Goodbye for Now

by Laurie Frankel

  “If you haven’t said it yet, you cannot say it later,” Sam cut in.

  “That’s why I’m making sure to say it all now.”

  Upstairs, Josh thought Sam looked like hell. “I mean, I realize I’m one to talk and all, but you don’t have cancer. What gives?”

  “Downstairs with Penny,” Sam explained. “She got me going. I might be losing my mind. I’m crying a lot these days.”

  “People you love are dying.” Josh shrugged. “It’s sad and awful. When things are sad and awful, crying is an appropriate response. Crying about dying seems like the opposite of losing your mind.”

  “Penny was just giving me this pitch that RePose makes it easier to die because she knows she’s not deserting her loved ones; they’ll still have her around.”

  Josh thought about it. “I agree. There’s not deserting your loved ones. And also there’s this sense that all this hasn’t been in vain. You know? Like I may not be here anymore, but my—this is going to make me sound like such an ass, but what the hell—my accumulated wisdom, my experience, my relationships, not to mention my once killer good looks, live on.”

  “That’s why you asked me to talk to you? You know … after?”

  “It’s hard to imagine yourself gone, I guess. This way I don’t have to. I don’t have to sit here thinking this is the last conversation we’ll ever have. I know it won’t be.”

  THE WALL

  Josh died in the night. When his phone rang at two thirty in the morning, Sam carried it out to Dash to answer. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Having been given permission earlier in the day to do so, he sat down cross-legged in the middle of the floor and cried. Dash sat with him for a bit, teary too, then got to work. He’d promised Josh’s parents he’d take care of arrangements when the time came. It had come. He made phone calls, posted the news, sent e-mails, answered questions, spoke gently to devastated friends and family. Then he started work on the wake which they were holding downstairs, ordered food and drinks, extra chairs and tables, mics and an amp for music, silverware, napkins, warming pans and dishes, coffee and tea and cups and extra tissues. Sam sat on the floor and cried. Dash set up an account for donations. He made a collage of photos of Josh. He ordered a book everyone could write memories in and notes to Josh’s folks. Sam lay back on the floor and cried into his ears. Dash started gathering cheeses from the various places he had them stashed to age and eventually had quite a pile assembled on the coffee table. Sam sat up and sniffed.

  “You okay, man?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s a lot these days.”

  “So much.”

  “And it all sucks.”

  “It does.”

  “Want to help me sample cheeses?”

  “Okay.”

  They sampled cheeses until dawn. Then Dash went to take a shower, and Sam went downstairs to open the salon. “Closed due to bereavement” wasn’t an excuse that held water in his line of work. To everyone who came in, he broke the news about Josh right away, and so the salon that morning was full of mourning indeed, but without projections. Temporarily, everyone’s old dead loved one was replaced with Josh, a new dead loved one. Kelly wanted to call him up so they could say a big group hi, but Sam had only begun running his data and felt family should have the first crack anyway. Some people volunteered to run errands and help with the wake, and these he sent up to Dash. Some people asked after Penny, and these he sent over to the hospital with fresh flowers, fresh supplies, and mostly fresh faces. Some wanted just to sit with Sam, but these were the ones he could not accommodate. He could not just sit. He could not have company. He could not allow himself to receive comfort. And clearly, starkly, suddenly, totally, he could offer none himself. There was RePose, and that was all. That was all he had. He had no energy left for anything else.

  There was nothing good about walking around Seattle in February except that no one noticed if you were crying because of all the water falling from the sky already. Sam had no more energy for tears, but he went for a walk anyway. Sodden, chilled to the bone, and shivering seemed just about right to him. Then his phone rang, and in all the living world, it was the only person whose call he might have taken.

  “Josh died,” Sam reported to his dad first thing when he answered. “And Penny isn’t doing well either.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Nothing you can do, I’m afraid.”

  “We’re hosting the wake for Josh. And helping out with Penny.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But it’s not enough.”

  “That’s all there is, kiddo. What are you and Dash doing to take care of you and Dash?”

  Sam wrote that question off as irrelevant. “I want you to help me make RePose better.”

  “RePose is already working great, Sam.”

  “Penny said RePose is for the dying. It comforts her that she’s not totally abandoning her kids. Josh said it helped him feel like he wouldn’t be really gone.”

  “But …?”

  “But he is really gone.”

  “Yes.”

  “…”

  “Sam? You thought you’d tweak the programming to make it save lives? To cure cancer? To cure old age?”

  “Yes,” Sam finally whispered.

  “Nope,” said his dad. “Sorry.”

  “I should have gone to medical school.”

  “You think if you were a doctor, you could cure death?”

  “I could cure something, maybe.”

  His dad sighed. “When Meredith died, I felt like I’d failed you in some way. All the things I’d tried to protect you from or obtain for you your whole life felt like they didn’t matter because I hadn’t managed to protect you from the one thing I’d have given anything to protect you from. So yes, you went to good schools and had swim team in the summers and vacations at the beach and baseball and state-of-the-art computers. And true, I said no to sugar cereals, fast food except on Wednesdays, fried food except for potatoes, toy guns, TV before homework, and video games unless they were educational. But none of that helped me spare you the one thing I’d have given anything to spare you.”

