Something Like Happy

by Eva Woods

  She took a deep breath. “Sometimes people say you should live every day as if it’s your last. Well, I don’t think that’s practical—you might live for another fifty years, and it’s going to get complicated really fast if you never wash the kitchen floor or pay your taxes or eat salad. Not to mention sticky.” She looked around at the sea of faces. People were smiling, dabbing at their eyes. She took another breath. “I want to share something I’ve learned from Polly—who taught me, through her dying, how to live. I think we should all live as if we are dying, too—because we are, make no mistake. We should live as if we’re dying at some unspecified but possibly quite soon time. We can’t expect every day to be happy, and there’ll always be sickness and heartache and sadness, but we should never put up with a sad or a boring or a depressing day just for the sake of it. None of us have time for that, whether we have a hundred days left or a hundred thousand.”

  Annie looked down at her scrawled index cards, suddenly overwhelmed by it. At having to sum up all the things she felt right now. To speak for her friend, so colorful and alive, when all Annie had ever been was drab. Damn you, Polly. What a thing to ask. She always asked too much. “Um...” In the crowd, she caught sight of Dr. Max, in his suit and tie, a horrible shade of tangerine. He wasn’t crying. He must have patients die on him all the time. Occupational hazard. “Um, that’s all, really. I just want to say that I only knew Polly a short time, but she changed my life, and I won’t ever be the same again. And I miss her. I will miss her so much. That’s all.”

  Annie stepped down, staring at her silver shoes, aware of clapping above her head, like the roar of a plane, the chatter of birds. People were reaching out to her, hands on her arms, patting her and whispering words of comfort.

  Spoke so well...

  Thank you, Annie...

  She’d have loved...

  But she could only see one face, hear one voice, feel one pair of arms around her. Helping her into her seat. Dr. Max’s clean soapy smell. “You did well, lass. You did it. It’s over now.”

  * * *

  The rest of the service was a blur to Annie. Dr. Max sat beside her, his arm around her, and she sobbed freely into his shoulder, breathing him in. Music, and flowers, and funny stories, and tears. George breaking down as he told childhood stories of Polly. Milly’s little girl singing “Over the Rainbow,” forgetting the words and running offstage. Reverend Ziggy making everyone move about the room and hug people. Annie saw Valerie locked in a very uncomfortable embrace with one of the hospital porters, and Milly’s little Harry shaking the hand of Dr. Quarani.

  As soon as it was over—“The Wind Beneath My Wings” soaring out of speakers—Annie pushed her way through the crowd into the sun, sucking in lungfuls of air as if she was suffocating. “God,” she said shakily to herself.

  “I know. I already bailed.” She turned. Valerie was sitting on a gravestone, her red hat beside her, smoking a cigarette. “Don’t tell George, okay? I just needed something. She was married out of this church, you know. All in white. She was so beautiful.”

  “Are you holding up?” It was a stupid question, but Annie didn’t know what else to say.

  She drew in more smoke. “Polly told me you lost your baby.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you ever get over it? Does it stop, this feeling...” Valerie tapped her chest. “Like you’re dying, too? She was my little girl, Annie. My baby.”

  “I know. Honestly, I don’t know if it does. I think you just...kick some layers over it, as time goes by.”

  “I don’t want to kick over her. I want to remember everything.” Valerie stubbed out her cigarette. “Why do these things happen, Annie? Your baby and my girl?”

  “I don’t know,” Annie said, gently taking the cigarette butt from her. “I’m not sure we’re meant to know. There’s no reason. They just are. They just happen, and we have to live with it.”

  Valerie gave a great juddering sigh and put her hat back on. “Stupid thing. Typical Polly, making us all dress up like clowns.”

  “I quite like it,” Annie said truthfully. “It’s special. Like her.”

  “Thank you for what you said about her. It meant a lot.” She stood. “I just have to get through today. Just have to hold it together.” She stooped to look at some of the wreaths piled up by the wall. There’d been so many they wouldn’t all fit in the church. “People are so kind. Aren’t they? Total strangers, many of them. Look at this one. ‘From Jeff and everyone at Lewisham Council.’ I didn’t think the council provided that kind of service. How nice.”

