Page 10 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“It’s a bit on the nose, Chels.” One of my feet slides out from under me on a rotting crab apple, but Mara grabs my arm from behind so I don’t slip to the ground.

“Maybe Chelsea’s right.” Mara’s tone is kind, if not entirely convincing. “It might help you process your grief. It’s a bit of an emotional minefield, and this has already been such a hard year for you.”

She distills it all down to two words—hard year.

I was sure I’d processed the BRCA diagnosis six years ago, when I first tested positive. My mom was still sick, and maybe I was fooling myself, but I thought I had it under control. I had a plan. I had a binder. I had a gratitude journal, for chrissake! But when I finally had the mastectomy, something changed.

The physical pain of a surgeon carving out my breast tissue, removing my nipples, and inserting expanders was more than I anticipated, but physical pain was still something everyone around me could understand. As a cancer survivor, my mom could relate to my grief over losing parts of my body so closely tied to my femininity and sexuality. She too felt the alienness of adapting to the new numb bits that had replaced them.

But knowing no one else who’d had a preventative mastectomy, no one else who’d cheated cancer, I felt utterly alone with the knot of guilt that took root beneath my silicone implants. The guilt that—after a second chance had been plopped in my lap—I was going to go back to being just plain me.

I made it a point to be more. I started hiking, mountain climbing, water skiing, and anything else that looked adventurous. But then Sam—wild and worthy Sam—died, and it felt like someone grabbed each end of the knot in my chest and pulled it apart.

The parking lot appears ahead, and I dig deep for a smile. “Yeah, maybe the packing will be good for me.”

With two bars of service, I shoot off a text to the North Shore Grump.

3:59 PM

Alison:

See you at 10 AM.

Then I send a slew of cheery emojis. Just to really piss him off.

4

Half-Used Bottle of Men’s Dove

I always liked that Sam lived off the Green Line. There are only two light railways in the Twin Cities, and the Green Line starts in front of my apartment in Saint Paul and crosses in front of Sam’s in Minneapolis.

I’ve always loved public transportation, particularly trains. My earliest memory is of setting up a model train under the Christmas tree to weave through our gifts. Sometime in high school, my rail enthusiasm went into hibernation—the popular kids weren’t as fascinated by engines—but every Christmas, my dad unpacked the model set and I let my inner train geek run wild.

The train lurches to a stop on Saturday morning, one week after the funeral and my single-syllable exchange with Adam. I’m plopped into the heart of Sam’s neighborhood, made up of assertively hip converted warehouses along the river, but Sam’s condo is not in one of those unattainably chic buildings. His is in a new complex stacked on top of a pricey organic grocery store, a “green” dry cleaner, and a florist—a redundant beacon of gentrification.

I’m at the door when a rush of grief and embarrassment rolls over my skin like a hot flash. My fingers are poised to text Sam to let me up. My stomach flips, and my mouth tastes of acid and Cheerios.

On my exhale, the feeling recedes like a tide, leaving only my embarrassment as evidence it was ever there in the first place. A patch of wet sand buried in my chest. I’m debating whether I can scale the building’s exterior in a heeled leather boot when a young woman with a tiny white dog dressed as a sushi roll for Halloween exits. I’m in.

“Hello?” I announce myself, slowly opening the unlocked door to Sam’s apartment. I unbutton my wool coat and hang it on the teak coatrack next to a thick, denim men’s jacket with rough tan lining.

I haven’t been to this apartment for two months, but everything that made it essentially Sam’s is the same, down to the basket of dirty clothes on the washer.

“I’m starting in the bathroom.” Adam’s voice echoes through the open door into the hallway.

The first time Sam invited me over to his apartment, which boasts so much natural light it borders on oppressive, I saw the home of a new boyfriend with all the intoxicating potential that came with it. During those early days, I pictured us taking trips to the places where he’d bought the woven tapestries on his walls. The brown leather couch and vintage trunk in his living room were where we might relax and kick our feet up after a long return flight. The dark countertop was the surface on which he’d make us coffee after we woke up slowly in each other’s arms.

When he dumped me, the rooms were sapped of their magic possibilities. Because—self-conscious of my new breasts—I always found excuses not to sleep over. We never ended up traveling together, and now I know that most of his art is from West Elm.

Now that he’s gone, I try to look at the space as nothing but real estate. Cluttered real estate.

I assault Adam with a cheery “Happy Halloween!” upon my intrusion into the bathroom.

“There’s a spare set of keys on the counter. I didn’t see any of your stuff around, so I figured you didn’t have one.”

Sidestepping my lack of keys, I respond, “Starting with the bathroom. Very brave.”

The side of his face doesn’t register my attempt at levity.

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