Good Grief: A Novel

  “She got straight As,” he says, annoyed.

  “My new boyfriend has faults.” I lie back against the pillows. The word boyfriend still sounds dippy to me, as though I’m a teenager who should be gabbing on a Princess phone. “But my dead husband is perfect. That’s how it works.”

  “Yeah,” Teddy says, perking up a little.

  I notice that the wallpaper’s curling away from the wall in one corner of the room. There’s a pause. Inertia prevents me from saying good-bye and hanging up.

  “I’m not sure this guy’s really my boyfriend,” I tell Teddy, considering Drew’s public marriage proposal at the party. Down on one knee in his tuxedo, already looking like a groom.

  “Oh.” I hear Teddy losing interest, his fingers clacking on a keyboard.

  “What do you like about Rachel?” I ask, trying to win back his attention.

  “I don’t know.” Teddy stops typing and sniffles. “She makes me feel good.” There’s a pause and he coughs. “Her hair and stuff.”

  “You’ll meet someone else,” I tell him. “Someone pretty who will love you back.”

  “What are you, like, the psychic hotline?”

  I laugh.

  “I don’t want anyone else,” he grumbles.

  “I know.”

  As I hang up the phone the wind gusts suddenly, sucking the window shade against the screen. Maybe this is a sign from Ethan. But it feels more like the grief and depression scratching to get back in.

  What I really want is some sort of “It’s okay, I’m here” sign from Ethan. The worst part about grief is that it’s so one-sided, so unrequited. Lost loved ones don’t reciprocate, when you get right down to it. You try to convince yourself that they do. But Ethan hurts me every day with his indifference, his aloofness. I pray, I journal, I speak to him. Not a peep. He’s like the popular kids in high school, breezing by in a flash with no eye contact or acknowledgment of my existence.

  I flop back against the pillows, irritated. The nerve of these dead people! Not a single word from Mother or Ethan. What do they have to do that’s so important? Sure, you’re dead. But there’s such a thing as manners. The lengths I’ve gone to: the flowers tossed into the sea, the candles burned, the photo albums. The shrink visits, the grief groups, the antidepressants. Nothing from them.

  I miss Ethan, but I blame him, too. Blame him for this pain, for his illness and death, even. Working himself to the point of exhaustion! Returning to that poisonous cubicle as soon as his cancer was in remission. Roasting his privates with that stinking laptop. Maybe that’s why we couldn’t have a baby.

  Before, I blamed medical technology. (You call this advanced? We’ll burn it out or poison you or cut it out? Hello!) I blamed bum luck. I searched for meaning, read books: When Bad Things Happen to Good People. The Problem with Pain.

  I sit up and grab the framed picture of Ethan and me that I keep on the night table. We’re at a party, arm in arm, laughing. While I’m looking at the photographer, Ethan’s distracted by something, gazing off to the side at someone who’s probably told a joke. Look at me when I’m talking to you! Hot tears make my cheeks itch. I set down the picture and pick up the little china mouse that sits on the lace doily beside it. I’ve tried not to move too much of the bed-and-breakfast bric-a-brac at Colonel Cranson’s house, since I don’t really live here. I don’t really live anywhere. I hurl the mouse against the wall and it pops and shatters, making room for something else on the night table. Clearing one or two cobwebs from my heart.

  Somehow the broken mouse makes me feel a little better, as an aspirin might. I wipe my eyes with a corner of the sheet. The house is eerily quiet. I wonder what Marion’s up to, whether she’s broiling mail in the oven. I picture black smoke snaking up the stairs, flames eating through the calico wallpaper. Slowly, I slide my legs out of bed. Somehow I will make it through this day. The first day of the second year without my husband.

  In the kitchen, I find Marion at the ironing board with the radio tuned to the oldies station, singing along while she presses rags.

  “‘Sweet Caroline . . .’!” she belts out merrily, jumping when I appear beside her. “You’re up? I made you soup.”

  A pot of chicken and rice soup simmers vigorously on the stove. Marion ladles some into a bowl and sets it on the table with crackers and a spoon. It’s too hot for soup, I want to tell her. And no one eats soup for breakfast. Okay, maybe in Korea they do. Or on your planet, where they iron rags. I sit down and take a sip of the soup. It feels good against the back of my throat. A salve.