  “That was my fault, not your fault. If it hadn’t been for RePose—”

  “She’d have lived forever? She was guaranteed another sixty years? There was no way she’d have been at the market anyway? There was no chance she’d have anything else sad befall her ever?”

  “No, but—”

  “To love is to lose, Sam. Unfortunately, it’s just that simple. Maybe not today but someday. Maybe not when she’s too young and you’re too young, but you see that being old doesn’t help. Maybe not your wife or your girlfriend or your mother, but you see that friends die, too. I could not spare you this any more than I could spare you puberty. It is the inevitable condition of humanity. It is exacerbated by loving but also simply by leaving your front door, by seeing what’s out there in the world, by inventing computer programs that help people. You are afraid of time, Sam. Some sadness has no remedy. Some sadness you can’t make better.”

  “So what the hell do I do?”

  “Be sad.”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  “But then why isn’t everyone walking around miserable all the time?”

  “Because ice cream still tastes good. And sunny and seventy-five is still a lovely day. And funny movies make you laugh, and work is sometimes fulfilling, and a beer with a friend is nice. And other people love you too.”

  “And that’s enough?”

  “There is no enough. You are the paragon of animals, my love. You aspire to such greatness, to miracle, to newness and wonder. And that’s great. I’m so proud of you. But you forgot about the part that’s been around for time immemorial. Love, death, loss. You’ve run up against it. And there’s no getting around or over it. You stop and build your life right there at the base of that wall. But it’s okay. That’s where
everyone else is too. Everyone else is either there or on their way. There is no other side, but there’s plenty of space there to build a life and plenty of company. Welcome to the wall, Sam.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “It kind of sucks.”

  He walked around downtown for a bit and tried to appreciate what was good at the base of the wall. It was cold and wet and dim. Everyone was hunched and drawn in against it, like they were trying to turn inside out for warmth. He hadn’t been back to the market, not even for the ceremony rededicating the repaired, reinstalled, and too-little-too-late reinforced roof plus memorial plaque for Meredith, but maybe it was time, so he wandered its edges, toed its cobblestones, sat in the window at the French place with a latte and a brioche and thought about Europe and puddles and umbrellas and cultivated his mood. He bought dried flowers, apples, and, after all, olive oil, vinaigrette, and some of that pasta Livvie liked. He got lost in the catacomby shops under the market he’d wandered countless times before. Tucked into one hidden corner was a cluttered shop—maybe new, maybe ancient and simply never noticed before—that sold curios of all kinds and magic kits and smelly candles and costume jewelry and, piled on a dusty table in the corner, a dozen model airplane kits. Sam bought them all.

  When he got home, he got out the glue and the grip pins and the pliers and the X-Acto knife. He covered the kitchen table with boxboard, and he covered the boxboard with waxed paper. He found the one that looked the easiest and spread out all the pieces. Two hours later, most of it had been glued to his elbow at one point or another, and he had in front of him a large pile of what looked to be greater-than and less-than signs in a puddle of liquid cement. On the other hand, two hours had passed at the base of the wall, two hours during which Sam had not thought about death or RePose or Penny or Josh or Meredith. Two hours during which Sam had thought only about Meredith. And on the other other hand, he clearly needed help. He wasn’t sure Meredith would be able to help him, but he truly didn’t know who else to call.

  “Guess what I’m doing,” Sam led off.

  “Making me dinner?”

  “No, you’re dead. Guess again.”

  “Making you dinner?”

  “Not hungry. Though I did go get Livvie’s pasta and stuff finally. And while I was in the market, I bought model airplane kits.”

  “Ooh, I love model airplanes!” Meredith clapped her hands.

  “I know this,” said Sam, who was thrilled she did too. “The one I’m doing is super beginner easy. It’s called a Delta Dart.”

  “Let me see it!”

  He held the pile of greater-than and less-than signs dangling from the pliers they were now glued to up to the camera.

  “Hmm,” said Meredith. “That doesn’t look right. Where did you go off the path?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Did you read the directions?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “They got glued to the dogs.”

  “Both of them?”

  Sam shrugged. “They were napping in a big ball.”

  “You’re a software engineer, Sam, and also you’re pretty smart. How can you not build a model airplane meant for seven-year-olds?”

  “Hubris. I didn’t imagine I’d need help or directions. I thought I could figure it out on my own.”

  “You are too much on your own,” said Meredith.

  “Clearly,” said Sam.

  She talked him through the whole thing. He kept waiting for her to admit she didn’t understand and couldn’t follow where he led, where she led, but she found her way. They used acetone to unglue everything from everything (except the dogs) and sandpaper to get the parts looking new again. They used tape to stick everything together the second time. (“So you can see what it looks like and how it fits together before you commit,” Meredith explained. So sensible.) Then they sanded and filed and shaved and clipped and aligned so everything would fit. Sam feared his return to the liquid cement, but she explained which pieces got glue and how much and how to hold it while they set. And that was it.

