Chapter 23 Denise Richards Was a Scientist
23
Denise Richards Was a Scientist
In the two weeks after Thanksgiving, Adam only manages one overnight visit. I offered to drive up to Duluth, but between his catching up on hours before the winter slowdown and my covering Patty’s duties until Daniella hires a replacement (or maybe my replacement since I still haven’t given her an answer on the position), nothing seems to line up until the annual Lewis family Cookie Party.
We arrive separately, keeping our relationship under wraps today out of respect, or possibly cowardice. I’m choosing not to examine my motivations.
I don’t know what I expected from the words Cookie Party, but it was not this. There are no children frosting cookies on coffee tables or parents passing around Tupperware containers of maimed gingerbread people. This is an elegant, catered affair with charcuterie, two different fig preparations, and holiday whiskey punch with a punny name spelled out on a letterboard. The titular cookies were ordered in from a local high-end bakery and are so stunning, I feel uncomfortable eating them.
Unlike Adam’s cozy Thanksgiving celebration, the dress code at the Lewises’ appears to be Minnesota Cocktail Casual, which translates to women in their finest wool sweaters and men in their golfiest golf shirts. Not much of a linksman, Adam is in a cream fisherman’s sweater, awakening within me a new—and decidedly sexual— Deadliest Catch fantasy. My cranberry sweater dress is doing something similar to him if the conspicuous charge in the space between us is any indication. I’m shocked the hair of passing guests doesn’t stand on end.
The Lewises’ decor consists of Pottery Barn’s best approximation of “Farmhouse Americana.” The whole house is painted like different-flavored lattes. The vanilla foyer transitions into a hazelnut formal living area. There’s an unlit Christmas tree in every room. I can’t discern whether this is an aesthetic choice or if they weren’t in the decorating spirit this year. The whole house approaches “festive” without quite crossing the finish line.
The vibe is more of a free-flowing cocktail party than a sit-down affair, and to my relief, very few people ask who I am to the family. Sam exists in stories, but direct mention of him is avoided at all costs.
The less relevant a guest is to an immediate family member, the greater the burden they seem to bear in keeping the conversation light and snappy. In some spaces, that person is Adam or me, but in the sunroom overlooking Lake Minnetonka, a neighbor is carrying the conversation on her back. Against a chai latte wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, she asks everyone their favorite James Bond film and refuses to let anyone off the hook until they’ve provided a bulleted list of reasons why they prefer it.
“I’ve only seen one of the Pierce Brosnan ones,” I answer, gripping my appetizer plate like a security blanket. “I can’t remember which one.” For our trivia team, Patrick is the expert on the Suited Men Saving the World genre (both tuxedo and latex).
This answer doesn’t seem to satisfy her. She pushes her icy blond hair behind her ears, agitated. “What country was he in? Who was the villain? Which Bond girl was it?”
“I want to say Denise Richards was a scientist?”
It’s not what she wants to hear, and I’m finally dismissed.
“You couldn’t have just said Casino Royale ?” Adam grins against the shell of my ear. I look around on instinct, finding only a pregnant cousin, Lucy, napping with her eyes open while her oblivious husband, Greg, holds court in the corner with a nineties-style stand-up routine on mini quiches.
“You couldn’t have jumped in and saved me?” I ask, biting into my bottom lip.
“And miss the trivia expert struggling to name the movie where Denise Richards played a nuclear physicist? You’re still trying to remember it, aren’t you?”
“ The World Is Not Enough, ” I blurt with a snap of my fingers. “I should go find her.”
He pulls me back by the arm. “Let her find someone who appreciates British spy films the way she does.” His thumb swipes the sensitive part of my wrist, igniting my insides.
“Adam, my man!” a voice booms from behind me. “It’s been too long.”
A corn chip flees my plate, and Adam takes a small step away from me, his left eye twitching at the tall, forty-something man in a fleece vest. “Paul. How’s the house?” Adam asks stiffly.
“Don’t get me started on that money pit.” Paul’s smirk tells us he’d love nothing more than to detail every small construction setback. “It was such a shame we couldn’t get that partnership off the ground. Are you still doing carpentry? I have a million projects I could use you on. The deck railings are a mess, and come summer we’ll want one of those fancy She Sheds for the girls.”
“My work up north keeps me pretty busy.” Adam must register my confusion because he glances my way before looking back at Paul. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. If you’ll excuse me…” Adam starts to walk away.
