Page 1 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
For Caroline and Hazel
Die Hard
Stupid January
All things considered, I’m doing okay. I get that that sounds like something someone says when they’re not doing okay. I also get that “all things considered” is putting in some real work there because I’m still wearing the black dress I wore to my husband’s funeral this morning. But seriously. For real. I’m doing okay.
It started to snow right at the end of the ceremony. It’s been weirdly warm in Baltimore since Christmas, so the flakes melted the second they hit the ground, putting a reflective sheen on everything, including the coffin.
I couldn’t help thinking that my husband would’ve been psyched about the way the wood grain glistened in the late-morning light. Tim chose a coffin with a chocolatey-brown finish because it perfectly matched the desk in his office at school, and because—his words here—“It just looks classy, Gracey.”
He said this a month ago. We were having one of his “When I’m Gone” strategy sessions in the TV room. “It’s morbid, I know,” he said, showing me the image on his iPad. “But a coffin’s gotta look like something, right? Mine might as well look classy.”
My husband. Myformerhusband? Mydeadhusband?
Here’s something I’ve noticed: There’s no good way to describehim now. The first one leaves out some pretty vital information, the second is misleading, and the third is just too jarring.
I look up into the rearview mirror now at my kids. For the first time in weeks, Ian and Bella look hopeful—happy even. Again, all things considered, because they’re still in their funeral outfits, too, like a couple of child models in the world’s most depressing catalog. Ian, who’s ten, tugs his tie and smiles at me. Six-year-old Bella’s eyes are wide and bright.
The three of us are on our way to the Maryland SPCA to adopt a dog.
“You’re going where?” my mom asked earlier. “Grace, come on, Jesus, at least change your clothes first.”
Not an entirely unreasonable suggestion, but by then it was too late. Thirty minutes ago in my parents’ driveway, when I turned to the shell-shocked kids and asked, “Hey, do you guys wanna go get a dog?” their rush of joy was like an avalanche. My husband/former husband/dead husband would’ve gotten a kick out of that, too, I bet.
Damn, babe, I don’t think they’ve even put the dirt over me yet.
Whatever, dude. I’m winging it here. I’m doing my best.
A few cars ahead, a Mercedes keeps drifting into my lane like maybe the driver’s drunk. I have to notice these things now because it’s just me, no more safety net. Somehow, I, Grace White, am this family’s first, last, and only line of defense.
Good luck to us.
In the rearview again I watch Ian twist some more at his tie and smile at his sister. Bella smiles back. A big bag of organic dog food sits between them. We picked it up a few minutes ago at Petco on York Road, along with training treats and chew toys. The man-child working there had green streaks in his hair and was tending to an aquarium full of squirming ferrets when we burst through the door all dressed in black.
“Um, hi,” I said. “What do puppies eat?”
As far as afternoon missions go, this probably sounds crazy—a thrown-together bit of mania brought on by grief and sleeplessness. It isn’t, though. Well, mostly not. This is all part of the “When I’mGone” action plan. So far, aside from the potentially drunk driver up ahead, it’s going surprisingly well.
“Mommy?” says Bella.
I turn the car stereo down. Per the kids’ demands, I’ve been Bluetooth DJing the latest Harry Styles album for two straight months. “What’s up, sweetie?”
Her smile is gone, replaced by doom. “What if one of us is allergic, too?”
“We aren’t,” I say.
“How do you know, though?”
“I just do.”
“But Daddy is.”
Ian and I look at each other in the mirror. Again, the stupid limits of our dumb language. Whoever’s in charge of words—whomever?—needs to come up with a new tense to cover the sudden shift from present to past.
“We aren’t,” I say, gentler this time. “I’mdefinitelynot. And if either of you were allergic to dogs, we’d know by now. Okay?”
I assume this is true. Parenting in times of crisis, I’m learning, is a delicate balance between fiction, nonfiction, and pure fantasy, like when Bella asked if we could call her dad in heaven, and I told her they don’t have cell towers there. Thankfully Bella nodded and rolled with that, which she does again now. I turn Harry Styles back up. Not to overuse the whole “All things considered” line, but it really is a good album.
