The Loose Ends List(86)

“I like it, Maddie.”

“Like what?”

“The starfish. You know I have a soft spot for stars.”

“Aw. Thanks, Dad. Me too.”



I’m already in bed when Francesca walks in. Now that I have no door, people think they can come in whenever they want.

She sits on the edge of my bed and tells me she’s sorry for Gram, for Enzo, and that our bees will always connect us.

“Your bee even sends birthday alerts.”

“That’s how Tits and Mama remembered my birthday,” I say.

She laughs. “Those two never forget a birthday. And they say marijuana makes people forgetful. Anyway, every day you’ll feel a little stronger, and one day you’ll feel like you again.” She gets up to go. “Thank you, Maddie.”

“For what?”

“For bringing my son back.”



I shove a heap of dirty clothes into the suitcase and pull out the electric-blue flamenco dress. I hold it to my nose, searching for Enzo’s scent, but all I smell is the perfume Janie lent me that night.

The Jules Verne book and Aunt Rose’s bejeweled bookmark go into the carry-on bag. And one by one, I take out the treasures from my velvet drawstring pouch: the worry doll, Paige’s Delta Gamma pin, the key to Jeb’s apartment, the sea star bracelet, the sapphire, and the Grandpa Martin marble. I add the tiny glass soccer ball. I never got around to giving it to Enzo. I hope I can someday.

I eat the last of the jelly beans and hold the framed picture of Gram and me when I was three in my lap. I look out at the sea and try to remember what the world sounds like without waves.

I need to go home. I need to unpack.





TWENTY-NINE


I’VE GOT ALL the E’s in the van. We’re cruising with the windows down, primped and ready for Last Bash. We get out, link arms, and head toward the music. It’s unusually cool for August. It’s sweatshirt weather.

Of course, we’re not wearing sweatshirts. We’re wearing obscenely short dresses. Those are blow-job dresses. I can hear Gram now.

“Maddie, you’re back. You’re so skinny. You look a-mazing,” somebody says. Two people tell me their grandmas died this summer, too. And three people act as if their Disney Cruise experiences somehow mean we have something in common. I play along, pretending my “family cruise” was just like theirs. And I find myself wanting to share things, as if any of them will care that the minister died or that Gracie is saying lots of words or that Janie broke up with Ty or that I miss my smoothies and frozen yogurts almost as much as I miss sitting in the Grotto.

It’s good to be home, with the chill in the air, the doting acquaintances, the familiar sand under my toes. Yet it reminds me of when I was seven and insisted on wearing my size 4T pants to school. I could barely squeeze into them, but I wanted to wear them anyway. It all feels smaller, or I feel bigger, like I’m squeezing into something that will never quite fit again.



On Tessa Rose O’Neill Parker’s baptism day, we walk through Central Park. We show Bob Johns the spot where Karl allegedly proposed to Aunt Rose. Bob sits on the bench with Tessa, who looks like she could be his own granddaughter.

Aunt Rose would adore Tessa. Gram would call her delicious and divine. She would let Tessa suck on the sapphire and play with her pearls and slobber on her knobby hands. She would say, “Look at this child. Is there anything more precious on earth?” She would tell Wes to stop dressing the poor thing like a doll and put her in a cotton romper. And Wes would say, “Mind your business, Assy.” And Gram would say, “Shove it up your ass, Wessy, and hand over that baby.”



I leave Gram’s apartment, Mom and Dad’s apartment now, and get on the downtown bus. I don’t know what I’ll be interrupting in Cairo, but I take a chance.

Me: I actually witnessed a chipmunk couple shagging.

Him: See, I said you would just know.

Me: Right you were, old chap.

Him: Celia Hobbes is boarding the Wishwell.

Me: Performer?

Him: Patient.

Me: Gram must need music.

Me: On a brighter note, Burt has a girlfriend.

Him: Yeah. I heard that from Wes.

Me: You won’t believe this one. Jeb has convinced Camilla to move to Brooklyn.

Him: Yes. Wes texted me.

Me: Of course he did.

A few minutes later, my bee buzzes again.

Him: Miss you.

Me: Miss you more.

I look up and see a pretty older woman staring at my bee. I don’t know if she’s staring because it’s a strange yellow device or because I was just laughing out loud. She smiles through the crowd, digs around in her bag, and pulls out her own bee. I smile back. She waves as she gets off at the next stop. It almost feels like this woman and I are the only people in the world who share a secret. But I know better.

We, the Wishwellians, are everywhere.



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