He is sprinkling Grandma like salt on a steak. A little bit all around.
I stand up. “I’ll do some.”
I take the bag, which is on the ground at Chris’s feet, and shove my hand in. This is the first time I’ve touched the cremains with great comfort. It’s a little like the rocky sand on the beach once you get close to the water. With a full fist, I walk to the openings on the border of the garden and sprinkle Grandma at their base.
I come back and tell Chris, “You can help. No pressure or anything. But . . . you loved her, too.”
He nods, honored, and puts his hand into the bag. He ducks through one of the openings in the garden wall and brings Grandma to a patch of wildflowers just outside its border.
I stand behind him as he lets go.
“It’s a nice view back here,” he says. “I want her to be able to see this too.”
I keep thinking, or hoping in my heart, that Edith Wharton would love what we’ve done today. If she is a ghost here, if she does wander the hallways of her grand estate, Grandma Sheryl will be very good company.
As Ethan takes the last handful in the bag and brings it to a pristine patch of flowers with little pompom heads, I imagine Edith and Grandma in beach chairs, reading good novels, living long past disintegration, happily here forever.
Chapter 13
Earlier this week, when we realized we’d probably want to stay overnight at The Mount because it is hours away, I imagined a situation out of a romantic comedy, and I don’t even like romantic comedies.
I fantasized that we’d bring the ashes to The Mount property—like we just did—and then drive to a quaint bed-and-breakfast, the kind with tiny bedrooms with mismatched quilts on the mattresses. The kind with a cat.
In my fantasy, we’d all get to this small inn—run, of course, by a gray-haired couple who would greet us with freshly baked chocolate cookies—and we’d realize that Chris and I would have to share a room, and that the room would only have one bed. Oh no!
In my fantasy, the temperature would drop at night, and Chris and I would be forced to cuddle under a blanket for warmth, until eventually it became clear that we were going to kiss. Then we would.
I forced myself to delete that story from my brain, to push it into a tiny box or, at the very least, replace the Chris in the fantasy with anyone else. That kind of thinking is dangerous.
But it kept sneaking into my subconscious, especially after we left the property in separate cars and Chris and I were alone.
We’d driven to a place called the Friendly Table, where the whole experience was anything but. Whatever truce Seth and I came to at The Mount evaporated as soon as we left the grounds. I got a salad and picked the chicken off it in silence. I was too preoccupied by all the remaining questions about my life, and the shrinking timeline to answer them.
I didn’t know what Seth was thinking about—if he’d decided to rescind his offer to stay in Massachusetts—but he seemed preoccupied too, checking his phone a lot, ignoring his salmon.
Ethan looked confused by the vibe at the table, but he didn’t ask.
The only person who consumed his dinner without looking miserable was Chris, who inhaled a massive bowl of gnocchi.
“You okay?” Ethan had whispered to Seth when he noticed him staring blankly at the wall of the restaurant, which was covered with pink floral wallpaper that made me feel like we were at a fancy tea party.
“It’s been a week,” Seth said.
Then he exhaled, and it was so dramatic that I dropped my fork to the table and rolled my eyes.
I tried not to make direct eye contact with Seth at dinner, partly because I wanted to stay mad. Yes, we’d had a meaningful day at The Mount, but that didn’t undo what he’d taken from me without asking. The way he’d pretended to care about getting to know me when he was just digging for material. I know I said shitty things to him in front of that bar, but they were absolutely true, so I shouldn’t have to feel bad.
Ethan paid for dinner, and now I’m following his rental car in my car, and I see that the hotel he booked is right down the street from The Mount. We’d passed it on the way in, but I never imagined I’d stay here. It looks expensive. Historic and massive. Another long driveway.
I have stayed in a bunch of hotels, but never without my mother. We used to stay in them whenever we moved—she’d send our belongings to the next city, and after the U-Hauls left, we’d go to a hotel before driving to the next place. Sleeping at a Marriott and listening to my mother snore meant that I was about to start over. Find my way around a new school. Reinvent myself for three days until I fell back into who I was, because I couldn’t be anyone else.
That means my hotel stays involved existential dread.
This is different. It is now a road trip with Chris.
When we get closer to the building, I see that it is quite old—everything in this area is old, I guess. The exterior is white, with brown shutters, and it’s just as symmetrical as Edith’s house. It is on a sprawling property, the hills literally rolling and green.
I still do not know what a portico is, but I’m sure this building has a bunch of them.
I am no expert on historic things, but I imagine that Edith Wharton’s rich friends could have lived here. Like maybe she would tell her husband, “Don’t wait up, I’m going over to the Whistlesnitchers for dinner! They’ll be making lamb stew!”—or whatever rich people liked to eat in the early 1900s. Then she’d go over, and they’d play backgammon and drink tiny glasses of wine and she’d talk about her latest book idea.
It was probably quite a party.
* * *
Inside, the hotel is just as classy, although Edith would not approve of the overhead lights. It makes me wonder about my complexion. Ethan stops at the front desk. I try to keep my expression neutral when he pulls a line straight from my fantasies.
“Oh, blast,” Ethan says, sounding especially English. “I only got two rooms. I wasn’t even thinking about Chris . . .”
