I finally appreciate the life she breathed into this house. She carried the weight of me and Eve’s happiness.

  “Shit,” I say, breaking up the silence. “I forgot a cake.”

  Eve doesn’t look up from her plate. “A cake wouldn’t help.”

  “No, I guess not.” I get the bag off the counter and scour for fortune cookies. Even though I ordered for three out of habit, there’s only one in the bag.

  “Let’s share the fate of whatever it says,” Eve suggests. I throw it to her. When she cracks it open, the message catches us both by surprise: The only way forward is through.

  I clear my throat. “You know, Eve, they say that the time we’re going through right now, after the funeral is over and everyone else has moved on, is the toughest part of grieving.”

  “Yeah, well, I think that’s complete bullshit.” I half-laugh, which she finds encouraging enough to continue. “Every day sucks in some new way. It’ll never end.”

  I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do, but I nod in agreement. How can I pretend there’s a bright side here? Acknowledging that everything sucks is technically progress, at least we’re agreeing.

  We part for bed with a simple hug. I swallow hard, realizing that Eve and I haven’t made physical contact since the day of the funeral. I could compete on a reality show for the world’s shittiest dad. Eve has faced this disaster in total isolation. I have a daughter who is bold and smart and I cannot take any of the credit.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Madeline

  The downstairs of Rory’s town house has been converted into hospice care for her mother, Linda. Yesterday, as they sat on the couch watching TV, Linda looked up to the ceiling, hands in the air, and said, “Come and get it.” Rory slapped her mother’s arm and said it wasn’t funny, but they both knew she did it for Rory’s sake, to prepare her. Death leaves Linda thinking of nothing but her daughter’s future. Her thoughts often parallel my own.

  I worry about Linda’s sorrow when she’s welcomed by no one, greeted only by air, but question whether Linda’s death will be the same as mine. Even now, as she sleeps, her breath releases with an indecipherable whisper, like she’s already conversing with people on the other side. If I focus my energy, I sense their presence, and though I fail to interpret the dialogue, the effort draws me farther from the ground below, the way it did during Eve’s accident. However slowly, I’m ascending.

  The curtains stay drawn while Linda sleeps, which is now most of the day. To respect her failing appetite and growing sensitivity to smells, Rory and the day nurse, Greta, consume only benign food. Linda wakes to them murmuring about dinner. “Eat something plentiful, you two,” Linda begs.

  Rory grins. “No way. My new waistline and miniscule grocery bills are the high points of your cancer.” The ladies all giggle. If Rory can entertain her mother on death’s door, certainly she can get a smile from Brady and Eve.

  They need it.

  Eve is in the kitchen studying for finals, waiting for Brady to come out of his room for dinner. She’s come to look forward to their evening routine. During the workweek, Brady rushes in with a bag of takeout like they have a standing seven o’clock meeting. (It’s on his calendar, so from his standpoint they do.) On Saturday and Sunday they mostly eat leftovers from the week, but they do it together. This is the first night since the accident Brady has bailed. He’s holed up in our room. His room, now. The idea that he played a role in my misery gnawed at him all week; tonight he has nothing left to give.

  Sundays, in particular, are hard. It was our day. Saturday Brady worked and Eve usually had a tournament of some sort, but Sundays everything clicked into place. Nothing sensational, errands and togetherness mixed with a little daydreaming, but that was all we needed to wind up for another week.

  The Sunday before I died I woke up to the smell of bacon. Eve and I wandered into the kitchen at the same time. Brady had already set out plates. “Breakfast for me ladies,” he said, taking a medieval bow.

  There was a reason he felt compelled to put on a show. He’d been traveling most of the week, but only bothered to call home once. I’m not high maintenance, but I expect an evening check-in.

  I played along, anxious for him to earn my forgiveness. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Yuck. Get a room,” Eve snapped. Brady and I lost it in laughter, giving each other a kiss while she turned away in disgus
t.

  The day got better. I needed to go to an antique store to pick up a lamp that finally arrived. Brady surprised me by wanting to tag along, and again when he asked for a tour of the Wellesley campus on our way home. I’d volunteered at the library for two years, but he and Eve rarely acknowledged my time there. He was surprised how many passing students and professors knew me by name.

  “Whatever you do, you go all in,” he remarked. Brady wasn’t one to throw around compliments, so I relished them when he did.

  We returned home to a note from Eve saying she was having pizza at the Andersons’. Normally I’d have been irked she didn’t get permission—especially since it was at Kara’s and Eve knows I’m not a fan of that family—but that night I let it slide. I made lemon-broiled salmon over risotto while Brady set the table and opened a bottle of pinot grigio. We laughed, flirted, and made love. Our last time, it turned out. Afterward we danced to our wedding song and he whispered the lyrics in my ear: You came along and everything started to hum. Still it’s a real good bet the best is yet to come.

  Untrue, of course, but Brady didn’t know that at the time.

  Now he lies in bed, replaying the day, unaware Eve sits a room away, worried. I should motivate him to head to the kitchen, but I’m as swept up by the memory as he is. I don’t want to be remembered by how I died, I want to be remembered by who I was that Sunday, when I wasn’t competing with Brady’s and Eve’s many distractions.

  Our thoughts crisscross. Am I leading him or is he leading me? I can’t tell. He lets out a keening sob that startles me. Most of his time grieving is filled with anger, but this moment is pure loss. He looks like a toddler, tucked into the fetal position, grasping his knees for strength. His mind stays fixed on that wonderful day, remembering details I forgot.