Chapter 3 A Steadier Ford
3
A Steadier Ford
2:17 PM
Alison:
Hi Adam! It’s Alison! Is there a time I should come by on Saturday? Anything I can bring?
Winter comes quickly in Minnesota. One day, you’re enjoying a beautiful fall morning in a light denim jacket. The next, you’re hunting through the bottom of your closet for a parka so you can dig your car out of the snow. Sometimes we get our first good snowfall in the middle of October.
Not this year. The day after Sam’s funeral, it’s in the high forties and warm enough to force my two best friends on the hike my dead ex-boyfriend proposed between his eulogy and communion.
Driving to a suburban man-made nature trail feels inadequate, but it’s the best I can do on my haunted iCal’s short notice. The path is too groomed and well maintained, and I can still hear the highway in the distance. It’s hardly a communion with nature. Sam wouldn’t even count it as a hike—more of an unproductive stroll to nowhere.
“I left you alone for ten minutes.” A twig snaps beneath Mara’s bright white sneakers, which have never seen the outside of a Life Time Fitness. She’s always a bit twitchy this far away from cell reception, because, in her words, “You never know where you’ll be when the Guy—I don’t know—accidentally posts a Reel of his dick set to ‘Unholy.’?”
The specificity of that “hypothetical” haunts me to this day.
“You abandoned me in my time of need.”
The reflective strip on her Lululemon running jacket catches in the sun as her hand swipes at something in the air. “I assumed you could handle yourself well enough to not volunteer to pack up your dead ex-boyfriend’s home for his family. You hear how insane that sounds, right?”
“No way, Al. I love how committed you are to fake-dating their son. It’s sweet.” Coconut-scented blond strands whip into my mouth as Chelsea spins in the direction of whatever creature is pounding on a neighboring tree. “Ooh, a red-bellied woodpecker!”
Chelsea’s always been an animal lover, but years of teaching fourth-grade science have turned her passing interest in Minnesota fauna into a mild obsession. The only barrier to her hoarding formerly stray cats is her landlord Joel, whose strict no-pet policy forced her to rehome Colonel Corduroy, the one-eyed calico she found wandering around the state fairgrounds.
“I’m not ‘fake-dating’…,” I start to argue before accepting defeat, swatting at the mosquito dive-bombing my face. Most summer bugs have died or gone indoors, and only the most stubborn tiny vampires remain. They can feel the cool breeze of winter closing in on them, and the beasts are reckless with nothing to lose.
“?‘Fake-dating’ assumes a level of participation on Sam’s part that Al can’t rely on.” Mara high-steps over a swarm of ground hornets crawling along the grass. When I close my eyes, I swear I can feel them creeping up my hiking boots and push down the shudder rising up my back.
Chelsea yanks her eyes away from the majesty of nature. “This won’t interfere with my kids’ holiday concert, right? Half of the parents will be away for travel hockey, and we need bodies. If you bail, send someone else in your place. It’s a one-in, one-out situation.”
“Don’t worry,” I say to ease her mind. “I’ll be there with bells on.”
“I’m ninety percent sure you’re kidding, but please don’t. It’ll really mess with the handbell choir’s Rihanna cover, and Kaylee and Hunter are already holding on to that bridge by a thread.”
I pull a water bottle out of my belt bag. “You gave the children bells?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not intrigued by a ringing rendition of ‘Umbrella.’?” Chelsea stuffs her hands in the pocket of her highlighter-pink hoodie, popping a brow.
“We said we’re coming. Please stop telling us about it,” Mara begs.
Chelsea rolls her eyes at us. “I should have rescheduled rehearsal yesterday. If I’d known it was going to get all cloak-and-dagger at Sam’s service, I would’ve been your ‘plus-two.’ Oh, I could’ve done an accent! I’ve been bingeing Bachelor in Paradise Australia, and my Aussie accent is getting good.” Chelsea says “getting good” in an accent not authentic to any region of the Commonwealth.
Mara holds her phone above her head as if cell service will strike her arm like a lightning rod in a storm. “You’re staying on top of Real Housewives too, right? There is always Housewives trivia.” Her question is a thinly veiled directive.
Along with Chelsea’s coworker Patrick, Chelsea and I are part of a bar trivia team that Mara takes far too seriously. Every year, we participate in a league championship on New Year’s Day, and every year, we never make it past the quarterfinals. Our poor showing only fuels Mara’s competitive nature for the year ahead.
“Don’t worry, Mar. I’m just as devoted to the cause as ever.” Chelsea turns back to me. “Why didn’t Sam tell anyone you broke up?” The million-dollar question.
