I follow Margie and Bud to their Volvo. Inside, the car smells like my childhood at
the Mularkeys’—menthol cigarettes, Jean Nate perfume, and hair spray.
I imagine Katie beside me again, in the backseat of the car, with her dad driving,
and her mom blowing smoke out the open window. I can almost hear John Denver singing
about his Rocky Mountain high.
The four miles that stretch between the Catholic church and the Ryan house seem to
take forever. Everywhere I look, I see Kate’s life. The drive-through coffee stand
she frequented, the ice-cream shop that made her favorite
dulce de leche,
the bookstore that was always her first stop at Christmastime.
And then we are there.
The yard has a wild, untended look to it. Overgrown. Katie had always been “going
to” learn to garden.
We park and I get out. Kate’s brother, Sean, comes up beside me. He is five years
younger than Kate and me … or than
me,
I guess … but he is so slight and nerdy and hunched that he looks older. His hair
is thinning and his glasses are out of date, but behind the lenses his green eyes
are so like Katie’s that I hug him.
Afterward, I step back, waiting for him to speak. He doesn’t, and neither do I. We
have never had much to say to each other and today is obviously not a day to begin
a conversation. Tomorrow he will return to his tech job in the Silicon Valley, where
I imagine him living alone, playing video games at night, and eating sandwiches for
every meal. I don’t know if this is even close to his life, but it’s how I see it.
He steps away and I am left alone at the car, staring up at a house that has always
felt like my home, too.
I can’t go in.
I can’t.
But I have to.
I draw in a deep breath. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s go on. I have
perfected the art of denial, haven’t I? I have always been able to ignore my pain,
smile, and go on. That’s what I have to do now.
For Kate.
I go inside and join Margie in the kitchen. Together, we go about the business of
setting up for a party. I move fast, becoming one of those bustling women who flit
like a hummingbird. It is the only way I can keep going.
Don’t think about her. Don’t remember.
Margie and I become a work crew, wordlessly readying this house for a party neither
of us wants to attend. I set up easels throughout the house and place photographs
on them, the pictures Kate had chosen to reflect her life. I can’t look at any of
them.
I am hanging on to my composure one indrawn breath at a time when I hear the doorbell
ring. Behind me, footsteps thud on hardwood.
It is time.
I turn and do my best to smile, but it is uneven and impossible to maintain. I move
through the crowd carefully, pouring wine and taking plates away. Every minute seems
like a triumph of will. As I move, I hear snippets of conversation. People are talking
about Kate, sharing memories. I don’t listen—it hurts too much and I am close to losing
it now—but the stories are everywhere. As I hear
her bid at the Rotary auction,
I realize that the people in this room are talking about a Kate I didn’t know, and
at that, sadness darts deep. And more. Jealousy.
A woman in an ill-fitting and outdated black dress comes up to me and says, “She talked
about you a lot.”
I smile at that, grateful. “We were best friends for more than thirty years.”
“She was so brave during her chemo, wasn’t she?”
I can’t answer that. I wasn’t there for her, not then. In the three decades of our
friendship, there was a two-year blip when a fight escalated. I had known how depressed
Kate was and I’d tried to help, but as is usual for me, I went about it all wrong.
In the end, I hurt Kate deeply and I didn’t apologize.
In my absence, my best friend battled cancer and had a double mastectomy. I was not
there for her when her hair fell out or when her test results turned bad or when she
decided to stop treatment. I will regret it for as long as I breathe.
“That second round was brutal,” says another woman, who looks like she has just come
from yoga, in black leggings, ballet flats, and an oversized black cardigan.
“I was there when she shaved her head,” another woman says. “She was
laughing,
calling herself GI Kate. I never saw her cry.”
I swallow hard.
“She brought lemon bars to Marah’s play, remember?” someone else says. “Only Katie
would bring treats when she was…”
“Dying,” someone else says quietly, and finally the women stop talking.
I can’t take any more of this. Kate had asked me to keep people smiling.
No one livens up a party like you, Tul. Be there for me.
Always, girlfriend
.
