Forever, Interrupted(53)

George is done talking, and so he finishes his sandwich and we sit in silence. I contemplate his words, remaining convinced that living any part of the years I have before me would be a betrayal to the years behind me.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Even if I can’t recover from loss like he did, it’s nice to know that someone did.

“I should thank you!” he says. “I am certainly not bored.”

That afternoon, I further compile research on Cleopatra. It occurs to me that Cleopatra had two great loves and look how they vilified her. At least she had a son and a dynasty to commemorate Caesar. At least she could put him on coins and cups. She could erect statues in his honor. She could deify him. She had a way to make his memory live on. All I have are Ben’s dirty socks.





When I leave work on Friday afternoon and head home for the empty weekend in front of me, it occurs to me that I could call Susan. I could see how she is. I think better of it.

I walk in my front door and put my things down. I go into the bathroom and start running the shower. As I’m disrobing, I hear the cell phone in the back pocket of my pants vibrating against the floor. I fumble to get it, and as I answer, I see that it is my mother.

“Hi,” she says.

“Oh. Hello,” I answer.

“Your father and I just wanted to see how you were doing. See how you were . . . uh . . . dealing with things?” she says. Her euphemism irritates me.

“Things?” I challenge.

“You know, just . . . we know you are having a hard time and we were sitting here thinking of you . . . I just mean . . . how are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” I am hoping this conversation will be over shortly, so I don’t bother turning off the shower.

“Oh good! Good!” Her voice brightens. “We weren’t sure. Well, we are just glad to hear you are feeling better. It must have been a strange feeling to be caught up in the grief of his family, to be in the middle of all of that.”

I turn the shower off and lose my energy. “Right,” I say. What’s the point of explaining that I was his family? That this is my grief? That when I said I was fine I just said that because it’s something people say?

“Good,” she says. I can hear my father in the background. I can’t make out any of what he is saying, but my mother starts to get off the phone. “Well, if you need anything at all,” she says. She always says this. I don’t even know what she means by it.

“Thanks.” I shut off the phone, turn the faucet back on, and get under the water. I need to see Ben. I need just a minute with him. I need him to show up in this bathroom and hug me. I just need him for a minute. One minute. I step out of the shower, grab my towel and my phone.

I call Susan. I ask her if she’d like to have lunch tomorrow and she says she’s free. We agree on a place halfway between us, and then I put on a robe, get in bed, smell Ben’s side, and fall asleep. The smell is fading. I have to inhale deeper and deeper to get to it.





Susan has suggested a place in Redondo Beach for lunch. Apparently, she and Ben came here often over the years. Sometimes, before Steven died, they would all meet up here for dinner. She warns me not to expect much. “I hope you’re okay with chain Mexican restaurants,” she says.

The restaurant is decorated with bulls, hacienda-style tiles, and bright colors. It’s aggressively cheesy, wearing tacky like a badge of honor. Before I even reach Susan’s table, pictures of margaritas have accosted me about nine times.

She’s sitting in front of a glass of water when I find the table. She gets up immediately and hugs me. She smells the same and looks the same as always: composed and together. She doesn’t make grief look glamorous, but she does make it look bearable.

“This place is awful, right?” She laughs.

“No!” I say. “I like any place that offers a three-course meal for nine ninety-nine.”

The waiter comes to drop off a bucket of tortilla chips and salsa, and I nervously reach for them. Susan ignores them for the moment. We order fajitas.

“And, you know what?” Susan says to the waiter. “Two margaritas too. Is that okay?” I’m already face-deep in tortilla chips, so I just nod.

“What flavor?” he asks us. “Original? Mango? Watermelon? Cranberry? Pomegranate? Cantalo—”

“Original is fine,” she says, and I wish that she’d asked me about this one too because watermelon sounded kind of good.

He gathers our sticky red menus and leaves the table.

“Shit. I meant to ask him for guacamole,” she says after he leaves, and she starts to dig into the chips with me. “Sir!” she calls out. He comes running back. I can never get waiters’ attention once they’ve left the table. “Can we get guacamole too?” He nods and leaves, and she looks back at me. “My diet is a joke.” Who can count calories at a time like this? I feel good that Susan can’t either.

“So,” she says. “You mentioned it on the phone but I don’t understand. Your mom said she thought you’d be over it by now?”

“Well,” I say, wiping my hand on my napkin. “Not necessarily. She just . . . she called and asked how I was handling ‘things.’ Or ‘the thing’—you know how people use that terminology like they can’t just say ‘Ben died’?”