“Don’t you want to take these down already?” her mother had asked the last time Maggie visited. “It’s been long enough. Almost a decade.”
At the time, Maggie had tightened up, had answered something sarcastic or glib or possibly mean. She can’t remember, but she knows her mother thought it was silly that this room remain a shrine to her teenage self. Maggie didn’t know how to explain that she found comfort in her unchanging room. She liked the teenager she’d been, the raw newness of discovering her desires, the things that made her angry, the causes she became passionate about. She doesn’t think high school was her happiest time, and she’s pretty suspicious of anyone who thinks it should be, but she knows she was more open then, more willing to extend herself. Everything else shifts, changes, moves, grows up—and dies, she thinks now—so why not keep one thing the same, especially if it isn’t hurting anyone?
She takes a deep breath and lets herself sink back, her Conversed feet still on the floor. Just for a moment, she thinks, and shuts her eyes.
* * *
• • •
SHE WAKES UP groggy a full two hours later. She’s shocked Ariel has let her sleep this long. Her mind tries to wrap around the discomfort, the disconnect of being in her old bedroom on a Monday afternoon when she should be at work, sharing a muffin with Simon. She checks in on Peter again, remembering she’d meant to get him to eat, but he says he isn’t hungry. Her phone has pointless news alerts about the now-finished eclipse, two texts from Lucia—Did u land safely? and Babe?—and some Facebook messages that she swipes away without looking at who they’re from. She checks her work email to make sure that her leave is being handled smoothly. Her boss has answered her, expressing her sorrow for Maggie’s loss and telling Maggie that she’ll get three days of bereavement leave and can use paid or unpaid vacation days thereafter, and gently suggests that she hopes to see Maggie back after Labor Day. Maggie has been working at the agency for four years, and her boss likes her; she’s good with younger clients who don’t really get how insurance works or what the point of it is. They can connect with Maggie, her nose stud, her slicked-back hair, her clear hipsterness even inside her button-down and slacks. She’s newly grateful for having this often sneered-at job, a stable one with a salary and benefits, rather than the freelance or barista and server life some of her friends lead—unlike them, she thinks, she’s isn’t worried about being fired when something like this happens and she has to leave.
In the kitchen, she sets up her battle station, plugging her laptop in so she won’t have to think about its battery life, laying her planner and several pens beside it. This will be her base of operations. She waits for the tabs to load, the feeble beginnings of her research from early that morning. An air bubble rising up her esophagus makes her pay attention to her body—she must be hungry, even if Peter isn’t.
“Ariel!” she shouts into the house, which is silent but for the hum of the refrigerator behind her. She calls his name again and gets no response. Reluctantly, she lowers herself out of the tall chair and checks the cupboards and fridge. There’s plenty of food, but most of it requires actual cooking. Peter taught her how to cook a long time ago, and it’s something she occasionally enjoys, especially recently because she and Lucia do it together a lot. Maggie had cooked with friends before, in the sad dorm kitchens in college and with roommates in St. Louis before she got her own place, but never with a lover, and the experience kept surprising her with its tenderness. Lucia cooked with care, and Maggie found herself increasingly doing the same, wanting to nourish Lucia in some way, to make her feel full, comforted. Just after they’d agreed they were officially together, Maggie prepared a marinated pork shoulder dish they’d shared at a restaurant; Lucia had taken one forkful of meat, held it in her mouth for a moment, and gently spit it out into a napkin before bursting out laughing. Maggie had mixed up the olive oil and vinegar ratios in the sauce recipe. At least the plantains she’d fried came out perfectly.
She can’t muster up the energy to cook anything now, so she grabs a cereal bar and scarfs it down. For Peter, she gets a yogurt and some bread and cheese and a banana and puts it on a plate, which she brings to his office. He’s leaning back in his chair with the book open on his stomach, which has grown rounder over the years into a distinct potbelly. His eyes are closed, and Maggie thinks he may be feigning sleep.
She heads to Ariel’s room. The door is shut, and she can’t hear anything inside. She knocks, and when she gets no response, tries the handle, but it just turns uselessly. Ariel convinced their parents to get him a real lock for his birthday when he was fourteen, with a key and everything so he could lock it from the outside as well as inside. Maggie had helped, mentioning to their father—she’d never say as much to Iris—that Ariel probably just wanted to jerk off in peace. Ariel has always been fiercely private. It’s why she likes shocking him so much. She wanders through the house, which seems bigger than it ever has before, so different from her one-bedroom apartment in St. Louis, which feels spacious enough for her and more. She begins to hear Ariel’s voice as she approaches the backyard and sees the door to it is open. But he’s not there; she walks toward his voice and realizes he’s on the phone, walking up and down the gravel-filled side yard. Shoeless.
“Why?” she mouths, pointing to his bare feet. He tries to wave her away but she stays there, listening.
“Yes, Mrs. Gershon. That’s right. She really was. Okay, thank you so much for your help.” Then, to Maggie, “You know who’s the man? This man. This man right here. And you know why? Can you tell me why?” He cocks his ear toward her, cupping a hand around it. “No? I didn’t think so. Well, I just got this whole funeral thing taken care of and we don’t have to do a thing. Boom! How’d you like that!” He lifts his hand for a high five but Maggie leaves him hanging.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I mean,” Ariel says, “that I just called the synagogue, and Mrs. Gershon is still there, and you know she and Mom—” He pauses for a moment, looks down at his bare feet, which must be both burning and uncomfortable on the hot and prickly gravel. “She knew Mom for a long time, like since way back when,” he pushes on, determined to ignore the quaver in his voice. “And she said the synagogue will take care of everything, and she just needs us to get the death certificate from the hospital and scan a copy of it for her by tomorrow afternoon, and then the funeral will be day after tomorrow, which is as soon as she said they can make it. Wait, where are you going?”
Maggie began backing away around the words “death certificate” and now is sliding the door to the backyard shut behind her—he always leaves it open, that fucker, she thinks, wasting the air-conditioning, wasting electricity, he never listens to Mom when . . . though of course it didn’t matter, because Iris never seemed to get mad at Ariel, the goody two-shoes nerd who liked school and D&D and books. She half-heartedly hopes the door will lock behind her, that Ariel will get stuck outside, that he’ll need to wake Peter from his stupor to come and let him in, but no such luck. Ariel is behind her now, asking again where she’s off to.