And there were so many of Lauren’s friends—Asmaa from the community center; Sarah, her best friend from childhood; Mara from Rhode Island School of Design; Creepy Charlotte, the single woman who lived on the first floor of their building, and, Josh was almost sure, had been making a play for him since they’d met, wife or no wife. People from Lauren’s childhood, high school and college, teachers, classmates, the principal of Lauren’s grammar school.
Some people even came for Josh, having read Lauren’s obituary. Not exactly his friends . . . he didn’t have many of those. Lauren had been his friend. His best friend. Her family had welcomed him, but he was really just a phantom limb at this point. An amputation without her.
A short, stout woman with steel-gray curls came up to him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. Her voice was familiar. He glanced at his mother, who gave a small shrug.
“Uh . . . how did you know Lauren?” he asked.
“I don’t. I work for you. I’m Cookie Goldberg. Your virtual assistant.”
“Oh! Hi. Uh . . . right.” Cookie lived in New York. Long Island. They’d never met face-to-face, though he’d seen her on Zoom and Skype often enough.
“Yeah, well, I’m . . . shit. I’m so sorry for you, Joshua. My heart is breaking for you.” Her raspy voice cracked, and she looked a little shocked at her own words. “Okay. I got a long drive home. Call me if you need anything.”
She turned and left.
“She works for you, but you didn’t recognize her? You only have one employee, Josh,” his mother chided gently.
“She’s out of context,” he said, sitting back down.
He didn’t eat, or maybe he did. Darius, Jen’s husband, got him a glass of wine, forgetting that Josh didn’t drink. Eventually, Josh got to hold Octavia. Was she still his niece? He was her dead aunt’s widowed husband. Did he still get to claim her and Sebastian? Was he still Uncle Josh?
Sebastian, age four, wailed, inconsolable despite Darius’s best efforts. The kid was just old enough to understand Auntie Lauren was never coming back. Josh envied him. No stiff upper lip there. He was crying the way Josh wanted to: unfettered, anguished, horrified.
“Call if you need anything,” said Creepy Charlotte, her pale blue eyes eerie. She handed him a piece of paper. Her phone number, he assumed. As she moved in to hug him, Josh stuck out his hand at the same time. Awkward. Lauren would’ve fixed it so it would’ve been funny, but it stayed awkward. Charlotte lifted an eyebrow, but Josh wasn’t sure how to interpret that. He took the paper and put it in his pocket, then sat back down, but the paper rankled. It felt like betrayal, so he wadded it up and tossed it under the table with a silent apology to the cleaning staff. Those people, he pictured them saying. Throwing trash on the ground like animals.
He bent over and looked for it. “What are you doing?” his mother hissed.
“Stephanie,” he heard a woman say. “I’m so sorry! She was a lovely girl. Um . . . where’s Joshua?”
The wad was just out of reach. He stretched, heard his chair fall over behind him, grabbed the paper and stood up. Righted the chair. “Hi,” he said to his mother’s friend.
“Joshua, you remember Nina, right? From the lab?”
His mother had worked at Rhode Island Hospital’s lab for thirty years. He didn’t remember this woman. “Yes,” he lied, shaking her hand.
She pulled him in for a hug, and he winced. “So sorry for your loss, honey,” she said.
“Thank you.” He stood there another minute, then turned and went to the bathroom to throw out the paper. He didn’t want Creepy Charlotte’s number, or anyone’s number. He just wanted his wife not to be dead.
The face in the mirror was nearly unrecognizable. He lifted his hand to make sure he was really there. This had to be a dream, right? Groping under a table for a piece of paper, all these people he didn’t quite know . . . next thing would be he wouldn’t have any clothes on, and then he’d wake up next to his wife. He’d hold her close and breathe in the smell of her hair and she’d smile without opening her eyes.
But he was still in the bathroom, looking at the face in the mirror.
Sarah, Lauren’s best friend, was waiting for him when he came out. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Me neither.” Her eyes were wet. She took his hand and squeezed it. “This is a fucking nightmare.”
“Yep.”
“Did you eat anything?”
“Yes,” he said, though he couldn’t remember.
Sarah walked him back to his table. People spoke to him. Some of them cried.
Josh stared at the table. He may have responded to the people who talked to him. It didn’t really matter, though, did it?
Sometime later, Darius drove him home to the old mill building turned condos. “Want me to come in, buddy?” he asked in the parking lot.
“No, no. I . . . I think I want to be alone.”
“Got it. Listen, Josh, I’m here for you, okay? Anytime, night or day. We married sisters. We’re family forever. Brothers.”
Josh nodded. Darius was very tall and had rich brown skin, so Josh doubted anyone would mistake them for brothers, but it was a nice thought. “Thanks, Darius.”
“This really sucks, man.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry. She was . . . she was a peach.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep, okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He went up the stairs, his legs heavy. For the past six days, he’d been staying at his mom’s house, glad for the familiar comfort of his childhood home, the smells and furniture. Lauren, whose own mother was a bit of a drama queen, had welcomed his mother’s calm ways, understood her devotion to her only child, admired Stephanie for raising him alone. Lauren was more than a daughter-in-law to his mom; she was the daughter Stephanie never had.
Had been. She had been.
Jesus. He had to change tenses now. He unlocked the apartment door and went inside. He hadn’t been here since Lauren was hospitalized . . . when was that? Six days ago? Eight? A lifetime.
The island lights shone gently, and the lamp by the reading chair was on low. Someone had been here. The place was immaculate. The pillows were plumped on the couch, pillows Lauren had bought. A bouquet of yellow tulips sat on the kitchen island, smack in the middle, obscenely cheerful. The blankets that Lauren had used, since she was always cold, were folded, one draped over the back of the couch.
It was so quiet.