Page 4 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

You could never daydream with Sam. Everything was achievable. Everything was within reach. Money, time, and prior commitments were never an excuse for not living your best life. He never understood why I didn’t like the messages. To him, each message from the future was a statement of potential. To me, they were a reminder of how I was falling short.

He must’ve loaded a bunch of countdowns for the Patagonia trip when I agreed to go. After the breakup, I got a “100 days” reminder, but it wasn’t nearly as alarming when they were just notes from a man who’d friend-zoned me, as opposed to this eerily timed post-death dispatch.

“Sorry about your seat belt pillow,” Mara says from the driver’s seat of her Jeep. She points her chin at my unadorned belt strap. “They threw it away when I got the car detailed.”

I stare out the window into the boat club parking lot with my forehead pressed to the glass. “It’s fine.” And it is. I only really needed a pillow strapped to my seat belt during my mastectomy and reconstruction. Since then, it’s just been too cozy to chuck.

Six years ago, when my mom was diagnosed with Stage 2 breast cancer, the rest of my family got tested for the BRCA1 genetic mutation. My sister, Emma, was negative. I drew the short pink straw.

With my genetics, I have an 85 percent chance of having breast cancer during my lifetime. It’s a noncommittal, likely, eventually, diagnosis. That 15 percent is like glimpsing an oasis in a desert—there’s some reason to hope, but you’re probably going to be drinking sand. My doctor couldn’t say anything for sure other than I’m likely, eventually doomed. Or I was.

About a year and a half ago, I bit the bullet and got a preventative double mastectomy, removing my breast tissue, nipples, sensation—the whole deal. Six months later, I underwent breast reconstruction and am now less likely to develop breast cancer than women without the mutation.

After a slew of awkward one-night stands and failed first dates, I started dating Sam. Sam always felt less like a boyfriend and more like a higher plane to aspire to, someone who could transform me through proximity—and the occasional motivational calendar notification—into someone worthy of having escaped a likely, eventually death sentence. A person worthy of the cheat code I’d used.

Mara taps my arm from the driver’s seat. “It’s one afternoon, Al. And it’s almost over. We just need to get through the luncheon and then you can deal with all of these feelings in the privacy of your therapist’s office,” she tells me, assuming I’m lost in thought over the current deception.

I brush off her suggestion with a weak wave, because I stopped seeing Denise months ago. “Thanks for driving me today.”

“It’s less for your benefit and more for the safety of the greater Twin Cities metropolitan area. I can’t remember the last time you drove yourself somewhere.” She peers over her sleek sunglasses, which are either pricey designer frames or only look expensive because that is the power of Mara Montgomery-Kline. “I’m not certain you still know how.”

This is a lie. Not the part about my masterminding my life around walkability, public transit, and any other measures to avoid driving my beat-up Subaru across town, but the part about her presence being for anyone’s benefit other than mine. But since Mara feels deep discomfort acknowledging that she possesses the capacity for feelings beyond “ruthlessly ambitious” and “hungry,” I let it slide.

I flip the visor and rub smeared mascara from my under eyes with my ring finger. “Okay. Play something fun before we go in. Give us a lift.”

“I think belting it out in the parking lot of your boyfriend’s wake is going to send the wrong message.” She turns toward me, clasping my hands in hers like she would a jittery candidate’s before a debate. “You can handle this. We can handle this. Let’s roll!”

But we can’t handle this, and things quickly fall apart at the luncheon.

From the moment we enter the hall—all wood paneling and nautical stripes as far as the eye can see—the event is already in minor crisis. Since the caterer failed to mark the gluten-free brunch options, I volunteer to identify and label them for Mrs.Lewis, in hopes of both hiding in the kitchen and busying myself.

Unfortunately, this gesture only serves to amplify my position as “grieving partner” rather than achieve my primary goal of evaporating into thin air. In the industrial kitchen, the waiters swap pitying looks in my direction. The bartender leads me in a quick healing meditation for grief, which involves placing both hands between my breasts. I participate, hoping it will end the interaction faster, but this is a miscalculation.

Sam’s family and friends find me, offering their condolences in a mini receiving line between stainless steel prep tables. Most of these mourners fall into one of two categories: strangers I’m confident I’ve never met but who claim to remember me specifically, or vaguely familiar people I’ll never place, no matter how intensely I stare at them.

“This is…uncomfortable,” Mara murmurs when we’re finally alone. Her curly penmanship on the “gluten-free” labels is impeccable, and it only fuels my fury.

“I know,” I snap. I press my pen too hard, and the f in free bleeds across the index card. “But if I stand out there with all of Sam’s loved ones for one more second, my skin will walk off without me and serve appetizers.”

She scrunches her nose. “That’s an unsettling image.”

We both look up as the scrape of the metal door announces another entrance into the kitchen.

A young server juggling three coffee carafes tilts her navy-polo-clad torso into the kitchen. “We need a tray of GF French toast. The celiacs are getting restless.” She tips her head in the direction of the crowded room filled with a shockingly high number of gluten-intolerant mourners. Something about the way she treats us—not like characters in a tragic romance but as two women standing between her and a fat tip—recenters me. She bounces the open door on her hip impatiently.

Mara fills her arms with a metal pan of sugar-dusted slices. “I’ll take care of this. You continue hiding behind the chafing dishes.”

“I prefer the term strategic avoidance,” I call out after her. Using her body as a doorstop, our server friend lets Mara through the doorway, but before she too can make her way into the dining room, I watch her eyes clock an intruder into my sanctuary of stainless steel and bulk bins of mini French vanilla creamers.

“Alison!” Mrs.Lewis’s voice precedes her, sparkling and sweet, and for a moment, I expect to see the woman I met on the Fourth of July. Vibrant and fizzy, she was wearing a hot pink and teal kaftan and pushing a signature cocktail she had created for the event.

Today, she’s unrecognizable. Her eyes are the same blue as Sam’s, but flat and red rimmed with dried tears. There’s no color in her cheeks, and she looks beyond exhausted, like her bones are too heavy to carry with her. She drags a man through the kitchen door behind her.

“There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere. Have you met Sam’s best friend, Adam? Adam, this is Sam’s girlfriend, Alison.” She gestures to the man behind her, whose gaze is glued to the floor.

Adam’s strange expression during the service flashes in my brain, and I seriously consider whether I can run away before his eyes rise to meet mine. But I’m too late.

When he looks up, I’m surprised by his appearance. I figured the North Shore Grump would have a tall, broad frame fit for a northern cryptid, but on that body, I’d imagined a face to match his bland, curt personality: a man as off-putting as his text persona.

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