Page 26 of Golden Girl
“You know as well as I do that it won’t do you any good to find out what everyone thinks of you.”
Savannah clears her throat.
Yes, yes, let’s get to the eulogy—but first, Vivi seeks out Cruz. He’s skulking in the doorway, his head hanging.
Cruz! Go sit where you belong, up front, with my kids!Vivi thinks. What is going on?
Zach Bridgeman is still in the back corner of the vestibule, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking supremely uncomfortable. As Savannah draws a breath to speak, he slides past Cruz and out of the church.
“I’m sure many of you are wondering how I’m going to get through this,” Savannah says. “The answer is…I took a pill. I may fall asleep up here, but I won’t cry.”
There’s a ripple of laughter that soothes like light rain.
“I need to ask your indulgence. I’m not the writer. Vivi was the writer. So if the universe were working the way it’s supposed to, she would be up here eulogizing me, making me sound like a much more wonderful person than I actually am. Because, see? I’ve been at this five seconds and I’ve already made it all about me.”
More laughs.
“Vivi and I were best friends. That phrase is hackneyed, overused; it has been acronym-ed into BFFs. As girls, we learn from our earliest social interactions that we are supposed to have a best friend. Someone to chant while we jump rope, someone to confide in about our secret crush. I’m not going to snow you. I didn’t have a best friend growing up. Well, I did, but it was my dachshund, Herman Munster.”
People laugh, though Vivi knows this is a sore spot with Savannah.
“That changed my first week at Duke University, in the Craven Quad dorm, when I met a girl from down the hall, Vivian Howe. We were in the bathroom; Vivi asked to borrow shampoo. She had arrived at college woefully under-provisioned, whereas I had an entire CVS stuffed beneath my extra-long twin bed. Vivi was from a town called Parma, Ohio. She was a tiny thing with long straight coal-black hair and cute freckles across her nose, and she had a thin silver hoop pierced through the top of her ear that I was jealous of. The second Vivi accepted the bottle of Breck from me, I felt a recognition: here was the best friend I’d been looking for.
“In the summers during college, Vivi stayed in Durham and waitressed at the Flying Burrito in order to save money for the following school year. I didn’t get her to Nantucket until we’d both graduated. My parents had a rule at our Nantucket house: houseguests stayed one week, not a minute longer. I had other ideas about Vivi; I thought she might be allowed to live in my room for the entire summer. She wasn’t a houseguest and she wasn’t just a friend, she was a sister.” Savannah stops, takes a breath. “My parents saw things differently, and after a week, they insisted that Vivi had to go. I thought Vivi would head back to Durham to sling chips and salsa, but in the seven days of her visit, she had fallen in love with Nantucket Island. She said she had…found her home.” Deep breath. “So…what happened? She rented a room in a house on Fairgrounds Road and found a job at Fair Isle Dry Cleaning. Anyone who has ever been to Fair Isle Dry Cleaning,” Savannah says, casting her eyes around the church, “which seems to be only half of you”—laughter—“knows how hot it can get in there. So that first summer, Vivi chopped off all her hair and got a pixie cut. She started studying the locals and summer people so she could put you all in her future novels.” Laughter. Uncomfortable? “Oh, you think I’m kidding? Clearly no one here has readThe Season of Scandal.” Laughter.She’s got them in the palm of her hand,Vivi thinks.Go, Savannah!
“Vivian Howe has been called a wash-ashore. But she was more of a Nantucketer than people who have lived here their entire lives because of howdeeply,howprofoundly,and howunconditionallyshe loved this island and our way of life.” Savannah is stabbing the podium with her finger. “She wrote thirteen novels, and each one is a love letter to Nantucket. It is a small but real comfort to know that although Vivi is gone, her words remain.”
Vivi smiles at Martha, who rolls her eyes. “Modesty, Vivian,” she whispers.
“However, the most important works that Vivi has left behind are…her three beautiful children—her daughter Willa, her daughter Carson, and her son, Leo.” Savannah turns her focus to the front pew. “Kids, your mom was a busy lady. She was writing or she was running or she was making chicken salad or she was swimming at Ram Pasture. The woman didn’t have five minutes in her day that wasn’t accounted for. Sometimes even while we were talking, I knew she was working out a plot point in her head or wondering how she would ever persuade her publisher to send her to Winnipeg on tour because her Canadian readers deserved a visit. However, I’m here to tell you that, at the end of the day, the only thing that mattered to your mom was the three of you. She was so, so proud of you and she loved you so, so much.”
Yes,Vivi thinks.
People are openly crying.
“My job, as your mom’s best friend, is not to make this loss easier. Nobody can do that. My job is to talk to you every day about your mom, to share my memories, and not only the good memories. Nobody wants to hear about a sainted, squeaky-clean Vivi. Has anyone here seen Vivian Howe get angry? Has anyone here seen Vivian Howe get angry after drinking tequila? Not pretty. But real.”
Martha chuckles again.
“Glad you find that funny,” Vivi says.
“I promise you, Willa, Carson, and Leo, that for as long as I live, I will talk to you about your mom. I will text you or call you when I have a vivid memory; I will advise you the way I think Vivi would have advised you; I will always, always remind you that wherever she is, she loves you. The love never goes away. Your mom is watching you right now. There is no way she would ever leave you.”
Vivi gasps. “Does she know?”
“Of course not,” Martha says.
There are soft sobs, sniffling.
Savannah looks up into the soaring rafters of the church. “Vivi, I’m talking to you now. I have given a lot of thought over the past few days to what we, as humans, can be to one another. Can we cross boundaries to fully understand—or evenbecome—another person? I decided the answer is no, we can’t. I’m here, alive, and you are somewhere else. But of all the people I have known in this life, I felt the closest to you. Youwereandareandalways will bemy best. Friend. Forever. Thank you.”
“Wow,” Vivi says.
“That’s the best one I’ve heard so far this year,” Martha says.
Only this year?Vivi thinks. Inside, she’s cheering like Savannah just caught Cam Newton’s touchdown pass in the end zone to win the Super Bowl in overtime!
The priest takes the pulpit, lifts his hands, and says, “Let us pray.”