Ethan turns to the clerk.
“I have reserved two rooms for tonight. Is there a third available?”
“We’re completely booked,” the woman at the desk answers, and I hold my breath.
“Lori and Chris can share, right?” Seth says, and raises his eyebrows like a challenge. “Right, Lori?”
“It’s fine,” I say, narrowing my eyes at Seth. “Chris, it’s fine with you, right?”
“Sure,” Chris says. “I’m used to sharing rooms with siblings. It’s not a big deal.”
My breath hitches when I hear him use the horrible S-word, and Seth has the decency to wince on my behalf. I take a big breath and remind myself that Chris is just being polite. He’s not implying that I’m like a sibling, only that he’s used to sharing a room. Maybe he’s trying to make me comfortable.
“Also,” Chris adds in his awkward voice, “I can help pay for the room . . . my mom gave me some money . . . I feel like I’ve been mooching off you guys all week.”
“Don’t think of it,” Ethan says. “We so appreciate you being here for Lori. She’s lucky to have such a great friend.”
Chris looks away and taps his foot, embarrassed. Ethan’s delivery is so kind, and for a mean second I wish he was the uncle I’m really related to instead of Seth. He’s a better person and a better guardian.
“Thank you, Ethan,” I say, and then I mumble, “Thank you, Seth.”
“Cool,” Chris says, and smiles at me.
“Well, let’s all get some rest then,” Ethan says after the clerk checks us in, and we follow him toward the elevator, our rolling bags grinding their path along the ancient but regal-looking creaky wood at our feet.
Both rooms are on the third floor, but Seth and Ethan’s is on the opposite end of the hallway, so they turn left where we bear right.
“We’ll meet at ten tomorrow, Lori,” Seth says without turning around.
“Got it,” I say.
* * *
Chris has the key
, and as he fiddles with it, failing a few times to make it work, I find myself praying, although I’m not sure what for.
I mean, I am praying to all relevant higher powers—the Jewish ones, Chris’s, even Franken-Jesus—that there will be two beds. Six beds. Anything to make my life easier right now.
I am supposed to be preparing to live without him. To disconnect so that when faraway calls, texts, and writing in a shared Google Doc are our only options for communication, I’ll be okay.
“You okay?” Chris asks, echoing my thoughts, and I realize how weird I must look with my eyes shut tight.
“Yeah. I’m just tired.”
He swings the door open, and my body sags with relief—and maybe a little subconscious disappointment.
“It’s huge!” Chris says with absolute delight, and I thank the ghost of Edith Wharton for the fact that there are two beds.
The room has antique floral prints all over it, but it’s mostly modern, with a massive television and outlets everywhere. The beds are bigger than mine at home, and there’s also a small sitting room with a couch that a tall person could easily sleep on.
This is good. This is safe.
Chris drops his backpack on the bed closest to the door and falls face-down on the white bedspread, his arms and legs flailing. “This is luxurious,” he moans into the duvet, and I have to smile. At his house, he can’t take up too much space. He’s always moving to the side to make room for his parents and his brother. There’s never privacy. It’s a real family there, and everybody’s running around, active.
Even when Grandma Sheryl and I were both at home, we were always sitting and calm. It’s the opposite at the Burkes’.
“I am beat,” he says after flipping onto his back and propping his head on the pillows. He does look super exhausted, and we’ve been in the heat all day. His lids are heavy, and he has sweat stains under his sleeves. He’s showing the look of someone who has been steamrolled by the Seltzers with a week of profound decisions about death, long drives, late nights, and today’s journey, which involved three hours in the car and an entire afternoon under the blazing sun. Not to mention the emotional toll of two passive-aggressive people in the car.
He pulls water out of the backpack next to him and finds his pills for anxiety that he always takes before bed. They predate my meeting him. I asked him years ago how and why he got on them, and he shrugged and said the world can be scary and terrible sometimes, and I know that it can, so I’m happy this helps.
“I should call my mom before I pass out,” he says.
“Tell her hey,” I say, and then I grab my pajamas and face wash and head for the bathroom. I get into the shower because I am gross, and I shave my legs, although I don’t know why.
When I’m out, I look at my face close up in the mirror. I am a different person without eyeliner on. My naked face is without disguise.
My cheeks are flushed, and my hair is doing a cool curly thing because of the humidity. Somehow, the purple and blond look like an intentional pairing instead of an absolute mistake.
“Ombre,” I whisper in the mirror, impressed that I have achieved it.
I don’t want to put makeup back on. I want Chris to see my whole face.
I put on this weird silky pajama set—short shorts and a top with a collar and buttons on it. It is sky blue and has random embroidered letters on one side.
Grandma bought it for me for Hanukkah last year, and I asked, “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Wear it,” she said. “All your pajamas have holes in them.” I balled it up in my underwear drawer, where it lived until I packed it this morning, aggressively pulling off the tag. I told myself it was because all my other pajamas were gross and dirty and I didn’t feel like doing laundry. But somewhere deep down I knew that I wanted Chris, if we were in the same room, to see me in something nice.