Paul initiates a Sorkin-style walk-and-talk, detailing the hail damage to his deck. Adam increases his pace, refusing to relent, and I trail behind like a lost puppy. Once we’re in the matcha mudroom, Paul must realize that Adam will walk out the door in his socks to escape this conversation, and he retreats to the kitchen with his tail between his legs.
“Why wouldn’t you take that job?” I ask Adam once Paul’s out of earshot.
“I can’t rebuild a deck by myself in a weekend. Or make a She Shed playhouse for his daughters. Why call it a She Shed? Sheds are for everyone.”
“I think it’s a Pinterest thing.” I tug at a stray piece of hair that’s fallen out of my half-up half-down thing. “If you lived here it wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, you’d have more time to focus on your furniture. He wants your work.”
“He doesn’t know what he wants.”
“What partnership was he talking about?” Adam doesn’t respond, instead digging through his pockets with the frenzied intensity of a truffle pig. “What are you looking for?”
“Sam’s condo keys. I forgot to return the other set.”
He frees the key ring from his pocket. The touristy key chains clink together like discordant wind chimes. He places it on the rack like an eerie parting gift from beyond. It dangles between his parents’ keys like a denial, as though Sam might stroll through the side door and pluck them off the hook.
It’s the most unsatisfying ending imaginable.
“I’m sorry. I think I’m a little off today, Sam’s birthday and all.”
“It’s Sam’s birthday?” I ask too loudly. My head swivels around to see who might have overheard. “Today?” I ask, in a whisper this time.
“The party’s always near his birthday, but this year it fell on the actual day. Sam was making a big deal about it. That’s why his dad wouldn’t cancel. How do you not know his birthday?”
“I knew he was a Sagittarius.” Chelsea unearthed this information in one of her two-minute soul-baring conversations.
I’m reminded again that Adam and I are grieving two different losses. Though mine is not insignificant, I missed out on a future with Sam as the friend who could push me out of my comfort zone. Adam lost history.
He looks back at me quizzically, waiting for translated subtitles to pop up on my forehead. “We didn’t date that long, remember?”
His eyes drift over my head at the guests milling in the other room, and for the first time since I told him the truth about me and Sam, he looks weary. Defeated.
Anxiety swirls in my stomach. “You are moving to Minneapolis, right?” The words burst from my mouth inelegantly. I sound panicked and needy and all I can do to stop myself from spewing more emotional vomit is stuff a carrot in my mouth from the hors d’oeuvre plate I managed to hold on to in the Great Paul Getaway.
“Of course,” he answers simply. “When I’m ready.”
My tension mutates into dread and picks up speed like a tornado. “It’s okay if you’re not—Duluth isn’t so far—I just want to know what to expect.”
His agitated hand tugs at the back of his hair. “I’ll move when I want to move, Alison.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. I want him to want to take it back—say his words didn’t come out right—but he doesn’t move. My eyes fall to my plate. I dip a carrot in the baked brie like it’s an important task requiring all of my focus and follow Adam back into the crowded sunroom, where we can’t discuss anything real. My only hope is that Bond Lover will return with follow-up questions, but instead, something far worse happens.
“My two faves are here!” Russell shouts from where he’s holding court across the room.
Adam’s face tightens. I half murmur, “Shit.” I let myself forget I’m only here to play a part for ten minutes, and Adam and I are sent the one person who could blow this all up.
I stuff a loaded cracker in my mouth, sputtering, “Russell. What a surprise.”
“Well, I am their Realtor.” He says Realtor as if the role is on par with a godparent or religious leader.
A cracker shard stabs my throat, forcing a choking cough, but it doesn’t do the kindness of suffocating me. Adam takes my plate and pats my back. I force out hard hacks until I finally will it loose, ending a small part of this waking nightmare.
Russell, wearing his most smug smile, asks, “Are you guys officially a thing yet?”
His question rings out like a warning shot. Is it me or did the whole party just go still? I stroke my throat like I’m still recovering from my brush with death and let Adam answer for the both of us. “We’re here for Sam’s family, Russ.”
Russell squints. “Two things can be true.” He turns to me, and his smile is more earnest. “Excited for Chile?”
I nod quickly, rolling my lips under my teeth. Adam white-knuckles my plate of assorted dips.
“Sam said it might not be her thing,” Russell continues. “But everyone should endure the rain on a trail in the Andes at least once. Right, Alison? It’s a rite of passage.”
