Page 89 of This Is How It Started
When he asked me to be his agent, I couldn’t. I can’t watch him pack up his life here and leave. I know from experience how desolate and desperate that’s going to make me feel. I know. Because the last time it happened, when I was just seventeen years old, it broke my heart in two.
“If I text you his number, will you give him a call and let him know I sent you?”
“I’d be happy to,” she says, sounding as if she’s doing me a favor. She is. But she stands to make a nice chunk of change in the process. So,You’re welcome, Niki Sorento.
“And, Niki, not one of your minions.” I glance over at the cabal that apparently now travels with her like she’s freaking Beyonce. “You need to handle this one yourself, okay?” Something passes between us, and she acknowledges my request with a curt nod.
My work here is done.
* * * *
Group grief is meeting tonight at Vivian’s house. She lives in Pacifica, kind of a schlepp. I had hoped that Brooke and I could carpool (i.e., she would drive) but she isn’t sure she can make it. The ER is swamped tonight.
So it’s just me, driving forty-five miles an hour on the freeway, a lot of people passing and giving me the finger. “Fuck you,” I shout. “Bet your husband didn’t die at the hands of a texting Tesla driver.”
The GPS takes me off the interstate, to Highway 1, then onto a winding road with views of the ocean. Thank God it’s not dark. But it will be when I go home, which terrifies me.
When I get to Vivian’s, I’m a jumble of nerves. I force myself to get a grip and go inside. There’s a sign on the entry door that says, “Come in. We’re in back.”
As I step into the front room, my first impression is this is a house well loved. There are toys on the carpet, one of Vivian’s kids has made a tent out of the sofa pillows, and everything from the furniture to the décor has a beach theme. I note that Vivian’s late husband’s stuffed fish is once again above the fireplace, and a smile blossoms in my chest.
“We’re back here,” Raj calls and waves me into the kitchen, then through French doors to the backyard. The group is sitting around a lit fire pit. A set of solar lights strung through the trees have begun to flicker on as the sun starts to fade.
“Great spot.”
Someone drags over an extra patio chair and squeezes it into the circle, wedging me between Doris and Raj.
“Brooke has a busy night in the ER and probably can’t make it. She sends her regrets.”
There’s a collective murmur of disappointment. I don’t know how she found the group or if the group found her, but I quickly picked up that she and Raj are the unofficial organizers, sending around the signup sheet for people to take turns hosting and making sure everyone knows where the meeting is each month. According to the others, sometimes they invite guest speakers. Therapists, grief counselors, that sort of thing. I haven’t been to one of those yet.
“Everyone,” Vivian says, “there’s food on the table and coffee in the urn.” She points at a small gazebo on the other side of the yard.
We all get up in unison and head to the table where there are trays of what looks like homemade cookies, banana bread, and blueberry muffins.
“Did you make all this?” The little I’ve ascertained about Vivian besides the fish story is that she works full-time and is raising two kids on her own.
“It’s nothing special. I’ve made them so many times I could do it in my sleep.”
“Impressive.” I fill my plate, starved. After my visit to Windham, I spent the rest of my day running around, buying things like vacuum cleaner filters and Costco toilet paper, forgetting to eat.
Everyone wanders back to their chairs and to the fire to keep warm on a cold summer night.
“A little housekeeping before we start,” Raj says. “We’re taking a break next month. Too many people are on vacation. But I’m sending around a signup sheet for anyone who is available to take calls in case someone needs to talk. I know this group provides a lot of support, and I don’t want anyone to feel abandoned.” He passes a clipboard to me.
I bogart it, wavering on whether to put my name down. What wisdom do I have to impart? Not a day goes by when I don’t think of Josh, don’t miss him, don’t wonder how I’ll move on without him. And yet I have. Little by little, I’m emerging a different person than the one I was when Josh was alive. I’ve found a job I love—and more important, I’m actually good at it. In a lot of ways, Josh’s death, even my father’s death, forced me to find my independence. I’m the one who has to catch myself when I fall, and there is something incredibly empowering about that.
I put my name and number on the sheet and pass it to Doris.
“Can I go first?” Vivian asks.
“Absolutely,” Raj says.
“I’m thinking of moving closer to my parents in Maine. I’d like my kids to spend more time with their grandparents, and frankly I could use the help. But this is the only house they’ve ever lived in, and it’s a piece of their father.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and Doris hands her a tissue. “Everywhere they look here, they can see Rich. The beach he loved, the tree we planted when Bobby was just eighteen months old, the gazebo he built with both boys. Even his old Dodge Charger is still in the garage. The damn thing doesn’t run, but it’s still here. How do I take them away from that?”
“Oh, honey, they have their daddy in their hearts,” Doris says. “They will take him with them wherever they go. The three of you can’t live the rest of your lives living with a ghost.”
“I agree with Doris,” Sylvia says. “You need to take care of your boys, but you also need to take care of yourself. When my Davis died, I wanted to be—I needed to be—closer to my children and my grandchildren. I left my home of forty years to move here to be near them, but I took my memories and my pictures with me. And you know what? This is where Davis would’ve wanted me to be. I know he’d be heartened by the fact that I’m surrounded by our kids. That they’re here to take care of me. Rich would feel the same way.”