“Rachel said his parents wanted to see him settled, and he couldn’t face them until he was in another relationship. They’re a bit intense about that stuff. His mom, especially.” I grimace, remembering how Mrs.Lewis—after a couple of Bud Light Limes at her Fourth of July party—more than once inquired after the state of my womb. I knew she was trying to parlay her unsubtle questions into an open discussion of babies, family, and the general state of my reproductive health, but I wasn’t in the mood to discuss how my brCA diagnosis complicated all of these decisions while on a pontoon boat with my brand-new boyfriend’s mom as “Party in the USA” thrummed in the background. “Being ‘the girlfriend’ is the absolute least I can do. It’s just packing stuff up. And his friend Adam will be helping me. It’ll take—what—one day? Maybe two? Then it’s done.”
“There’s a friend? What’s this friend’s deal? Is he hot?” Chelsea prods, kicking up dirt along the trail.
I stumble on the uneven terrain. “What? No!” I shriek too quickly as Mara shouts, “Yes! It’s a disaster.”
“Oooh. Twist.” Chelsea rubs her hands together, greedy for any crumbs of salaciousness.
“He’s completely Al’s type,” Mara says, trying her phone toward the ground now, getting increasingly desperate.
“I don’t have a type,” I argue, but my voice is shrill and defensive.
“So, like…a beardy Indiana Jones?” Chelsea inquires. Mara nods without looking up from her device.
“I think I would have noticed if he looked like a young Harrison Ford.” I trip over a rock, trying, and failing, to make the messy maneuver look like a natural human movement.
Sure, Adam is handsome, but all of Sam’s friends are. Collected in one room, they look like a casting call for a North Face catalog. If anything about him was uniquely attractive to me, I didn’t register it. Everything about the day felt wrong, like we were all victims of a horrifying practical joke gone too far.
Mara rolls her eyes. “Oh, you noticed. And it was reciprocated.”
I fidget with my sleeve. “You saw us talking for one second.”
She levels me with a look that says one second was all she needed.
Did I? Did he? I inwardly shudder at the possibility I was subconsciously ogling guests at my boyfriend’s funeral. Well, ex-boyfriend, but no one else knew that!
Chelsea’s eyes are bright with mischief. “It’s more of an energy than a look you go for, like a grumpy intellectual who just emerged disheveled from a cave and has no time for your funny business.”
Mara piles on. “Like a scruffy guy who’ll argue with you while mounting your TV.”
“That’s not my type. Sam wasn’t like that.”
Chelsea tilts her head in serious deliberation. “No, he was Greg Kinnear in Sabrina, even though it was obvious to anyone with eyes she was going to end up with Harrison Ford. But Sam was definitely in the Harrison Ford extended universe. I, for one, want to see you with a steadier Ford. Like in Witness or Working Girl .”
“He’s such a jerk in Working Girl, ” I say, but no one’s listening.
Chelsea picks a bundle of pine needles from the forest floor and smells it, pleasure crinkling the corners of her eyes. Jealousy blooms in my chest. Ever since my mastectomy, I’ve made myself go on a hike every week, hoping I’d grow to love these regular meditations with nature and my body. I have not. Give me a choice between a mountain, a beach, and a meadow, and I’ll choose “D: None of the Above” every time. Humans have mastered climate control. Why move backward?
With every weekend hike, every personal-growth memoir I devour, every trip down the river in a canoe, I’m hoping to become the kind of person who feels compelled to sniff at a twig just for the simple joy of it.
But I’m still me, and I’d rather smell a cookie.
It’s like you’re pretending to be someone else.
“Yes! Sweet baby Jesus, I have a bar.” Mara teeters on a boulder, hovering her phone in the air and engaging every core muscle for balance.
The branches open up behind my friend’s precarious yoga pose, and I can just make out crystal-blue water in the distance. Lush pine trees surround the small lake, their reflections dancing in the glittering light of the surface. The last dregs of fall foliage cling to the branches of the neighboring deciduous trees, dotting the scene with sparse bits of oranges and reds like it’s an unfinished landscape watercolor.
Even I have to admit, there’s something hopeful about witnessing seasons, the way even the air is capable of radical change. The guilt in my chest unfurls—the smallest bit—and I reward my attitude shift with a rest on a neighboring rock.
Mara and Chelsea are already typing on their screens, so I pull out my phone too. I started a text conversation with the North Shore Grump on the drive, feeling buzzy first-day-of-school nerves for some unknown reason.