  “Can I take you somewhere?” I ask Marion. “Shopping?” I don’t think she remembers this is the anniversary of Ethan’s death. “Out to lunch?” I decide not to mention Ethan. If I didn’t remember that he died on this day, I probably wouldn’t want someone to remind me. Lucidity can be a drag.

  “We better stay home,” Marion says, frowning. “So you can get well and go back to school tomorrow.”

  “Work,” I tell her.

  “Pardon?”

  “Back to work.”

  “Right. At the bakery.” She raises a crooked finger in the air, proud of this recollection.

  I take a handful of crackers and leave her with the rags, heading out the back door across the porch and into the garden.

  It’s a bright July morning that promises something. Green trees, blue sky, pink roses. It all seems like false advertising.

  “Ethan?” I say.

  Nothing.

  I toss the crackers into the grass and sit cross-legged on the brick path. It’s warm from the sun.

  I feel a twang of guilt as I recall how sometimes I had to get away from Ethan when he was sick, get away from his illness. I’d make up an errand—a trip to the store or post office—so I could escape the house. I’d take my time, then drive home slowly, crying in the car, not wanting to cry too much in front of Ethan.

  One afternoon, a cop pulled me over. There was no siren, just the blue swirl of his lights in my rearview mirror, slow, like a dream. I pulled off the road. I was way over to the side anyway, hugging the edge in case anyone wanted to get by. The cop probably figured I was drunk.

  “You all right?” he asked, peering past me into the backseat.

  I nodded, handed him my license. He looked at it and handed it back.

  “You should wear your seat belt.” He pointed to my chest. Seat belts seemed unnecessary by then. Seat belts, sunblock, life vests. Why bother? I pulled on the seat belt and tried to smile.

  “Mind if I ask you to get out of the car?” He was apologetic, gently patting the side of my door.

  I killed the engine, unhooked the belt, and crawled out. The policeman asked me to put my feet together, close my eyes, and count to thirty. I obeyed, hoping I wasn’t swaying like a palm tree in the wind. The whole time I wanted to explain that I wasn’t drunk, just afraid.

  Now, I lean against the edge of the porch. An ant crawls along a crack in the brick that must be like the Grand Canyon to him. He carries a speck of something white.

  One year.

  The wind picks up suddenly and a swirl of dust forms in a funnel, leaves and a bit of trash spiraling toward the top. Grit flies around me. I close my eyes, clenching them shut. The world inside my eyelids is a burnt red color. Then I feel something. A breath, a sigh, a chuckle. A tiny hug. It’s not external, as I had expected. It isn’t in the sky or in the trees. It’s somewhere quiet and safe within me.

  I hear the crunching of footsteps on the path and realize I’m lying on my back beside the porch, the sun warming my face. Shielding my eyes with one hand, I peer up through my fingers at stripes of blue sky. Then Crystal’s face appears, followed by a swatch of pink tank top.

  “Dude,” she says. The sky turns yellow as she holds a bouquet of yellow roses over me. “Here.”

  I sit up, clamber onto the edge of the porch. Yesterday morning when we were getting ready for the party, I told her that Ethan always got me yellow roses on my birthday and our anniver
sary. I take the flowers from her, surprised by their weight. I dip my face into the blossoms, breathe in their sweet smell.

  “Don’t cry,” she says.

  “I’m not,” I insist, wiping my eyes.

  “Okay, you can,” she says.

  I laugh.

  Crystal sits beside me on the porch. She’s wearing loose linen pants to cover the scar on her leg and dirty white sneakers without socks. I clumsily wrap an arm around her, kneading her bony shoulder blade.

  “I tried to pick ones Ethan would have picked.”

  It’s good to have someone else acknowledge this day. To say: Yes, this did happen.

  “Thank you.” The roses have faint peach-colored stripes along the top of each petal. I am grateful for their uniqueness.

  A voice floats through the garden—Drew’s voice. “‘After years of mediocre sweet shops and stale-bagel cafés, Ashland finally has a first-rate bakery!’” he booms theatrically. His shadowy figure appears through the gate by the garage. Then he steps onto the path, waving a sheet of newspaper in the air. “Look, bakery review!”