I break free of the women and go over to the CD player. This old-man jazz music isn’t
helping. “This is for you, Katie Scarlett,” I say, and pop a CD into the slot. When
the music starts, I crank up the volume.
I see Johnny across the room. The love of her life, and, sadly, the only man in my
own. The only man I’ve ever been able to count on. When I look at him, I see how battered
he is, how broken. Maybe if you didn’t know him you wouldn’t see it—the downward shoulders,
the place he’d missed in his morning shave, the lines beneath his eyes that had been
etched there by the string of nights when he hadn’t slept. I know he has no comfort
to offer me, that he has been scrubbed bare by grief.
I’ve known this man for most of my life, first as my boss and then as my best friend’s
husband. For all the big events of both our lives, we’ve been together, and that’s
a comfort to me. Just seeing him eases my loneliness a little. I need that, to feel
less alone on this day when I’ve lost my best friend. Before I can go to him, he turns
away.
The music, our music, pours like elixir into my veins, fills me. Without even thinking,
I sway to the beat. I know I should smile, but my sadness is waking again, uncoiling.
I see the way people are looking at me. Staring. As if I’m inappropriate somehow.
But they are people who didn’t know her. I was her best friend.
The music, our music, brings her back to me in a way no spoken words ever could.
“Katie,” I murmur as if she were beside me.
I see people backing away from me.
I don’t care what they think. I turn and there she is.
Kate.
I come to a stop in front of an easel. On it is a picture of Kate and me. In it, we
are young and smiling, with our arms looped around each other. I can’t remember when
it was taken—the nineties, judging by my completely unflattering “Rachel” haircut
and vest and cargo pants.
Grief pulls the legs out from underneath me and I fall to my knees. The tears I have
been holding back all day burst out of me in great, wracking sobs. The music changes
to Journey’s
Don … n’t stop bee-lieving
and I cry even harder.
How long am I there? Forever.
Finally, I feel a hand on my shoulder, and a gentle touch. I look up and see Margie
through my tears. The tenderness in her gaze makes me cry again.
“Come on,” she says, helping me to my feet. I cling to her, let her help me into the
kitchen, which is busy with women doing dishes, and then into the laundry room, where
it is quiet. We hold on to each other but say nothing. What is there to say? The woman
we love is gone.
Gone
.
And suddenly I am beyond tired. I am exhausted. I feel myself drooping like a fading
tulip. Mascara stings my eyes; my vision is still watery with tears. I touch Margie’s
shoulder, noticing how thin and fragile she has become.
I follow her out of the shadowy laundry room and make my way back into the living
room, but I know instantly that I can’t be here anymore. To my shame, I can’t do what
Kate asked of me. I can’t pretend to celebrate her life. Me, who has spent a lifetime
pretending to be fine-good-great, can’t do that now. It is too soon.
* * *
The next thing I know, it’s morning. Before I even open my eyes it hits me.
She’s gone
.
I groan out loud. Is this my new life, this constant rediscovery of loss?
As I get out of bed, I feel a headache start. It gathers behind my eyes, pulses. I
have cried in my sleep again. It is an old childhood habit that grief has reanimated.
It reminds me that I am fragile.
It is a state of being that offends me, but I can’t seem to find the strength to combat
it.
My bedroom feels foreign to me, too. I have hardly been here in the last five months.
In June, when I found out about Kate’s cancer, I changed my life in an instant; I
walked away from everything—my mega-successful TV talk show and my condominium—and
dedicated my life to caring for my best friend.
My phone rings and I stumble toward it, grateful for any distraction. The caller ID
says
Ryan
and my first thought is,
Kate’s calling,
and I feel a spike of joy. Then I remember.
I pick up, hearing the strain in my voice as I say, “Hello?”
“What happened to you last night?” Johnny says without even bothering to say hi.
“I couldn’t take it,” I say, slumping onto the floor by my bed. “I tried.”
“Yeah. Big surprise.”
“What does
that
mean?” I sit up. “The music? It’s what Kate wanted.”
“Did you even talk to your goddaughter?”
