Chapter 15
Now
I sneak out to the car to reapply my makeup and have a few minutes alone.
It’s bad enough having an attack in front of Sam and Charlie, but Jordie and Finn seeing me on my hands and knees is a special kind of humiliation.
I’m frustrated with myself for not recognizing the signs early enough to find a quiet place to fall apart instead of what I did: jump to the conclusion that my heart was about to peace out on me, amping my panic up to one thousand.
I’m dotting on another round of concealer when my phone buzzes. The name on the screen is one I can’t ignore any longer.
“Hello?” I answer.
“P!” cries Chantal. “Are you okay? I’ve been calling you all day.”
I wince, remembering the message I sent her this morning. “Sorry. I, um, got a little caught up here. I’m . . .” I trail off, because I’m not sure what I am.
“Persephone Fraser, are you serious right now?” she screeches.
“You can’t send me a text that says you need help, that you need to talk ASAP and then not answer your phone.
I’ve been going nuts trying to reach you.
I thought you had a panic attack and passed out in the woods somewhere and got eaten by a bear or a fox or something. ”
I laugh. “That’s not far from the truth, actually.” I can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen and then a glass being filled. Red wine, no doubt. She drinks red wine when she’s stressed.
“Do not laugh,” she huffs. Then adds more softly, “What do you mean that’s not far from the truth? Are you lost in the woods somewhere?”
“No, of course not. I’m in my car.” I hesitate.
“What’s going on, P?” Her voice has returned to its natural velvety texture.
I bite the inside of my cheek, then decide to rip the bandage off: “I had a panic attack. A little while ago at the wake. It’s not a big deal.”
“What do you mean it’s not a big deal?” Chantal erupts so loudly I lower the volume on my phone.
“You haven’t had a panic attack in years, and now you see the love of your life for the first time in a decade at his mom’s funeral—a woman, who if I recall correctly from the handful of times you’ve told me about her, was kind of like a second mom to you—and now you’re having panic attacks at her wake, and it’s not a big deal? What about this isn’t a big deal?”
I splutter.
“P,” she says at a lower decibel but with no less force.
“You think I don’t see you, but I do. I see how you keep almost everyone around you at a distance.
I see how little you care about the pompous douchebags you date.
And even though you’ve buried your shit with Sam under more piles of shit, I know this is a big fucking deal. ”
This stuns me. “I thought you liked Sebastian,” I murmur.
She lets out a low laugh. “Remember when the four of us went to brunch? The server had been ignoring us, and you had to use the bathroom? You told Sebastian to order for you if she came by?”
I tell her I remember before she continues.
“He ended up ordering you a huge stack of chocolate-chip pancakes while you were gone. You hate sweets at breakfast, and you didn’t say a thing. You just thanked him. You ate, like, half a pancake, and he didn’t even notice.”
“It was just breakfast,” I say quietly.
“There is nothing just about food,” Chantal replies, and I can’t help but laugh. Sue and Chantal would have gotten along. Then she sighs deeply. “My point is that he didn’t really know you, even months and months into the relationship, and you didn’t help him get to know you. I didn’t like that.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Just tell me what’s going on,” Chantal says after a moment of silence. Chantal, who figured out my entire relationship strategy with one brunch order. So I do. I tell her all of it.
“Are you going to tell him?” she asks when I’ve finished. “The whole truth?”
“I don’t know if it’s worth it, bringing up the past again, just so I don’t feel guilty anymore,” I say.
Chantal makes a humming sound that means she doesn’t agree. “Let’s not pretend this is just about making yourself feel better. You’ve never moved on.”
BY THE TIME I head back inside, most of the guests have gone home, Dolly and Shania have been shut off, and Sam, Charlie, their grandparents, and a small group of aunts, uncles, and cousins are sitting around a row of pushed-together tables with glasses of wine and brandy.
Sam and Charlie look tired, but mostly they seem relieved, not so bunched up in the shoulders.
I leave the Floreks to reminisce, find a spare red apron in the linen closet and a serving tray behind the bar, and start clearing the dirty plates and glasses, bringing them to Julien, who’s hunched over the dishwasher in the kitchen.
We’ve been working mostly in silence for almost an hour and finishing up the last of the cutlery when Julien says, “I always wondered where you went to,” his eyes still on the silverware.
“I didn’t really go anywhere. I just didn’t come back,” I tell him. “My parents sold the cottage.” A few long seconds go by.