  Annie jumped up to read the card herself. A wreath of yellow roses. They must have taken up a collection, an envelope going around as it had so many times when she was there, for someone’s baby or birthday or leaving gift. All the small gestures she’d once thought were pointless, when people didn’t really know you. She must remember to send a thank-you.

  George came across the churchyard. “Okay, Ma? Annie, were you smoking?”

  Annie flashed Valerie a conspiratorial look. “Um, no, I just found it lying here.”

  He tutted. “Litterers. Ma, apparently there’s some kind of bus taking us home?”

  Valerie shrugged. “Another of your sister’s mad plans.”

  “Typical.” He held out his arm to his mother. “Come on. I’ll find you a seat.”

  * * *

  “Typical Poll,” muttered George again, hoisting himself up into the Routemaster bus. “Hiring a wedding bus for her funeral. God, there’s even favors.” There were, too—little photo frames with a picture of Polly on one side and a poem on the other. “‘Do not stand at my grave and weep,’” read George. “Sweet God. I wish I could tell her how twee this is.”

  “I might pitch an article,” said Suze, who was swigging from a bottle in her handbag. “Are funerals the new weddings? Gin, anyone?”

  “I’ll need it to get through this,” George said, drinking deep.

  Costas was muttering, scandalized. “Where was prayers? Where was incense? And clapping and hugging in the church! Is not right.”

  “That’s my little Orthodox gay.” George put his arm around him. “Here, have some gin. You are over eighteen, yes?”

  * * * * **

  At the house, more abundance greeted them. The trees were hung with bunting, and Polly must have got someone to print This Way to the Funeral signs. A slideshow of pictures played in the living room. Polly graduating. Polly on a yacht. Polly on the Inca Trail. Polly running the marathon. A smiling blonde woman, lacquered and perfect. Annie could not imagine she would ever have been friends with that person. With Old Polly. She could only be thankful they’d met when they did, both changed so utterly by life.

  Inside there was smiling catering staff in black waistcoats, dispensing flutes of champagne. “Fuck’s sake,” Annie muttered, taking it all in. “How much did this cost? You couldn’t have just gone with Cava from Aldi?”

  Then she realized Polly wasn’t there to smile at her grumpy frugality, or roll her eyes or shout, “Cancer card!” while popping the cork with both thumbs. Where she’d been there was only a blank, a silence that would go on and on forever. She would never hear Polly’s voice again.

  * * *

  “Hi!” said Polly.

  Annie froze. She’d had a few glasses of champagne, but surely not enough to start hallucinating her friend’s voice. Then she realized it was real, and coming from the living room. She stumbled in, bits of the lawn caught in her stupid heels. A young man in a polo shirt was fiddling with the projector, and fending off Valerie. “Sorry, missus. She paid me to come and play the video, like. I have to do it.”

  “But it’s a funeral! George, did you know anything about this?”

  He shrugged. “Another mad Polly thing, I’ll bet. What video is it?”

  The hapless technici
an pressed Play, and Polly’s giant face filled the screen. It had been filmed the week before—Annie could tell by the knitted hat she was wearing, and the background of her hospital bed. “Hi, everyone! Hope you’re having fun at my funeral. Sorry I can’t be there, after all. Try the salmon things, they’re amazing.” Everyone was staring. A video message from the dead person? That really was a first.

  “So since I can’t be there in person—though, really, I think live funerals will catch on now we’re in the selfie generation—I want to leave some last words, from beyond the grave.” She put on a spooky voice, then laughed, then coughed. “Crap. I better not be too funny. Okay. Last will and testament of me, Pauline Sarah Leonard—ha, yes, Pauline... I managed to cover that one up well, didn’t I?—being of sound-ish mind and not-at-all-sound body. This isn’t a will for my things. I don’t have anything worth willing, since Tom kept the house—hi, Tom, if you’re there.”

  Tom, who was eating a quail’s egg, turned red and began coughing into a napkin. On-screen Polly went on. “So. What I’m going to give away today is not possessions, it’s intangible things. Costas. Is Costas there?”

