The Loose Ends List(67)

Burt yanks off Mark’s shorts. Jeb and Lane jump out of the Grotto to help lower Mark’s skinny, deformed body into the choppy water. Enzo holds one arm, Burt holds the other, and they pull Mark in circles around the pool. It’s beautiful and grotesque at the same time. “Woo-hoo-hoo,” Mark yells.

“How’s that, little bro?” Burt says. “Hey, Maddie, how do you like your present? Mark’s in his birthday suit for you.”

“Ha-ha, Burt,” I say before I cannonball in.

Wes gets the bright idea to have a chicken fight. Enzo hoists me up and barrels toward Ty. It’s Janie and me in a death match. I’m fifteen pounds heavier and twenty shots lighter and Janie still shoves me into the water first.

We, the Wishwellians, purveyors of depravity, watch the sun rise, wrapped in towels. I shiver as the chill of dawn wakes me up and exhausts me all at once.



“How do we go from this to death?” We should be having sex right now. We should have gotten into bed and worked off all that crazy sexual energy. But I asked the question, and he is about to answer. It’s stupid of both of us.

Enzo is on his stomach, facing away from me. His voice is hoarse.

“After Wishwell Island, it’ll happen quickly, one patient after the next, in a matter of days. They will honor the patients and then there will be a grieving period. Mum always says grief is healthy. And that’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

I turn over. “I’m so tired,” I tell him. I don’t want him to talk anymore. I’m sorry I asked the question. He’s asleep in two minutes, and I’m racked with anxiety.

It feels like the universe is punishing me for having the best birthday of my life.





TWENTY


SOMEHOW I GOT roped into typing Gloria’s recipes, because Mom needs backup so she can laminate.

“I think it’s time for Chicken Cordon Bleu,” Gloria says. “Be sure to type it exactly as I say it, because this is a tricky one. Note that I use the heavy whipping cream and the good sliced ham, not the kind from the case.”

Mom looks down at my text: Do you really think her grandchildren are going to eat this gross crap?

She texts back: Not nice, Maddie. It’s Gloria’s recipe book, not ours.

Gloria has a story for every recipe.

“Sometimes the minister and I took in homeless women and children for weeks on end until we could find them a safe place. They loved my Cordon Bleu.”

I text Mom again: You should be recording the stories for her kids. They would appreciate them.

She texts back: Already doing that. I’m one step ahead of you.

Gram texts me: Can you come up, honey? Need to talk.

I feel the instant stomach anxiety rise up into my throat. I don’t like the tone of the text. I don’t want her to die today. I’m not ready.

I recruit Roberta to take over, and I run the stairs to Gram’s cabin. I’m getting the sharp stomach cramps. Damn irritable bowel syndrome. Gram answers the door in her housecoat and slippers. She must feel shitty.

“What is it, Gram? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, honey. It’s just time we talk about Grandpa Martin’s service in Taiwan. I know it was a shock.” She lowers herself onto the sofa. I cover her with a fuzzy blanket and sit at the other end. I lift her feet and lay them on my lap.

“It’s okay, Gram.”

“So here’s the thing.” She makes her humiliated-dog face. “We sort of didn’t leave all of Grandpa in Taiwan.”

“What?”

“There’s a fabulous company that specializes in preserving ashes in handblown glass. And I had a marble made for each of you.”

“Wait a minute. You made Grandpa into marbles?”

“Yes.”

I can’t believe she’s keeping a straight face. She made her husband into marbles.

“I don’t understand. I mean, why did you even cremate him in the first place? It’s awful.”

“One day Martin and I took one of those rowboats out in Central Park, and we talked about our wishes. Grandpa was like you; he avoided dealing with death. He wouldn’t go to the doctor because he didn’t want to hear bad news.”

“I go to the doctor.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t. Not smart.”

I ignore a text from Mom: Thanks for ditching us.

“Your grandfather did not want to go into the ground. That gave him the creeps, with the worms and such. We talked about a family mausoleum, but Martin was too cheap for that. He settled on cremation, and once he decided, he was done. He wanted the ashes scattered at the temple. Then I found the marble company, and he loved the idea. ‘I’ll keep all my marbles even after I go,’ he joked. He wanted this, honey. All of it.”

I turn and stare out at the sea. Maybe I have been a brat. Maybe I should think about what other people want, even if it scares the shit out of me.

“So he wanted to be a marble?”

Gram laughs. “He did. And if you like, you can have the first pick.”

“Now?”

“Sure.” She struggles a little to get up, so I give her a push.

“Finally. Janie always gets first pick.”

Gram sets a mahogany box on the table. Inside, eight marbles rest in grooves on a tray. I see mine right away.