When he didn’t immediately respond, I hid my phone under my water bottle in the backseat of Mara’s Jeep and reopened my text messages with Sam. I’ve been picking at that scab since I learned of his death.
I should’ve been relieved that all of our post-breakup communications were dreadfully civil, friendly even. There was no acrimony. No cruel jabs. No unfortunate drunk voicemails on either end. The exchanges were absolutely devoid of substance. It was almost as if we didn’t mean anything to each other at all.
SEPTEMBER 9:
2:30 PM
Sam
Is my green jacket at your place?
3:12 PM
Alison:
It is. You can grab it after 5.
4:36 PM
Sam:
I’ll swing over around 6 then.
SEPTEMBER 30:
8:42 AM
Sam:
Happy Birthday!!
9:03 AM
Alison:
Thanks!
OCTOBER 9:
10:19 AM
Alison:
I’m glad we ran into you at trivia last night. Thanks for your help with the sports questions!
12:37 PM
Sam:
I could tell it thrilled Mara to finally win.
12:39 PM
Sam:
We should do it again. I’ll bring a ringer.
OCTOBER 16:
8:47 PM
Alison:
Tell me this is a joke.
After that, there’s nothing.
I shift my butt on the damp rock and tap on my missed text from Adam.
3:04 PM
Adam:
No.
No? No to what? To whether I can bring something on Saturday? Or is this his way of saying there’s “no” good time for me to come over? Ever? There isn’t even punctuation or an emoji to offer clues. What am I supposed to do with a one-syllable answer to a multipart question?
I stuff my phone in the pocket of my fleece. Minutes pass before Mara clasps her hands together and announces, “I think we can count this as a moderate success and quit while we’re ahead. It’s getting very True Detective– y out here, and I don’t have time to solve a murder today.”
Chelsea pulls her foot into a standing quad stretch. “Yeah, I need to head out soon. Ritter wants me to stay over tonight.”
She at least has the decency to look guilty for cutting our afternoon short, but her excuse being her new boyfriend Ritter—a crypto entrepreneur—is adding insult to injury. I like him even less than Mara’s most recent ex-girlfriend, who shoplifted “for political reasons” and once brought a whole rotisserie chicken into a movie theater.
My head flops backward in defeat. “Fine. You’re both dismissed. Thank you for accompanying me to this future crime scene.”
I didn’t tell them about the iCal alert from Sam or why my need to be on a trail, any trail, couldn’t wait. I wasn’t sure they’d understand. I’m not sure I do.
I fall in step behind Chelsea, who leads us downhill at double speed. “I’ve decided to view this whole ‘fake girlfriend’ business as a good thing,” Chelsea says. I hear Mara snort behind us. “Physically sorting through his belongings will help you mentally sort your feelings. Put it all in literal and metaphorical boxes.”
“It’s a bit on the nose, Chels.” One of my feet slides out from under me on a rotting crab apple, but Mara grabs my arm from behind so I don’t slip to the ground.
“Maybe Chelsea’s right.” Mara’s tone is kind, if not entirely convincing. “It might help you process your grief. It’s a bit of an emotional minefield, and this has already been such a hard year for you.”
She distills it all down to two words— hard year .
I was sure I’d processed the brCA diagnosis six years ago, when I first tested positive. My mom was still sick, and maybe I was fooling myself, but I thought I had it under control. I had a plan. I had a binder. I had a gratitude journal, for chrissake! But when I finally had the mastectomy, something changed.
The physical pain of a surgeon carving out my breast tissue, removing my nipples, and inserting expanders was more than I anticipated, but physical pain was still something everyone around me could understand. As a cancer survivor, my mom could relate to my grief over losing parts of my body so closely tied to my femininity and sexuality. She too felt the alienness of adapting to the new numb bits that had replaced them.
But knowing no one else who’d had a preventative mastectomy, no one else who’d cheated cancer, I felt utterly alone with the knot of guilt that took root beneath my silicone implants. The guilt that—after a second chance had been plopped in my lap—I was going to go back to being just plain me.
I made it a point to be more . I started hiking, mountain climbing, water skiing, and anything else that looked adventurous. But then Sam—wild and worthy Sam—died, and it felt like someone grabbed each end of the knot in my chest and pulled it apart.
The parking lot appears ahead, and I dig deep for a smile. “Yeah, maybe the packing will be good for me.”
With two bars of service, I shoot off a text to the North Shore Grump.
3:59 PM
Alison:
See you at 10 AM.
Then I send a slew of cheery emojis. Just to really piss him off.