Good Luck with That Page 3

  “Why don’t you shut up?” I said.

  Ruth looked confused.

  “Stop being a bitch, in other words,” Marley clarified.

  “You could lose a little weight yourself,” Ruth said to her.

  “I’m going to punch you in the throat if you don’t knock it off,” Marley said just as the second guest arrived. Marley turned to her in relief. So few people were here, we were glad to see anyone. “Hi. Thanks for coming. I’m Marley DeFelice, one of Emerson’s oldest friends, and this is Georgia Sloane, another old friend. You are . . . ?”

  “Bethany. We worked together a while ago. She was really nice.” The speaker was a beautiful girl, slim as a gazelle, maybe twenty-six years old.

  “She was,” I said.

  Guilt razored through me, but I thanked God to see that Emerson had at least one person in her life who had appreciated her. Emerson had told Marley and me about her job a few years ago . . . a call center. Customer service. She hadn’t mentioned leaving it. She really hadn’t been in touch much this past year.

  In the end, eleven people came to her wake. A few former coworkers, the nice doctor from the hospital, a nurse, one neighbor and her three daughters, and Emerson’s accountant. Marley and I greeted each of them in turn, watching their eyes widen at the size of the casket. The boyfriend, indeed, never did show up.

  At the cemetery, it was just Marley, Ruth and me, the firefighters and the funeral director. The crane was parked in full view. Even in death, it seemed that Emerson would be deprived of dignity.

  “Would anyone like to say a few words?” the funeral director asked.

  Marley was crying too hard to do it. “Emerson was a good, kind person,” I said, my voice strained with the emotion I didn’t want to release. Not here. “We had a lot of fun together. We’ll miss her so much.” Not the best speech, but I couldn’t think of what else to say.

  Ruth sighed, checked her phone and asked if we could go now.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” the funeral guy said.

  Without a word, she walked to her car.

  Marley put her hand on the casket, wiped her eyes and pressed her lips together.

  My own eyes were hot and dry. I took a white rose from the arrangement on the top of the casket—Marley and I had bought a huge, beautiful display. I’m so sorry, I thought. I’m just so sorry.

  When we got back to Emerson’s house, Ruth was waiting for us, as was a woman holding a casserole dish in her hands. She’d been at the wake with her daughters.

  “Hi,” Marley said.

  “Hello, I’m Natasha. A neighbor,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She handed me the dish, which was still warm.

  “Did you know her well?” I asked.

  “No, not really. Hardly at all. She, um . . . well, she stopped in front of my house once, and we talked a bit. But she didn’t get out much. Anyway. My daughters and I were very sorry to hear she’d died. She seemed like a sweet person.”

  “Thank you,” Marley said, her voice rough. “You’re very kind.”

  She walked down the street, and Marley and I stood there, looking at the house for a minute. We’d visited her here once, about a year after her mother died. She’d lost a lot of weight and was full of energy . . . and I couldn’t remember when that changed.

  At least the house and neighborhood were nice. She’d taken a lot of pride in this sweet little place.

  I tried not to wince at the sight of the destroyed front door as we followed Ruth inside.

  “Can we see her room?” I asked.

  “Fine. She had to move to the den when she couldn’t haul herself up the stairs anymore.” She led us down the hall and opened a door. A bigger-than-usual door. Marley and I went in, and Ruth followed.

  “Maybe you could give us a minute,” I said.

  “Don’t take anything.”

  My jaw locked. “Ruth. Give us a minute.”

  She pursed her lips and stepped out, but stood just outside the door, in case Marley and I decided we were in desperate need of one of the cat statues that Emerson appeared to have collected.

  Marley looked at me, her brown eyes wet, a hand over her mouth. My head ached.

  The king-sized bed was a mess of tangled blankets, and a mountain of pillows. The detritus of the first responders was scattered about—gauze, paper, plastic, a latex glove. In the corner was the CPAP machine. Clothes that seemed to be the size of sheets littered the floor.

