Inevitably, each person would bring me in for a hug. Each time, I had to remind myself that the hug wasn’t for me. It was for them. It was for Ben. The guy who would’ve lined up and gladly taken a hug from each of these mourners and remember some minute detail about their life and tell them, genuinely, that he was happy to see them despite the circumstances.
Ben and I shared a dark sense of humor, and when we were feeling particularly stressed out, we would play a game called “The Reasons You Can’t Die.” We would call out clever things whenever they came to mind, like him admitting the kids would never see a summer camp enrollment or doctor’sappointment without me. I would follow up by conceding that I would need to learn to pump gas again and how to operate the breaker box. Remembering birthdays without his prompt reminders would be impossible.
One night a year or so ago, we were lying in bed, exhausted, and playing the game after finally getting the kids to bed. After Ben added a few hilarious new items to the list, I looked at him earnestly and said, “You can’t die, because I will turn to stone.” He pulled me in close and we fell asleep tight together, like we were in his old twin bed.
The well-intentioned hugs at his memorial service only reminded me of what I’d lost. I could feel my heart and soul calcifying in real time, just like I had predicted.
Of course, the truth is, I would gladly become a hugger. A giggler. A walking human-interest repository, if it meant that I got just one more hug from Ben. To feel known and understood simply by the way he held me. I know the hug he would give me right now to make it all feel better, and yet I can’t have it. I will never have it again.
I would do anything to look over at this empty space in my bed and see his blue eyes, convincing me with his wry smile that, yes, two people can inhabit this small space if we hold tight.
You’ll love it, he would say, just like he did when I was eighteen. And I would.
Chapter 2
“Yesterday at lunch, Gemma saidthe only reason you’re famous is because Dad died,” Ava blurts out while we work together through the morning routine. We both pause and stare at one another, our matching hazel eyes locked. “And that you’re probably glad it happened.”
“Wow, sixth-grade girls are harsh,” I respond while pulling my hair into a low ponytail. “I can’t imagine thinking something so terrible and then having the gumption to say it out loud.”
I know, of course, that twelve-year-old Gemma did not form this thought on her own. It smells of an adult opinion spilled in earshot of an impressionable kid. At least now I know what her mom thinks of me. If I weren’t so physically and emotionally exhausted, I’d probably be angry. It never occurred to me that a daytime TV appearance would impact Ava’s life. It’s been two weeks since my Maisy interview aired, and parents are still stopping me at school to talk about it.
I glance at my sweet girl, the child who made me a mom, as she twirls her own dark-brown hair around her finger. She’s ruminatingon what Gemma had said, clearly. She was probably up late thinking about it. We can look each other in the eyes now, thanks to her last growth spurt and the height she inherited from Ben. In a few years she’ll tower over me.
“Number one, I’m not famous. Writers don’t get famous-famous, but I’m flattered Gemma thinks I am. Number two, let’s be clear. I already have fifteen thousand presales of my book, which will likely make us very rich by this time next year,” I say, raising my eyebrows playfully to impress her. “I would give it all up to have your dad back for a day. An hour, even! That’s what I would actually be glad about.”
I responsibly channel my now-simmering rage by being honest about bringing back Ben while alsoslightlyinflating my presale numbers, so Ava will repeat them, and Gemma’s mom will feel like garbage.
Ava hates when I opine or try to give advice (ironic, given that’s all strangers want me to do), but I can’t hold back.
“A real friend would never say that to you. Tons of inappropriate thoughts and ideas fly around your brain as a preteen, but part of life is learning when to keep your mouth closed and just”—I take a breath—”say nothing.”
I look intensely at Ava, my spitting image with Ben’s personality infused into every fiber of her being. I wonder what it must be like to have the worst thing happen to you so young: losing the person who understood you the best. Some people probably ask the same thing about me.
She smiles. “I know what you’re going to say next: bottle this feeling up and remember how your heart and body feel. Make sure to avoid making someone else ever feel this way.” She laughsbecause she’s right, and her impression of me is uncanny. “It’s not that serious, Mom.”
Her tone is unconvincing. Gemma is popular and it’s obvious Ava is wounded. I don’t ask, but I assume other kids were around to hear it, too. Ava, like Ben before her, is a feeler. Comments like these go in one ear and out the other for me—which has proven useful in my new, unexpected life as a writer and semipublic figure. For people like Ava, those comments stick around.
“Maybe it’s not a big deal,” I say. “But your dad and I also believed that someone’s true nature is shown in the small things. The day-to-day acts of friendship and life matter. You know this. And that statement”—I’m dramatically waving my hands at this point—“is not the work of a good nature. That is all.”
I make a mental note to tell my therapist about this conversation and silently thank God we are in the last week of school before the summer break. This year has been too hard. For me, for the kids. So many firsts without Ben—birthdays, holidays, school events, trips.
What I really want to do right now is give Ava a few ideas of things she can say if the conversation reemerges today at school.
Well, Gemma, your mom isn’t going to get famous if she keeps losing PTA elections.
Your dad seems very interested in my mom’s fame every time he sees her.
Don’t be such an asshole, Gemma.
I file these away as things to say to make Ava laugh later, if needed, because I know that my beautiful, loving, smart, and empathetic daughter would never say something quite so mean-spirited. She isn’t me, after all.
Lost in my thoughts, I realize it’s 7:25. We needed to be out the door three minutes ago.
“Benji, it’s time!” I call to get my son’s attention from the living room. He is a seventy-year-old man trapped in a fourth-grader’s body. He was up, dressed, lunch packed, and breakfast made before Ava or I rolled out of bed. He is quiet, resourceful, and slightly obsessive. He’s the inverse of Ava—looks like Ben, but every personality quality and quirk has come from me. I used to get up early, too.
—
On the wayhome from car pool, I make a stop at Pageturner, my favorite bookstore-meets–coffee shop in town. The college students cleared out when the semester ended a few weeks ago, and Franklin Street is blissfully quiet. I snag a parking spot right in front.That’s a lucky way to start the day, I think.