“I tried,” I say, stung. “She only wanted to be with her friends. And I read the boys
a story before bed. But…” My voice cracks. “I couldn’t stand it, Johnny. Being without
her…”
“You were okay for the two years of your fight.”
I draw in a sharp breath. He has never said anything like this before. In June, when
Kate called and I came running to the hospital, Johnny welcomed me back into the family
without a word. “She forgave me. And believe me, I was not okay.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you saying you didn’t forgive me?”
He sighs. “None of this matters anymore,” he says after a pause. “She loved you. That’s
that. And we’re all hurting. Christ. How are we going to make it? Every time I look
at the bed, or at her clothes in the closet…” He clears his throat. “We’re going to
Kauai today.”
“What?”
“We need time together now. You said so yourself. Our flight is at two, on Hawaiian.”
“That’s not much time to get ready,” I say. An image blossoms in my mind—the five
of us on the beach, healing together. “It’s perfect. Sunshine and—”
“Yeah. I gotta go.”
He’s right. We can talk later. Now, I need to hurry.
* * *
I hang up and get moving. Packing for paradise takes no time at all, and in less than
twenty minutes, I am packed and showered. I pull my damp hair into a stubby ponytail
and dash on makeup as quickly as I can. Johnny hates it when I’m late. Tully-time,
he calls it, and he’s not smiling when he says it.
In my walk-in closet, I find a teal and white Lilly Pulitzer dress and pair it with
silver high-heeled sandals and a white straw hat.
As I slip into the jersey dress, I imagine this vacation. It is something I need—this
time away with the only family I have. We will grieve together, share memories, and
keep Kate’s spirit alive among us.
We need each other. God knows I need them.
I am ready at 11:20—only a few minutes later than optimal—and I call for a Town Car.
I’m not that late. No one really needs two hours at the airport.
I grab my small rolling bag and leave the condo. Downstairs, a black Town Car is waiting
in front of the building.
“SeaTac,” I say, depositing my luggage at the curb by the trunk.
Surprisingly, the traffic is sluggish on this warm autumn morning. I look at my watch
repeatedly.
“Go faster,” I say to the driver, tapping my foot on the floor. At SeaTac, we pull
up to the terminal and I am out of the car before the driver can even open his door.
“Hurry up,” I say, waiting for him to get my luggage, checking my watch. It is 11:47.
I am late.
Finally, I get my bag and I run, holding my hat on my head and dragging the suitcase
behind me. My big straw bag keeps slipping off my shoulder, scratching my bare arm.
The terminal is crowded. It takes me a minute to find them in the crowd, but there
they are, over by the Hawaiian Airlines ticket counter.
“I’m here!” I yell, waving like a game show contestant trying to get noticed. I run
toward them. Johnny stares at me in confusion. Have I done something wrong?
I come to a breathless stop. “What? What’s wrong? If it’s the time, I did my best.”
“You’re always late,” Margie says with a sad smile. “It’s not that.”
“Am I overdressed? I have shorts and flip-flops.”
“Tully!” Marah says, grinning. “Thank God.”
Johnny moves in closer to me. Margie eases away at the same time. Their movements
feel staged, as choreographed as something from
Swan Lake,
and it bothers me. Johnny takes me by the arm and pulls me aside.
“You aren’t invited on this trip, Tul. It’s just the four of us. I can’t believe you
thought—”
I feel as if I’ve been punched in the stomach, hard. The only thing I can think of
to say is, “Oh. You said ‘we.’ I thought you meant me, too.”
“You understand,” he says, phrasing it as a statement, not a question.
Apparently I am a fool for
not
understanding.
I feel like that abandoned ten-year-old again, sitting on a dirty city stoop, forgotten
by my mother, wondering why I am so easy to leave behind.
The twins come up on either side of us, jubilant in their excitement, amped up on
the idea of adventure. They have unruly brown hair that is too long and curling at
the ends and bright blue eyes and smiles that have returned since yesterday.
“You comin’ to Kauai with us, Tully?” Lucas says.
“We’re gonna
surf,
” Wills says, and I can imagine how aggressive he will be in the water.