  And then there was the damning evidence . . . a pizza box on the desk, a couple of empty cereal boxes, a package of Double Stuf Oreos, a red and white bucket from Kentucky Fried Chicken.

  I could hear my brother’s ugly voice in my head letting loose a tirade of disgust. He hated fat people. Especially his only sibling.

  On the bureau, which was reassuringly free from food, was a picture. Emerson, Marley and me, taken on our last day at Camp Copperbrook.

  We looked so happy. Fat, and happy. Marley looked much the same, though she no longer wore purple eye shadow. I was laughing; funny, I never pictured my face in a smile. I’d lost thirty-three pounds in twelve weeks at camp that summer and could have passed for chubby, but I’d gone on to gain twenty pounds my freshman year at Princeton.

  Emerson was the biggest, even back then.

  I showed the picture to Marley. “Damn it,” she whispered, wiping her eyes.

  I looked out the bedroom window. Emerson had been stuck in here, in this room, in that body, for the past year. Our friend had been a prisoner. All she saw of the outside world was through these windows. The leaves on the trees of that one maple, the bricks of the neighbor’s house, a glimpse of the sky.

  I felt the familiar pinch of pain in my stomach.

  Why hadn’t she told us?

  I knew the answer: shame.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Marley said.

  “We’d like to have this,” I told Ruth, holding up the picture.

  “Fine.” She put her hands on her skinny hips. “You know, you two might think you’re high and mighty and I’m a bitch, but where’ve you been these last two years?”

  Her words struck a nerve. There was nothing left for us to do, so without another word, we left.

  The envelope was in my bag, waiting for us.

  It was a long drive home.

  * * *

  • • •

  Four years ago, I left my job at a Manhattan law firm and became a nursery school teacher. The change in career also prompted me to move back to my hometown of Cambry-on-Hudson, New York, a pretty little city about an hour north of Manhattan, overlooking the mighty river. I wanted to be closer to my nephew. Oh, and I’d also gotten divorced.

  I’d rented an apartment at first, but as far back as Camp Copperbrook, Marley and I (and Emerson) had talked about living together. Two years ago, when a place came on the market—a town house with a caterer’s kitchen in the rental garden apartment—it felt like the universe was telling me something. I called Marley, who lived with her parents, and described the state-of-the-art kitchen. “Want to be my tenant?” I asked.

  “Hell’s yes, I do,” she said. By the end of the day, it was official.

  Most of the homes on Magnolia Avenue were like mine—brick or brownstone town houses built at the turn of the twentieth century, many having been divided into apartments. The Romeros had an in-law apartment in their ground-floor unit; the Clancys used theirs as a furnished Airbnb rental; Leo the piano teacher taught out of a garden apartment and lived upstairs with his girlfriend, Jenny. And, in number 23, Marley and me, just like the book.

  Now, as we crossed the Tappan Zee Bridge on our drive back from Delaware, I asked, “Didn’t Emerson talk about moving to New York a couple years ago?” What if Emerson had moved up here? Would that have saved her? Had she hated hearing that Marley and I were living together?


  “I think that was just talk.” Marley paused. “That was around Christmas a year and a half ago, so she still would’ve been kind of . . .”

  Huge.

  “Yeah.”

  My stomach puckered and burned as if I’d swallowed a hot rock rubbed with jalapeños.

  We got off Route 9 and headed into Cambry-on-Hudson, past the pretty downtown—the Blessed Bean, the coffee place where I stopped every morning for a double-tall extra-strong skinny vanilla latte; Bliss, the bridal shop owned by Jenny from down the street; Cottage Confection, that den of sin and sugar; and Hudson’s, the newest farm-to-table restaurant, where Marley and I went sometimes, her brother and his husband often joining us.

  When we pulled onto our street, I said, “Why don’t you come up and we can read whatever it was she left us, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Marley. “I’ll bring dinner.”

  “You don’t have to.” After the past few days, the last thing I wanted to do was eat.

  “Oh, please. It’s what I do. I haven’t cooked for five days, and it’s driving me crazy.” She paused. “You could use some food, besides.”