I had ignored these pajamas for six months because they’re so dainty looking, but now that they’re on, I realize I’m an idiot. These might be the most comfortable items of clothing I’ve ever had on my body. I should have been wearing silky Target pajamas this whole time.
I can be the kind of girl who wears nice, new matching pajamas. They will not take away from who I am.
I return to the room holding my breath and find Chris still on his back, his head on the pillows. He’s holding the book of Edith Wharton’s ghost stories that we got from the gift shop, covering his face. He’s changed out of his day clothes too and is in his dark gray track pants and a white T-shirt. His legs are crossed at the ankle.
“This is really good,” he says without looking up. “I had my doubts, which makes me feel bad—because Edith Wharton is Edith Wharton—but her haunted stuff is supercool. It reminds me of Edgar Allen Poe—like old-school literary, but scary.”
“Edgar Allen Poe isn’t actually scary, he’s just depressing,” I say, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, trying to look natural. “‘The Raven’ is like the least scary horror story I’ve ever read. It’s literally just a bird.”
Chris pulls the book away from his face and looks at me, one brow arched. He takes a big breath and sits up straighter before continuing. He doesn’t even seem to notice the pajamas.
“If a raven flew over to you, opened his beak, and said, ‘Hey Lori . . . wanna know what’s up? Nevermore,’ you’d freak out. You’d be scared to death.”
“No I wouldn’t,” I say, hands on my hips. “Because it’s a bird. It’s not even thousands of birds like in the movie The Birds. It’s just one bird, which is not scary.”
“One bird is scary when it says ‘Nevermore’! Birds do not speak.”
“Parrots speak.”
“Fine, except for parrots. If a raven spoketh to you, Lori, you’d lose your mind.”
“‘Nevermore’ is not even a scary word. If the raven said, ‘I’m going to come murder you by pecking your face to pieces in the middle of the night,’ I might be scared, but ‘nevermore’ doesn’t really say horror to me. And now I can’t even remember why he says it.”
Chris scratches behind his ear as he tries to recall the story.
“Because he’s lost his love, Lenore. She died, and the narrator wonders if he’ll ever be with her again, and the raven is just like . . . you’re stuck with your grief. Nevermore, man.”
“Not scary. Not even emotionally scary,” I say. “Get over Lenore, dude. Plenty of women out there.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” he says.
“Nevermore,” I answer.
“Whatever,” he says. “Maybe ‘The Raven’ isn’t that scary, but ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ is badass.”
This is what I will miss most, I think. We could banter about Poe all night.
I look at the clock. Eight forty-five. I can get through a night in a hotel with this person without it being weird.
He folds the page of the book, drops it onto the bed, and shuffles to the edge, his legs hanging over.
“Lori, come here,” he says.
“Why?” I ask, and my voice is panicked.
“Just come here.”
I walk to the bed and sit on the edge of it, next to him.
“Wow. Your face.”
“No makeup,” I say. “Naked face.”
He swallows, and it makes my mouth dry.
“Your eyes look nice without eyeliner. Not that I don’t—I would never tell you how to look. You always look great. You’re just . . . you look pretty.”
My eyes find the wall.
“Jess thinks I should wear less makeup,” I say.
“No one should tell you what to do,” Chris responds. “It’s just nice to know what you look like without anything on.”
Oh god.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m sorry, I’m just tired.”
“It’s fine,” I say, and stare at him. There is no hair on his face. I have to ask.
“Do you shave?”
“What?” he asks, grinning.
“Sometimes you have a little bit of stubble and like—” I stop, losing my ability to form words that make sense. “It doesn’t look bad, it looks good.” I need to stop talking. “But then it’s gone, but you never talk about shaving, and sometimes the hair isn’t there for like weeks.” What am I saying?
“You’re asking me when I shave? If I shave?”
“I guess,” I admit.
“I shave like once a week. Sometimes less,” he says with a curious face. “I don’t have to shave that much, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He looks amused by me, but I’m embarrassed.
“I don’t know why I asked. We’ve never been in a hotel room, and I just shaved my legs, so it made me think of it . . .”
His eyebrows spike. Why am I mentioning my leg hair?
“Anyway—” I say, like it’s going to reset the conversation.
Then I run around the room, turning off all the lights, and climb onto the other mattress.
A minute passes before Chris starts laughing.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s barely nine,” he says. “You’re going to sleep now?”
“Oh,” I say, and I laugh, too. “I figured we were tired. I don’t know.”
“We are,” he says, “but there’s no way I can actually sleep at nine.” Then I hear his body sliding off the mattress, which makes me hold my breath. He pads across the carpet.
“Slide over,” he says.
I slide to the far edge of the bed, and he lies down on top of the covers.
This would be normal in my bed at home. We would never be like this at his house, but at mine, we’ve literally spent hours in bed, staring at the ceiling, coming up with stories. Usually we start on the bed together until he slides to the floor and draws while I’m still talking. Then I grab my laptop to work.
But we are in a hotel, and the lights are off, and I might be moving away for good in a few days, and my legs are shaved.
“I don’t want you to move away,” Chris whispers. I can see him wipe his hand down his face.
Things That Grow Page 19