  “That was it?” said Sam.

  “That was it.”

  “Now what?”

  “You wait for it to dry.”

  “But I want to paint it,” said Sam.

  “After it dries.”

  “So, like, an hour?”

  “More like a day.”

  “A day?”

  “And then you paint and then you have to wait another day for that to dry.”

  “There’s not a lot of instant gratification involved here,” Sam complained.

  “It’s a long narrative arc,” said Meredith. “I have faith. Be patient. You’ve got all the time in the world.”

  Then, on a whim, he asked her a question he’d been keeping to himself for months. He knew he shouldn’t, but the whole conversation had gone surprisingly well. He realized there were depths of her knowledge he hadn’t begun to plumb. “Hey Merde, can you tell me about where you are right now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you with Livvie?”

  “I’m so alone.”

  “Are you somewhere? A place?”

  “I’m sorry, love, I don’t understand.”

  “I know you don’t, but think. Try. Imagine, maybe. Are you really all alone? Is someone there with you?”

  “I’m sorry, love, I—”

  “What do you believe happens to us after we die, Merde?”

  She thought about that one for a while. “I don’t think I know. What do you believe?”

  “I don’t think I know either.”

  “Do you believe in hell?” she asked suddenly, and he smiled at her, remembering.

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I can’t tell.”

  “We’re all sinners,” said Sam.

  “Like church?”

  “No, I don’t mean in a religious sense. I mean in a human one. Everyone sins. Even when we’re trying to do good, even when we’re trying to help, even when we’re making miracles, we sin. So either there is no hell or we all go to hell. Or maybe this is hell. That would explain a lot.”

  She considered that for a bit. “Well, at least you can escape.”

  He smiled sadly at her. “Really? How?”

  “You just built an airplane,” she said.

  LOVE LETTER

  Dear Merde,

  It’s three o’clock in the morning, and I can’t stop smiling. We built a model airplane together this afternoon. I know you remember, but the wonder of it is keeping me awake. It was a bonus afternoon together even I never expected was possible.

  After we hung up, I had to look behind the curtain, see the wires, find out how the trick was done. Someone else would guess that since I hung the curtains, laid the wires, and engineered the trick in the first place, I wouldn’t have such need to know. Someone else would bet I wouldn’t want to shatter the illusion, being the recipient of such surprise miracle and grace. But you know me, so you see why I needed to know. Once, long ago, in another lifetime, you begged me not to ruin the magic. Sometimes when I remember we aren’t the same person, it shocks me.

  And besides, I was curious. Were you in some kind of online model-building community I didn’t know about? Did you visit airplane chat rooms while I was sleeping? It turns out no, as you know. It turns out one day four years ago, long before we met, your coworker’s son was stumped building a model for a science fair project, and you thought the best way to help him was via video chat. And I am thinking: it was so typically kind and generous and gracious of you to help this kid out. And I am thinking: thank God for that kid and his science project and his mother who was just as clueless about model airplane building as I am. And I am thinking: that kid must be in high school now and his life is all before him and he moved on and on and on. And I am thinking: during our stolen afternoon, were you talking to me like a ten-year-old boy? And I am thinking: we will never have a ten-year-old
boy. And I am thinking: what else are you hiding from me? What else can we talk about that I don’t know about yet? What other unexpected miracles do you hold in your memory, your perfect, perfect memory?

  What I am starting slowly to see is this: ultimately, eventually, we let go. We do this not because we’re ready. We do this not because we’ve mended. We do this not because we’ve mourned and come to terms and gotten over it and moved on. We never move on. We don’t let go so much as lose our grip and fall because remembering is not enough. My memory is imperfect. It is full of holes. It is more space than matter, like lace. It is at once sodden with sorrow and desiccated from lack of blood flow, the obvious result of a broken heart. It makes things up in hopeless attempts to comfort itself. It fills fissure with fantasy. It screws shut its eyes and balls up its fists and flings itself to the ground in a kicking, screaming, blind-rage temper tantrum against reality. But mostly, my memory keeps taking on more. I remember what I had for breakfast yesterday. I remember what Dash needs at the grocery store. I remember feeding the dogs before bed even though I was too aglow from my afternoon with you to eat myself. Everything my brain observes and all the things I accidentally ask it to recall push my finite moments with you to harder-to-access darker and dustier corners and beyond.

  That is why I turn off as much as I can. That is why I stay inside and try to sleep. It’s not because I can’t stand to be with people or go to work or do my job or live in the world. It’s because every sensory moment replaces one I was saving of you. I grow and accumulate and forget. But you, you stay and hold and remember. Your memory is perfect. They are both inadequate, your memory and mine, but yours is whole and going nowhere—perfect—and that is the one I hold in my heart.