“I think we both know that’s not why you disappeared,” he says, and I pause. I dry off the last fork, and I’m about to ask Julien what he means, when he speaks. “We all thought you should come.” He turns to me, his eyes boring into mine. “Just don’t vanish again.”
“What do you mean we . . .” I start to say, when the door swings open and Sam steps in, holding a half-dozen dirty glasses. He stops when he sees us and the door swings shut, bumping him in the shoulder. He eyes the apron and the tea towel I’m holding.
“Déjà vu,” he says with a lazy half grin. He seems a little blurry around the edges. He’s removed his jacket and loosened his tie. The top button on his shirt is undone.
“Still got it,” I say, sticking my hip out and motioning to the apron, feeling Julien’s eyes on me. “You know where to come if you’re short-staffed.”
Julien scoffs. “She’s only a little less shit than you at dishes,” he tells Sam just as Charlie walks in with a few empty snifters.
“Everyone’s cleared out. This should be the last of it,” he says, putting the glasses in a rack.
“Thanks so much for cleaning up, both of you. And for putting this all together, Julien. It was exactly what Mom wanted.” He brushes by me to give Julien a hug, smelling of the brandy and cigarettes he’s been indulging in.
Sam follows suit, then pulls me into an embrace, whispering a thank-you in my ear that feels like a warm towel wrapped around damp shoulders.
“You kids get out of here,” Julien says. “I’ll finish and lock up.”
Charlie looks around at the spotless stainless steel surfaces. “Everything seems done to me. Why don’t we all head out and go back to the house? We can grab a pizza on the way—I didn’t eat anything.”
Julien shakes his head. “Thanks, but you go ahead,” he says, adding in a gruff voice, “And get Percy to drive. You two jackasses are in no state.”
WE PICK UP a couple of Pizza Pizza pizzas on the way to the Floreks’ since none of us ate at the reception. I’m relieved Julien asked me to drive the boys home. I’m not ready to say goodbye.
I feel calmer after talking to Chantal. She didn’t offer any advice—just listened to me talk about the last few days, then told me not to feel so bad about what happened with Sam in the truck, that people cope with grief differently.
And maybe that’s all this morning was for Sam, comfort in his darkest hour. I could be okay with that, I tell myself, if that’s all it is, if that’s all he needs from me.
“This is weird,” says Charlie from the back seat of the car. “You two up front and me in the back. It used to be me driving you around.”
“It used to be you driving us nuts,” Sam replies, and our eyes meet. He’s smiling and now I’m smiling, and for a second it feels like there’s no one but us, and that it’s always just been us. And then I remember Charlie in the back seat and Taylor in wherever the heck she’s gone.
“So tell us about these panic attacks, Pers. You a head case or what?” Charlie asks.
“Charlie.” Sam’s voice is hard as concrete.
When I look in the rearview mirror and meet Charlie’s eyes, there are no sparkles of mischief, only soft concern.
“They let me out just for the funeral,” I tell him, and he laughs but the lines between his eyebrows have become canyons.
“I have a bit of an anxiety thing,” I say, looking back out at the road.
I wait for the pressure to build up in my lungs, but it doesn’t, so I keep going.
“I can usually manage it. You know—therapist, breathing exercises, mantras—the basic self-care practices of a privileged white girl. But sometimes the anxious thoughts get a bit out of control.” I find Charlie in the mirror again and smile gently. “I’m okay, though.”
“That’s good, Percy,” Sam says, and I glance at him expecting pity but I don’t find it. I’m surprised how easy it is to tell them both.
Once we get to the house, they change out of their suits and we each grab a beer from the fridge, taking the pizza out to the deck and eating it straight from the box with squares of paper towel in lieu of plates. We scarf down the first slices without talking.
“I’m glad all that’s done with,” says Charlie when he comes up for air. “Just the ashes now.”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” Sam replies, taking a sip of his beer and gazing out over the shore, where a boy and girl are climbing onto the Floreks’ raft.
“Me neither,” Charlie replies. Squeals and splashes carry up from the lake.
“The kids from next door,” Sam says, noticing me looking at them. “At your cottage.” They’re both dark-haired, the boy a bit taller than the girl.
“Don’t you dare!” she shouts just before he pushes her off the raft. They break into a fit of giggles when she climbs back on.
“How much longer will you be here for, Charlie?” I ask.