  My stomach tightens. Critics, reporters. Gentlemen, start your hair dryers.

  Marion shuffles out onto the porch.

  Drew kisses me on the forehead and Marion on the cheek. Marion giggles and smiles demurely. He gives Crystal a high five. Crystal accepts it but rolls her eyes.

  “‘While the opening party was a bit of a boisterous mess,’” Drew reads, “‘this establishment is bound to flourish. The cheesecakes are the highlight, with a sublime consistency that isn’t too dry or gummy, and there are a number of clever savory choices, such as the delicious Brie-and-porcini. These are sure to be a hit, so place your party orders early.’”

  I climb up into a chair, cradling the roses in my lap. But I thought Marjorie hated the place. We fed her raw cookie dough! “How many stars?” I ask Drew, immediately afraid of finding out.

  “Four.”

  “Out of how many?”

  “Four! You can only get four. Did you want a fifth star? I’ll give you one.” He stands behind my chair, kisses my neck.

  Marion giggles. I grab the section of newspaper from Drew and continue reading the review.

  Frosted when warm, the maple moon cookies hark back to a day when soft cookies and lemonade were a mainstay in the South, where I grew up. The cupcakes are airy and light, with generous dollops of frosting. There are even a few low-fat and sugar-free options. In short, a treat for everyone.

  “‘NEW BAKERY BOUND TO BOOM,’” I read the headline aloud, savoring the alliteration. “Assuming the baker can drag her butt to work,” I add, standing up. “I’ve got to get a move on.”

  “Sublime,” Marion coos.

  “Bound to boom,” Drew says, stepping off the porch and swinging an imaginary golf club Johnny Carson style. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and khaki shorts. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed how nice his legs are. Thick, curvy calves. Strong, square knees with halos of golden hair that beg to be touched. We haven’t slept together since he dumped me. I’ve been cautious, like someone who’s afraid to get back in a car after being in a wreck. Meanwhile, Ethan’s ski sweater has been a scratchy, passionless lover. Suddenly I long to break my take-it-slow vow and have sweaty sex with Drew right now, upstairs, defiling the froofy hydrangea bedding.

  “Hey, howdja get my mother home yesterday, anyway?” Crystal asks him.

  “I asked Chef Alan to drive her.”

  I consider the image of Roxanne and Chef packed into Chef’s little Miata convertible, Roxanne’s long hair like a bride’s veil in the wind.

  Marion and Crystal head into the kitchen for iced tea. Drew seems relieved once they’re gone.

  “Listen . . .” He clears his throat, lowers his voice. “I’m sorry about proposing at the party. I think I embarrassed you.”

  “At least Ginger got the message.”

  “The offer’s still good, but I know you want to take it slow.”

  “Slowly,” I say, correcting his grammar. The prospect of needing Drew scares me; I don’t think I need him the way you need a vitamin or a good night’s sleep. I’m afraid I need him the way you need a cigarette or a drink. Besides, I don’t want to be engaged right now. I don’t even want to be single or widowed. I just want to be a sane person.

  “Slowly,” Drew repeats, giving me a quick PG-13 kiss on the mouth. “I’ve got a two o’clock curtain and my call’s at one. Can you go for a picnic tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see,” I tell him, turning to the roses. “I have a lot of work to do. I’ll call you.”

  The porch steps groan as he turns to go. He whistles a tune as he makes his way through the garden. I’m a little annoyed by his cheerfulness on this day. And equally relieved to be free of those legs.

  Marion and Crystal clamber back out onto the porch to settle an argument over whether you can drink iced tea out of a cereal bowl.

  “Well, you could,” I tell Marion, never wanting to make her feel ridiculous. “But a glass is easier.”

  “See!” Crystal says. She is always a little too vindicated when Marion is wrong.

  Marion succumbs to the iced tea glass and they head back into the house for lemon. I realize there’s no way Marion can fly home alone next week. I’ll have to travel with her. I should go inside and call to make a reservation on her flight right now. But first I’ve got to clean up the bakery—assess the water damage to the floors, return the rented uniforms and punch bowls, and check the answering machine in case there are any orders.

