Page 23 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“We have the other major areas covered. We need someone who knows sports if we want to win.”

Sam knew sports. A few weeks after we broke up, Mara dragged us to a different bar every week, trying to qualify for the upcoming trivia tournament. One Tuesday, we wound up somewhere near Sam’s job. He was perched on a stool near the back enjoying happy hour with coworkers.

I did what any normal woman would do in this situation: pretended not to see him, sparing us the obligatory awkward ex chitchat and endless “good”-ing. You’re doing good? I’m good too. Work’s good. Good for you too? So good! But Sam yelled across the bar, “Seriously, Mullally? You’re gonna walk right past like that? Can we at least be civil, for the kids?” He gestured to Mara, Chelsea, and Patrick, and I busted out laughing.

We invited him over to our table, and it was…fun. It was like we were old friends who had never dated. Sam regaled us with stories of the strange people he’d run into at a campground near Badlands National Park and his new venture into getting his pilot’s license. Patrick listened rapt, and Mara and Chelsea revealed their slightly mean nickname for him when we were together: Manic Pixie Dream Boy. He laughed good-naturedly in the way the unflinchingly self-assured can.

With Sam’s encyclopedic knowledge of ESPN, we were able to win the night and qualify for the tournament. My favorite competitive sociopath, Mara, jumped into Sam’s arms and screamed, “Suck it, Risky Bitchness!” who were not even there to receive the devastating blow. Chelsea thanked him for freeing her from Mara’s crippling qualifying schedule. Patrick was just grateful for a buffer from Mara’s intensity.

He wanted to join us for the tournament on New Year’s Day, and I had smiled, realizing we were finally exactly what we were always supposed to be. It was like discovering the shirt you could never get over your head no matter how hard you tried had always been a pair of pants.

On autopilot, I pass several obscenely large lakefront houses. The Lewises’ cheery floral mailbox snaps me back to reality, and I turn onto their drive, pea gravel crackling under my tires like Rice Krispies. Their cozy rambler’s exterior doesn’t look as grand as the neighboring McMansions built during the Clinton administration, but what it lacks in flimsy austere façade it makes up for in airy warmth. We park in front of the oversized garage, which I know holds two luxury SUVs, a couple Jet Skis, and a pontoon boat.

Mara punches in the code while I heave the boxes out of the trunk, yanking at my ill-fitting sports bra. With firm silicone implants and no nipples to speak of, I generally don’t wear bras, but lifting stacked ceramic plates and other athletic endeavors require proper support. A too-tight bra leaves deep grooves and skin irritation I can’t feel. Too loose and the jostling causes pins and needles throughout my chest—my brain filling in the gaps of assumed pain.

Preparing to lift the final box, I’m bent over, adjusting the band of my bra, when I hear the snap-crackle-pops of a car pulling up behind me. A white Lexus enters my field of vision, and Mrs.Lewis steps out of the passenger seat. She’s dressed like a Nancy Meyers movie heroine in head-to-toe linen neutrals. The outfit’s all wrong for Minnesota in November, but then again, she’s supposed to be in Florida right now.

“We came home early,” she says, because I must’ve said that last part out loud. She’s slower than when I saw her last, like her grief is a weighted vest. “I’m glad I caught you. I was thinking about you the whole time we were gone. Is this all of it?”

Mrs.Lewis gestures between the open garage door and the box at my feet. Mara waves demurely and beelines out of sight. No chance she’s rescuing me from my matinee performance as Sam’s Current Girlfriend.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. There’s a lot more to do.”

Apprehension pulls her face taut. Tears pool in her eyes, but she presses into the corners of them with her thumb and forefinger before they can fall.

Panic seeps into my chest. “It’ll get done. Adam will be here every weekend. He’s determined to do this for you,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Alison, honey. The idea of having to pack up his…It’s just…” She pulls me into her arms and says into my shoulder, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that we’ve had you to count on through all of this. Knowing someone who loved Sam is guiding the process, you can’t imagine—” She stops herself. Her chest rises and falls in my arms until she takes a step back.

“I’ve always been so worried for him. I imagine every parent worries—about the big things especially, but about the little things too. And Sam always gave me so much to worry about.” Her mouth curls up at the corners, like even now, she can’t help but smile at her son. “When he was learning to walk, he would grab on to table legs and bookshelves to help him stand. But then he kept trying to pull himself higher up the bookcase, as if climbing was the real goal and we were all thinking too small. Gosh, I should’ve gotten a punch card from the ER for how many times I had to get that kid stitched up.”

Her wistful expression deteriorates into a sad, broken thing. “They don’t tell you…the worry doesn’t go anywhere when they’re gone, you know. I don’t think it’s supposed to. Your children hand it to you when they’re born and you carry it with you until the end. But knowing he had you in his life…it helps a little. Like you’re holding some of it for me.”

She rubs my shoulder in the way my mom does. Maybe all moms have this comforting gesture in their arsenal. What do they do with it when they lose the person it was made for?

“Adam and I will take care of it all,” I promise, pressing my hand against the emotions cracking beneath my collarbone. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

Mrs.Lewis bends to touch the box next to me. Her hand falters, like there’s a monster inside, poised to attack. Maybe for her, there is. She snaps her hand back. “Can you put that in the garage for me?” she asks, pointing to the cardboard box of her distilled grief.

With a wobbly smile, I move the last one into the garage, spying Mara hidden in the passenger seat in my peripheral vision. She’s no doubt overheard this dreary exchange.

We don’t say another word until we’re back on the highway. “I’ll let Chelsea and Patrick know you’ll be busy every weekend this month,” Mara states. It’s not a question anymore. I’m in this with Adam until the end. “You’re doing a good thing, Mullally.” She rubs sympathetic circles on my right shoulder blade. “I just wish it wasn’t at the expense of our trivia domination.”

A single-syllable laugh breaks free from my throat, and I shrug her hand off. “Yes, this must be a very challenging time for you.”

“Hey, let’s not compare our problems.” She turns up the volume on Mariah Carey and lets the queen of Christmas serenade us home.

7

My Schrödinger’s Breasts

The upcoming weekend hangs over my week like a dark cloud, and by Friday, I’ve sat through six meetings—that should’ve been emails—as Sam’s Current Girlfriend. But since the bereavement policy for the niche transportation consulting firm I work for doesn’t extend beyond immediate family members anyway, it’s a distinction without a difference.

My work is a four-block walk from my apartment and connected via skyway, a series of climate-controlled footbridges allowing Saint Paulites to walk most of downtown without ever going outside. It’s a miracle in a cold snap, or in the rain, or on a day like today, which is both cold and rainy.

Josh Rosen looks at me and our other officemate Patty Tanaka over the Newton’s cradle on his desk. “Kyle wants a word. Do you guys mind?”

He attempts to make direct eye contact with both of us while clacking away on his keyboard, but only I—the middle desk in our U-shaped configuration—look up. Josh is a fantastic, if loud, touch typist, while Patty methodically hunts and pecks.

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