Page 33 of Look on the Bright Side

The evening was painfully beautiful…June, just before the tourist season began in earnest. Already, Wellfleet was cheerfully busy. The Ice House and Winslow’s had people sitting on their patios, sipping and eating. Tourists and locals alike walked down to the water, past her mom’s gallery, to stare at or walk over Uncle Tim’s Bridge. Lark drove carefully, throat locked, heart flopping in her chest.

Justin had been cremated, and Heather and Theo (and Lark) had buried some of his ashes in the Deans’ backyard, where his old swing set had been. Some they’d taken out to sea to scatter in the bay, and some were buried here, at Pleasant Hill Cemetery, where there was a small stone marking his spot. Lark knew the way without looking; she visited at least twice a month. Cemeteries were beautiful in general, and this one was especially so. Sometimes, she’d bring a picnic, which felt maudlin but also appropriate.

After all, they’d loved picnics. For their engagement, the Deans had given them a splendid, high-end picnic basket, the kind where the forks and knives tucked into leather straps, and the plates were blue-and-white porcelain, the wineglasses sturdy. The Yorkshire Breakfast Hamper, such a ridiculous, over-the-top name. When she and Justin would plan a picnic, they’d ask each other at least five or six times, “Darling, do you have the Yorkshire Breakfast Hamper?” or “My love, would you like me to carry the Yorkshire Breakfast Hamper?” The last time she’d brought a picnic here, she said, “I hope you’re noticing the Yorkshire Breakfast Hamper, honey,” then surprised herself by the fury of the tears that followed.

She got to Justin’s spot. Cape Cod rambling roses spilled neatly around the headstone, the daffodils and tulips now past.

Justin Edward Dean

A beautiful and courageous soul loved by all.

These words, while true, did nothing to capture Justin. What about his sense of humor? How good he was at listening, that intent expression on his face, the pause before answering? Where was the stuff about how dazed and befuddled he was every morning, like a chick who’d just pecked through its shell and blinked at this new thing called daylight? What about his intelligence? How about the way he’d cook and pretend to be on a cooking show, talking in a goofy voice as he narrated the steps? What about his beautiful hands and unexpectedly loud laugh? The way he’d narrow his eyes just before kissing her, as if he wanted to get it just right. Where was that, huh? Beautiful and courageous, loved by all…meh.

Heather and Theo were approaching, and Lark fixed her face. “Hey,” she said, and her voice shook.

“Sweetheart,” Theo said, hugging her. There were tears in his blue eyes, the same dark blue as Justin’s had been. She swallowed hard and smiled (she hoped), then moved on to Heather, who grabbed her so hard.

“Oh, Heather,” Lark whispered, hugging back.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she wept. “You’re so good to be with us.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The three of them stood there, looking at the ground. It felt awkward and sad and ridiculous and forced. Seven years. No Yorkshire Breakfast Hamper today.

She had known Justin Dean for twenty-one years. Twenty-one. Someday, he would be gone for twenty-five years, and her life would tip into a new sphere, in which she’d be without him longer than she’d been with him.

“It doesn’t get easier, does it?” Heather whispered.

“It gets harder,” Theo said, reaching for his wife’s hand.

“We miss you so much, Justin,” Lark said, her voice breaking, and they all cried then, no toughing it out, no being brave.

Then, as they had for the past seven years, they went back to the Deans’ house for a dinner of Justin’s favorite foods—barbecued ribs, street corn, guacamole, hot dogs. A strawberry-rhubarb pie sat on the counter.

Once, when Justin was still alive, she’d made almost this same meal and packed it into the Yorkshire Breakfast Hamper. It was when they were in college, and they’d eaten till they were stuffed there on the Common, lying back on the blanket afterward. They’d held hands. At least, she thought they’d held hands, looking up at the sky. They probably had. Maybe they’d talked about baby names.

Or she was just making that up, false memories to soothe her broken soul.

We loved with a love that was more than love.

Damn straight, Mr.Poe. The man had known what he was talking about.

“How’s the ER treating you?” Theo asked, and Lark stepped up with some funny stories. “Last week, we had someone come in during active labor,” she said. “She didn’t know she was pregnant. I mean, the baby’s head was crowning, and she said, ‘This can’t be possible, I just went through menopause. I haven’t had my period in, like, nine months.’ And the kicker is, she was twenty-six.”

“Oh, no!” Theo laughed.

“So lucky,” Heather said, and Lark instantly regretted the story. A surprise baby for them—or for Lark herself—would’ve been very welcomed. As if in response, her abdomen cramped. She’d never have Justin’s baby, and because Justin was an only child, his DNA would be gone when Heather and Theo died.

“But you’ll go back to Oncology, right?” Theo asked.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. This is just a temporary switch. It’s so I can work on some…skills. Mostly in giving out information.” Without sobbing. “In the ER, you have to be fast and clear, and my adviser thought it would be really helpful. But back to Oncology, yes, once this is done. I’m actually doing some hospice volunteering, too.”

“Oh, God, you’re an angel,” Theo said.

“Lark, really,” Heather said. “I’ve never met someone who knew so young what they wanted to do.”

“That was all because of Justin,” Lark said. “He was so…” Shit. Here came the tears. Again. “You two raised the best person I’ve ever known. He’s the foundation of my entire life, even now.”

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