  I’m grateful for the bakery’s demand for attention. For the longest time after Ethan died, it seemed no one needed me. Is there anyone less essential in the world than an unemployed widow without children? But now Marion needs me to help her get home. Crystal needs me to help her get through summer school. The bank needs me to stay in business so I can pay off my loan. Ruth needs me to baby-sit—tonight, so she can go to her book club! As I remember this, I stand up and clutch the roses to my chest. The porch is reassuringly firm and certain beneath my bare toes.

  I close my eyes and imagine the baby shampoo smell of Simone’s hair and the pale green vein pumping in her temple as she concentrates on staying within the lines in her coloring book.

  Suddenly I relish the thought of a shower. Sweet warm water trickling into my mouth and a cloud of shampoo foaming up between my fingers. On some mornings back in San Jose, it would take me hours to work up the courage to take a shower, the busy scallop-shell motif on the shower curtain terrifying me. Now I quickly head inside to find a vase for the roses.

  GOODWILL

  29

  “After we straighten up the bakery, I want to clean out my garage,” I tell Crystal as we pull away from the senior center, where I’ve dropped Marion off for a bird-watching expedition.

  “That doesn’t sound fun.”

  “I know. But I want to go through Ethan’s stuff.” I’m determined to sort through Ethan’s boxes, to salvage the things I really care about and move them into the house. Pack up the rest and deliver it to Goodwill. Shut down the Ethan museum. I squeeze the steering wheel, bracing myself for this onerous chore.

  I wait for Crystal’s signature response to something she doesn’t want to do: Whatever! Sometimes she’s like a song you know all the words to. I look at her flat bare feet on the dashboard, her toenails painted pink with sparkly daisy decals on every other one.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll help you.”

  I’m surprised by her willingness. I don’t think Crystal really minds the fact that her mother doesn’t pay the electric bill or sign her up for horseback-riding lessons. I think what really bothers her is that Roxanne doesn’t include Crystal in her life. While Crystal can be a difficult person, in some ways she’s easy; all she really wants is to be included.

  “You and I will go through the stuff,” I tell her, “then I’ll get Ruth to help me with her truck.”

  Crystal nods seriously, as though she can hear all the
little cracks in my airy, no-problem tone.

  The garage smells like cedar and motor oil. The roof creaks overhead, as though buckling in the heat. Crystal and I sit on the chalky floor, sorting through Ethan’s cardboard boxes and creating four piles: Goodwill, Trash, Keep, Maybe Keep. I’ll review the Maybe pile before loading the car.

  Crystal’s pulled her hair into two spiky pigtails on top of her head. The magenta streaks make them look like flares. She sorts carefully through Ethan’s socks, matching them and tossing the ones with holes. She blows her bangs off her forehead as she concentrates. I’m surprised by her patience. When I first met her, she lacked the ability to concentrate on anything but video games, spending entire Sunday afternoons pumping my dollar bills into the token machine at the arcade while I looked on, pretending to have fun.

  I scan the stacks of boxes. The only things of Ethan’s I threw away after he died were his medical paraphernalia: prescriptions, Ensure, X-rays, the sharps container that held the syringes from his pain shots. I edited the illness out of his life story and saved everything else, even his doodles on the phone pad and his nameplate from his cubicle at work.

  Lifting one of Ethan’s flannel shirts to my face, I close my eyes, hoping to discover his smell. But the clothes have absorbed a neutral, cardboard aroma. I dig into the box marked Bathroom. A sharp pain burns my finger. Razor blade. A bright drop of blood bubbles up from the cut. I suck gently on it. The blood tastes salty. Ethan’s hairbrush peers out from the Bathroom box. I lift it and tug my fingers through the bristles, soft brown hair coming free with a ripping noise. It’s smooth and tickly, with the still-sweet, eggy smell of Ethan’s Flex shampoo. I want to lie down.

  “You could, like, put that in a locket,” Crystal says, nodding at the hair.

  I set the tuft at the edge of the Maybe pile. Wind creaks through the garage and the hair blows under a wheelbarrow, settling in among cobwebs, dead leaves, and the remnants of a moth. Organic matter. I shove the Bathroom box into the throwaway pile and head into the house for a Band-Aid.