Page 8 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

She levels me with a look that says one second was all she needed.

Did I? Did he? I inwardly shudder at the possibility I was subconsciously ogling guests at my boyfriend’s funeral. Well, ex-boyfriend, but no one else knew that!

Chelsea’s eyes are bright with mischief. “It’s more of an energy than a look you go for, like a grumpy intellectual who just emerged disheveled from a cave and has no time for your funny business.”

Mara piles on. “Like a scruffy guy who’ll argue with you while mounting your TV.”

“That’s not my type. Sam wasn’t like that.”

Chelsea tilts her head in serious deliberation. “No, he was Greg Kinnear in Sabrina, even though it was obvious to anyone with eyes she was going to end up with Harrison Ford. But Sam was definitely in the Harrison Ford extended universe. I, for one, want to see you with a steadier Ford. Like in Witness or Working Girl.”

“He’s such a jerk in Working Girl,” I say, but no one’s listening.

Chelsea picks a bundle of pine needles from the forest floor and smells it, pleasure crinkling the corners of her eyes. Jealousy blooms in my chest. Ever since my mastectomy, I’ve made myself go on a hike every week, hoping I’d grow to love these regular meditations with nature and my body. I have not. Give me a choice between a mountain, a beach, and a meadow, and I’ll choose “D: None of the Above” every time. Humans have mastered climate control. Why move backward?

With every weekend hike, every personal-growth memoir I devour, every trip down the river in a canoe, I’m hoping to become the kind of person who feels compelled to sniff at a twig just for the simple joy of it.

But I’m still me, and I’d rather smell a cookie.

It’s like you’re pretending to be someone else.

“Yes! Sweet baby Jesus, I have a bar.” Mara teeters on a boulder, hovering her phone in the air and engaging every core muscle for balance.

The branches open up behind my friend’s precarious yoga pose, and I can just make out crystal-blue water in the distance. Lush pine trees surround the small lake, their reflections dancing in the glittering light of the surface. The last dregs of fall foliage cling to the branches of the neighboring deciduous trees, dotting the scene with sparse bits of oranges and reds like it’s an unfinished landscape watercolor.

Even I have to admit, there’s something hopeful about witnessing seasons, the way even the air is capable of radical change. The guilt in my chest unfurls—the smallest bit—and I reward my attitude shift with a rest on a neighboring rock.

Mara and Chelsea are already typing on their screens, so I pull out my phone too. I started a text conversation with the North Shore Grump on the drive, feeling buzzy first-day-of-school nerves for some unknown reason.

When he didn’t immediately respond, I hid my phone under my water bottle in the backseat of Mara’s Jeep and reopened my text messages with Sam. I’ve been picking at that scab since I learned of his death.

I should’ve been relieved that all of our post-breakup communications were dreadfully civil, friendly even. There was no acrimony. No cruel jabs. No unfortunate drunk voicemails on either end. The exchanges were absolutely devoid of substance. It was almost as if we didn’t mean anything to each other at all.

SEPTEMBER 9:

2:30 PM

Sam

Is my green jacket at your place?

3:12 PM

Alison:

It is. You can grab it after 5.

4:36 PM

Sam:

I’ll swing over around 6 then.

SEPTEMBER 30:

8:42 AM

Sam:

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