  He waved, as if she could see him.

  “Sandy—is Sandy there, too?” She was, drinking mineral water, thin and elegant in off-white. “I want you to give my boy Costas a job. He’s wasted making coffee. He’s got the best eye for color I’ve seen and I think he’ll do you proud. Bet he looks great today, right?”

  Sandy nodded. “We’ll talk, Costas.”

  “Now, George. Where is my lovely brother? Moaning about the food, no doubt.” George paused with his hand hovering over the plate of crudités, which he’d been scowling at. “George, my dearest brother, you and I both know you’ve not been living an honest life. I don’t really blame you—which of us does?—but now it’s time to be who you really are. No matter what Mum thinks.” Valerie, who was sitting alone on a sofa, stiffened. “So I give you Dion—is Dion here? I hope you were well enough to come.”

  “He was!” someone shouted. Dion waved his stick from the corner where he’d plonked himself, looking exhausted.

  “George, look after Dion. What happened to him and his friends was awful, but because of their generation, it hopefully won’t happen to you. He’s someone who’s had to fight to be himself—it won’t be as hard for you, thanks to him. I know you’re up to it, bro. Hear his stories. Find out what went on—you’re part of a community, a history, and I want you to be proud of that and not ashamed. And, Mum, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you. But it’s true. Let Georgie be who he is and let him be happy, and maybe then he’ll stop going out with utter losers who hit him. He’s loved, and love is always enough, no matter where it comes from. I hope they didn’t get back together, by the way, or this will be totes awks.”

  Everyone looked at George. “We didn’t!” he said defensively. “Er, hi, Dion.”

  “Hello, darling boy,” Dion said in his hoarse voice. “I don’t know if I’ll make it out clubbing, but let’s do cocktails soon.”

  Polly on-screen was still talking. “Now to Mum and Dad. I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble. I know it was hard, that I wouldn’t die normally. Please look after yourselves, okay? And, George, look after them. It must suck to lose a child, especially one as awesome as me.” Valerie gave a long sob. “But that’s not what I want to say. What I want to say is—Mum, Dad, please will you get a divorce?” There was a crash as Roger dropped his wineglass. No one moved, spellbound by Polly. In death as in life. “You’ve never been happy, not really. You put up a good front—the nice house, the friends, the dinner parties—but George and I always knew you weren’t really in love. Dad’s always working, you’re always nagging...it isn’t right.”

  Roger was barreling over to the technician, who could be heard saying wretchedly, “Sorry, sir, I’m not allowed to turn it off.”

  “So, Dad, why don’t you move on, be happy? I know you’re drinking too much right now. I guess that’s understandable at the moment, but keep an eye on it, okay? I don’t want you joining me too soon. And, Mum, trust me, speaking as someone who tried to hold on to a husband who didn’t love her, it brings nothing but misery. Let Dad go. Find someone who’ll really love you. Do your pottery classes and your tae kwan do and whatever. You don’t need Dad to be yourself. And, Dad, I know you’ll feel guilty, but it isn’t wrong to make yourself happy. Oh, I guess I should say the same to Tom, if he turned up...” Tom was scarlet now. “If you love Fleur, why don’t you stay with her and be happy. Do interpretative dance or yoga or whatever. Just look after my Moroccan tiles, they cost a bloody fortune to ship from Essaouira.” She smiled out from the screen. “Now for the rest of you. Milly, my love, you’re the best social media person I know. Please go back to work. Harry and Lola will cope. Don’t let Seb keep you at home forever. Hi, Seb, if you’re there.”

  Lola piped up. “Mummy, is that Aunt Polly?”

  “Shh, darling,” said Milly, scarlet.

