Chapter 38
38
NOW
Gwen stumbles into the kitchen, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Her head feels as if it’s been stuffed with cotton, a logy feeling she gets when she takes a Xanax with her nightly glass of wine. The combo helps her sleep, but the next day is brutal. A strong cup of coffee will slice through the fog.
“There you are,” Barb says, coming up from the basement with a basket of folded laundry. Gwen almost does a double take. She can’t remember ever seeing her mother hauling a laundry basket before. At her own house, Barb has always employed a housekeeper. She wonders what it is about Anton’s death that has brought out the domestic goddess in Barb. Her mother was always competitive with her, and this feels like another chance for Barb to win.
“Coffee’s made,” Barb says. “You look like you could use it. And I’ll get you some Tylenol.”
Gwen looks at the black-and-white clock on the wall. It’s the kind where the numbers flip, and that also shows the date, with such large letters and numerals it can be read from across the room. It had been her grandmother’s, who suffered from terrible eyesight, and when she died it was the only thing in her flowery, overstuffed house that Gwen wanted. “It’s almost ten. I can’t believe I slept that much.”
“Hmm,” her mother says noncommittally.
“Where are the boys?”
“A very nice neighbor of yours, Katie something, came by this morning and took the boys for a while.” Her mother puts two Tylenol tablets and a glass of water in front of her.
“Katie O’Brien,” Gwen says before popping the Tylenol in her mouth. “Her son goes to Holy Cross.”
“He seemed like a very well-behaved young man. Called me ma’am. Apparently, her boy’s school was closed, and the two were headed off to a trampoline park. She asked if she could take the boys with her and I said yes.”
“A trampoline park? And they wanted to go?”
“They certainly did. At least George did. I encouraged them. They needed to get out of this house. Especially Rafi, I’m worried he’s becoming depressed. And seeing you mope around here isn’t going to help.”
“Sorry I can’t be more chipper.”
Barb frowns. “I’m going to put away this laundry. Why don’t you eat something?”
Gwen’s own laziness would have horrified her last week. Gwen prided herself on being the first one up in the house, showered, dressed, makeup on, and ready to face the day before anyone else. She wanted her boys to look back on their childhood and remember their mother as full of vitality, so different from her own childhood, when Barb would sleep in and the housekeeper would see her off to school. Gwen does have a cleaning company come in twice a month, but other than that, she cleans and cooks most of the family’s meals. And it isn’t because she bought into some 1950s version of marriage, it’s because these acts of domesticity feel like professions of love. Or they did.
It takes all of Gwen’s energy to drag herself off the counter stool, get a mug, and pour herself some coffee. The woman who bought this house last year is gone. That version of Gwen found antique hooks in a small Kensington antique shop and installed them at kid’s-eye height after she had read in an article that little kids were more likely to pick up after themselves if there were hooks to hang things on.
The old Gwen was convinced that having a perfect family was still attainable. That the right house, the right neighborhood would somehow compensate for the rot in her marriage.
That Gwen is gone, and never coming back. Problem is, she’s not sure what the new Gwen is going to look like.
Gwen takes the coffee and a protein bar into the living room and sits next to Sababa on the sofa. For a year, ever since they moved in, the dog was not allowed on the couch, but after Anton’s death, he’s taken up permanent residence there.
Her mother’s low heels click-clack into the room. She doesn’t buy into Gwen’s concept of a no-shoes house. Really, Gwen, grow up had been her exact words the first time Gwen told her that they didn’t wear shoes in the house.
Barb sits beside her. “Sweetie, I have some updates to share with you.”
“Great.” Is it her imagination or is her mother relishing this whole nightmare?
“First, I spoke to a very pleasant man about retrieving Anton’s body. The question is, have you picked a funeral home? And do you want a burial or cremation? Did Anton discuss that with you?”
“He wanted to be cremated.”
“All right, then. Do you have a preference for a particular funeral home?”
Gwen can’t help but laugh. “No, I don’t have a favorite funeral home.”
“Gwendolyn, I am trying to help. I’d appreciate a civil tone. We still need to talk about where to have the funeral. The obvious choice is a funeral home. My D.C. friends recommend a place called Gawler’s. They’ll try to sell me the whole package, and I think it’s a good idea. They’ll handle everything, and since you and Anton didn’t attend church, well…” Her voice trails off. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence, the judgment is clear. Her and Anton’s lack of a religious life was another mark against them. “I think a funeral home is the best idea.”