  I pulled up to the curb. “Okay. I’ll make the martinis.”

  We went into our separate doors—mine up the stairs, hers through the garden gate.

  I was greeted by Admiral, my rescued greyhound, age three.

  “Hello, handsome,” I said, kneeling down for a snuzzle. He pushed his wet nose against my neck and wagged, and I ran my hands over his lean ribs and spine.

  Admiral was an elegant gray, a former racing dog. My fourteen-year-old nephew, Mason, had been taking care of him while I was gone, and had sent me pictures of Admiral in various stages of repose. (Ad was basically a couch potato . . . a cat in dog’s clothing.) Mason adored him, and welcomed the chance to dog-sit. More than welcomed.

  Speaking of my nephew, I had six e-mails from him. These were in addition to the eight texts and two phone calls since I’d been in Delaware. All of them sounded painfully upbeat, all variations on, “Hey, I know you’re away, just wanted you to know I was thinking of you, can’t wait till you get back, hope you’re not too sad, love you.”

  Mason had a heart as big as the planet.

  Somehow, my dickhead of a brother had gotten the world’s greatest kid. Father and son could not be more different, and Hunter’s brittle, obvious disappointment in his son kept me up at night, especially since his mother, my wonderful sister-in-law Leah, had died when Mason was only eight. But my general constant worry for my nephew had exploded into all-out terror after what Mason had done last April.

  An overdose. Accidental, he said. I wasn’t so sure.

  One of the worst things about my divorce had been that Mason lost my husband, too. Rafe had been one of the only supportive male role models Mason had in his life, and I always thought there had been a special bond between them. But now Mason had Marley, who was like an inappropriate aunt and all the more fun because of it. He had Admiral. My dog, whom I’d only owned a year, had done more for Mason’s self-esteem than my brother ever had. And he had me.

  I called Mason now, and he answered on the first ring. “Hey, honey, how’s it going?”

  “Hey, G! Are you back?”

  “Yeah. It was really sad.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Just those three words made my heart ache. My brother wouldn’t have been able to say them with a gun to the back of his head. I couldn’t bear to imagine what Hunter would have said if he’d seen Emerson.

  “Thanks, honey,” I said, clearing my throat. “And thanks for taking care of Admiral. He said you were an excellent companion, and he wants you to come over this weekend.”

  Mason laughed. “He did, huh? He was also a great companion.” There was a pause; it was possible my brother was in the room, and Hunter resented the fact that his son loved me. I was an embarrassment to my brother. Fat was unforgivable in his eyes, even though the honest truth was, I was probably in the normal zone these days. Not that he had noticed. Nor that it mattered in his eyes.

  I’d been fat.

  “I’ll come by on Sunday,” Mason said.

  “Can’t wait. Love you, honey.”

  If only I could adopt Mason. But that was a thought I’d had a million times, and I still couldn’t see a way to do it. My stomach pain flared again.

  Definitely time for martinis, ulcer or no ulcer. I didn’t cook, but I made a killer cocktail. One did not attend the fine learning institutions I had—Princeton undergraduate, Yale Law, University of North Carolina graduate school, thank you very much—without learning to be a skilled mixologist.

  Marley knocked a few minutes later, bringing a wilted spinach salad, braised chicken with a red pepper sauce and quinoa with almonds and peas. My brain did the mental calorie count . . . probably 350, 400 calories a serving. Even though I knew Marley’s kitchen was stocked with good food, I was amazed at how quickly she had once again put together such a beautiful meal. “Delicious, nutritious, fast and low cal,” she announced, knowing I still obsessed over every mouthful.

  When we moved in under the same roof, Marley and I had made a pact. No food judgment. We’d be living on top of each other, literally, and the last thing we needed to feel was watched at home. If one of us had gained weight or lost it, was overeating or purging, the worst thing we could do was question the other. The rest of the world took care of that just fine.