  “Suze. Dearest Suze. You’re so special and lovely. Please, please, ditch that awful boyfriend and find someone nice. Or be on your own for a while. It’s better than being with someone who can’t appreciate you and makes you pay all his bills while he starts some kind of lame pop-up café. Okay?” Suze and Henry were side by side, gulping down champagne, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  “Now Annie.” Annie jumped. She hadn’t expected to be included—such a late-stage friend. For less than one hundred days. “Are you there, Annie? I hope you did your eulogy or I’m going to haunt you from beyond. I want to say thank you. You may think I taught you things, and obviously I did—loads—but the truth is I learned something from you, too. I learned about sadness. It sounds daft but it was something I’d never really experienced. I grew up thinking that if you felt down you just needed a glass of wine or a self-help book or a yoga class or some pills from the doctor. I’d never had to think about what it’s like when your life collapses into an almighty pile of shit. When you’re not depressed, as such, you’re just so sad you think you’ll never be happy again. I might have had cancer but you, Annie—you’re the brave one. You’ve had to live with the worst pain I can imagine. One that positive thinking and yoga could never touch. And you’re still going. I admire that. That’s bravery. That’s a battle. Me, I was just...drowning with style. You were swimming against the current, every day.”

  All eyes were on Annie now. She looked at the screen, her friend’s smiling face. “Er, thanks, Poll,” she said, her voice wobbling. “You couldn’t have told me that when you were alive?”

  There was a small laugh, a brief easing of tension. The tech guy looked relieved. Annie guessed this was the weirdest gig he’d ever had to do. That maybe he’d go home tonight, to his housemate or girlfriend or boyfriend or parents, and tell them, and Polly would touch some more lives, like a comet burning across the sky. “So, Annie. I leave you my cancer card—you can turn it into a ‘lots of really bad shit card’ if you like. But it’s only valid for another month, and then you have to get on with things. That’s the rules. So here’s what else I leave you. I leave you Dr. Max. And, Dr. Max, if you’re there, I leave you Annie. You two need to get it on, and fast. Everyone else can see it.”

  “Amen,” muttered George. Annie was staring at the screen, openmouthed.

  “So go on. Do it. Seize life. And that’s me done. In more ways than one. Everyone, please don’t say I lost my battle with cancer. I didn’t lose anything. Truth is, there are some things you just can’t fight, no matter what you throw at it. Dr. Max did his best to save me, and no one could have tried harder, but it didn’t work. That’s just life. It can’t all be positive. After you dance in a fountain you have to dry your feet. After you ride the roller coaster you might have to be sick in a bin. It’s all a balance. And please don’t worry about me—I’m really okay. I was so desperate to be remembered, but in the last few weeks I’ve realized I will
be, no matter what. That you’ll think of me when you hear a certain song on the radio, or smile at a joke I told you, or drink a coffee in the sun, or wear your favorite outfit. I know I’ll be remembered, and that means I won’t be gone from you. Not really.” She made an ironic V-sign. “And so...peace out, dudes.” And the screen went blank.

  “Annie?” She turned, hearing his voice. Dr. Max was standing in the doorway, his tie loose and sleeves rolled up. “Did you put her up to this?”

  “No! I had no idea. I swear!”

  “Because I won’t be pushed around by you two. All these mixed messages, getting close, then pulling away. I won’t have it, Annie.” And he turned and went out the front door, slamming it behind him so panes of glass rattled in the windows.

  She stood for a moment, frozen. “Run after him!” shouted Costas. “You have not seen any rom-com movie, ever?”

  So she ran. She huffed up the street after his rapidly retreating back. He was pulling his coat on as he strode, the sleeves all tangled up. “Dr. Max! Wait!”

  “What do you want, Annie?”

  “Er, your coat’s all...” He had the wrong arm in his sleeve. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I knew nothing about this, I promise. But I do know...she was right. About us. For me, anyway.”

  He was shaking his head. “It’s too late. I’m just done, okay? I’ve given that hospital everything I have for the past ten years. My personal life. Any hope of cardiovascular fitness. Most of my friends, three relationships. And a large chunk of my hair. And what do I get back? Patients who die on me, over and over, who I can do nothing to help. Management who cut corners, and treat us like garbage, and families who threaten to sue us and moan and complain about everything we do, read Google and come in demanding second opinions. I’m done. I haven’t been able to help Polly, and I sure as hell can’t help you. She’s gone now. You’ll have to drag yourself out of the pit this time, Annie. We all do, in the end.”