“I guess you’re right. Do we have to decide now? Like, this minute?”
“I’m afraid life marches on. And the boys need a funeral, honey.”
“You know there’s an open homicide investigation going on right now, don’t you?”
“All the more reason to focus on the person Anton was. The community will want to come together to say goodbye. Whatever marital issues you and Anton were working through—”
“Marital issues? Mom, he was screwing my friend.”
“Honestly, this generation.” She throws up her hands and looks around the room as if she is on a talk show trying to connect to a studio audience. “They think they’re the first to discover their husbands have gotten a little too friendly with one of the other wives. This has been going on since time immemorial—”
“Have those same husbands also been blackmailing their best friends? Has that also been going on since time immemorial?”
“What in God’s creation are you going on about?”
“Forget it, Mom.”
“Listen, honey. Time for some tough love. Life is hard. What made you think you’d be exempt? Do you live in a refugee camp? No. Have you had to bury your children? No.” Barb answers her own questions without pausing for a beat. “We all have to grow up and do what’s expected of us. Even in times of grief. Especially in times of grief. There’s a right way and a wrong way to handle yourself. Because it’s more than just you, it’s those two boys. How you handle this will have a huge effect on how they process it. Just because you are angry at Anton, and rightfully so, doesn’t give you the right to poison their memories of their father. These boys need to remember the dad who loved them, who was there for them, not the failed husband or weak man that you think he was—”
“That he definitely was. Not that I think he is!” Gwen sniffs. “By the way, worst pep talk ever.”
“Listen, I’m going to head over to Gawler’s and talk to someone. I want to do it before the boys get home. How about you take a shower, and then take a little time today to sort through everything.” She gestures toward the piles. “Just make piles and I will deal with it. What needs to be donated, what’s trash, and which things you want to save in bins. We have plenty of room at our house.”
“What things of Anton’s would I want to save?”
“Oh, things the boys might want when they’re older, but maybe you don’t want to have around in the meantime.”
Barb pats Gwen on the knee and stands up. “You can do this, Gwen. We’re not going to have a repeat of college. Not on my watch.”
Gwen goes upstairs to take a shower, praying that when she is done her mother will be gone. Barb had to bring up college and the half year Gwen spent in an outpatient program for disordered eating. Her mother might offer to help, but there would always be strings attached, and she’d never let you forget your weaknesses.
After her shower, Gwen puts on a pair of petal-pink leggings and a beige sweatshirt, twists her hair into a knot, and clips it to the top of her head. She does feel better when she’s clean and in cute clothes. Maybe even ready to tackle the piles of Anton’s things.
One of Anton’s favorite T-shirts sits on top of a tall stack of clothing. She picks it up and shakes it out. It’s from the Pixies reunion tour in 2004, an old favorite, worn thin from use. Gwen brings it to her face and inhales. Even though it is clean, she can smell Anton mixed in with the scent of the detergent. Some musky odor that is all his own has found its way into the fibers of the shirt. The tears come as memories break through the walls she has built around them. She squeezes her eyes shut and sees the two of them on their honeymoon in Paris, stopping halfway across the Pont des Arts to add a padlock with their initials to the wall of lovers’ locks. “I love Gwendolyn!” Anton shouted, hurling the key into the Seine. She throws the T-shirt back onto the table, not ready to part with it. It lands atop one of the heavy pewter candlesticks she’s never liked. She picks up the candlestick. It weighs at least a few pounds. Their tenth anniversary was supposed to mark a rebirth of their marriage. What a joke. She tosses the two sticks into the box marked donate , where they make a satisfying thud.
Next to the clothing is an open box filled with notebooks. She flips through the top one and stops on a page filled with sentences and sentence fragments, all in quotes.
“mornings are the worst”
“wakes up and for a fraction of a second, I don’t remember my baby is gone. And then it all comes back. He went up the mountain and he didn’t come back.”
“I’ll never stop looking for answers”
“somebody knows something”
“I feel it in my bones, my son is dead. He’s gone”
Gwen sucks in her breath. She flips to the front of the notebook. On the first page, written in Anton’s neat block lettering is: INTERVIEWS WITH CATHY STOCKER .
Gwen sinks to the floor, the notebook open in her lap. She turns to the first page and begins to read.