  I poured her a martini. “To Emerson,” I said, and Marley’s big brown eyes welled up with tears. I clinked my glass with hers and took a healthy swig. The vodka burned in my stomach, but tonight, it was important to have a buzz on.

  “To Emerson,” she echoed, the tears sliding down her cheeks.

  Under the best of circumstances, enjoying food was hard for me. Eating with Marley, with her good example of healthy eating and appetite, was easier. Had been, anyway, until Mason ended up in the hospital.

  Eating with Rafael Esteban Jesús Santiago had been pretty great, too . . . at least at first. My ex-husband and my best friend were both chefs. Probably not a coincidence.

  But tonight I could only manage a few mouthfuls (though the vodka went down easily). A predictable thought flashed: Hooray, I’m too sad to eat! Maybe I’ll lose some weight! I rolled my eyes at myself and stood up to clear our plates. “Sorry I couldn’t eat more,” I said. “It was really good.”

  “You bet. And you know me. I can always eat. That doesn’t mean I’m not still heartbroken.”

  “I know, hon.”

  We cleared the dishes and tidied my kitchen. “Is this new?” Marley asked as we went into the living room. She pointed to a print of a rabbit that I’d bought just before we got the call from Emerson.

  “It is. I got it for Admiral. He looks at it all day long, don’t you, boy?” My dog wagged his tail politely.

  “HomeGoods?”

  “Marshalls. Same thing. Hey, I was thinking of going to Crate and Barrel this weekend, if you want to come.”

  “I always want to come.”

  We just sat for a minute, avoiding reading whatever Emerson had given us. As some women could talk about clothes, Marley and I could talk about home decorating, and we shared a love of the same stores.

  To be honest, the town house probably deserved better taste than I had, with my propensity for bright colors and made-in-China décor. But the home I grew up in was chilly in both atmosphere and temperature. Every room was eggshell or fog or sand colored, all the furniture muted neutrals. The thermostat was set at sixty-three “for the sake of the artwork,” Mother liked to say. Every rug, every sofa, every candlestick and painting had significance—a vase wasn’t just a vase, it was a signed Carder Steuben. The rug was an antique Heriz, the painting an Erik Magnussen, the sofa a genuine Fritz Hansen (which meant it was ugly and uncomfortable).

  As a result, I was a who
re for Crate & Barrel, Pier 1 Imports, HomeGoods and yes, Ikea—all those cheerful throw pillows and funky, happy chairs. My mother claimed my house gave her a headache, but my furniture was comfortable, at least, and the colors made me happy.

  But not tonight.

  I poured Marley and myself half a martini more and took Emerson’s envelope out of my purse.

  To be opened after my funeral.

  “What do you think is in there?” Marley asked. “Her will?”

  “No, a will is a huge document.” I’d kept my law license and still did some pro bono work. Legal documents were nothing if not long.

  “Well, we promised Emerson we’d do whatever it says.”

  I had a feeling it wouldn’t be easy, whatever it was. Admiral leaped up next to me and curled into his little doggy ball. His sixth sense for when I needed moral support was perfectly attuned. I stroked his silky ears, then took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here goes nothing.”

  I opened the envelope carefully. Inside was one piece of paper, the handwriting girlish and round, just as we had been.

  It was our list.

  Our list from Camp Copperbrook.

  I scanned it, my throat tight, that hot poker digging into the wall of my stomach.

  Oh, Emerson.

  I handed the piece of paper to Marley, the memories of that summer surging.

  I’d been friendly with Emerson from our other summers at Copperbrook, but it was Marley who made us the Terrible Trio. That summer was the first time I’d felt normal, away from my family, with real friends, breaking the occasional rule, staying up late, laughing till the bunk beds shook. And on that last day, we’d made a list, each of us contributing something, or, in the case of the last item, mutually agreeing.

  “She kept this,” Marley said. “Oh, God, she kept it all these years.” She put it on the coffee table and drained the rest of her drink.

  Things We’ll Do When We’re Skinny

  Hold hands with a cute guy in public.

  Go running in tight clothes and a sports bra.