“Oh, good. The weather will be bad. It was starting to sound like too much fun,” Adam says, his voice drier than sandpaper. He doesn’t sound like my Adam. He sounds like the North Shore Grump.
“Right?” Russell laughs, seemingly oblivious to Adam’s tone.
“Sam said it wasn’t my thing?” My brain is snagged on Russell’s evocation of Sam. It’s like picking at a barely healed scab and revealing the all-too-fresh wound beneath.
“He just meant that you’re sort of set in your ways. Like Adam.”
Before Adam can say something needlessly petty, I bring the focus back to my self-improvement. “That’s weird, because I can’t wait for Chile.” I snatch my plate back from Adam, mostly for effect. “I love hiking in the rain and sleeping outside where bugs live and carrying heavy things. It’s going to be great. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I saw someone walk by with a bacon-wrapped date that I’d very much like to eat.” I snap a piece of jicama between my teeth and follow the scent of meaty appetizers at top speed until I’m in front of a table of food next to my old friend Bond Lover.
I learn her name is Elin and that we’ve both seen enough Marvel movies to reach agreement on the superhero movie genre: we tend to enjoy them but couldn’t explain the plot of any of them if there were a loaded gun to our heads. I grab on to small talk with Elin like a lifeline as the energy of the surrounding party becomes increasingly fraught.
First, no one’s seen Mrs.Lewis. Dr.Lewis is buzzing between conversational clumps to ease our minds, but it’s clear from his stammering that he hasn’t settled on her excuse. From what I overhear, it’s a bit of food poisoning but more like a cold—but certainly not the contagious kind, lest she come out of her room at some point. When he makes his way to us, it’s a headache.
Dr.Lewis doesn’t speak to Elin and me so much as at us. He gets his lines out and surveys the room above our heads in search of his next exit.
I feel Adam come to stand behind me at a respectful distance, but I don’t turn to talk to him. I’m sick of today. I’m sick of fear and guilt and puff pastry with spinach surprises that get stuck in my teeth.
The string-quartet-Christmas-cover soundtrack can’t quite compete with the concerned whispers of the party guests. Has anyone seen her? Someone should check on her. Did you know today was Sam’s birthday?
I feel Adam hovering but don’t stop talking to my James Bond superfan—mostly afraid that if I do, Adam won’t have anything to say to me anyway.
“What about Netflix? Name every show you’ve ever seen on Netflix. We must have some overlap.” Elin and I are getting desperate.
Dr.Lewis puts out cookies. He thinks the green tray is vegan but when Elin presses, he can’t be sure. “Judy usually handles this,” he tells us. I wander from room to room looking for where they stashed the coats to make a run for it. Adam finds me in a small room of floor-to-ceiling mocha.
“Patagonia with Russell is happening?” He asks the question like he doesn’t care about the answer.
“It never wasn’t happening. I’m excited.”
“You’re excited.”
“I’m excited about the prospect of a life-altering experience.” I feel his brain working. “What is it?”
He rocks on his heels. “Just wondering if you’ll let me drive you to the airport or if you’ll fly off on your adventure without telling me.”
“Since you don’t know if or when you’ll want to move here,” I argue, keeping my voice flat, “it probably wouldn’t be convenient for you to drive me.”
To anyone who would overhear, this conversation sounds like emotionless small talk, but it feels like plates smashing against the wall of my chest.
“I knew you were still thinking about that,” he huffs. I say nothing, moving the pattern of the Persian rug with my toe when I hear the slap of slippers approaching us.
Mrs.Lewis walks in in shearling slippers and a robe with the emblem of a European river cruise line embroidered on the collar. She looks impossibly disheveled and bone tired. If I didn’t know the true source of her appearance, I’d assume she was wandering the house after being roused from a surgical procedure.
When she sees us, she smiles for one beautiful second before her face empties out. We watch her remember all over again. The broken look in her eyes burns a trail through my heart.
“Mom.” A woman’s voice carries from the hallway.
“Rachel, we’re in the office,” Mrs.Lewis answers, awareness flickering back to her face.
“We? Mom, you should go back to bed.” Sam’s sister, Rachel, appears in the doorway, and my eyes lock on my original coconspirator. “Alison?” My name has never sounded so much like a curse word.
“Rachel!” My voice is too jovial to be genuine. “Good to see you again, I was just leaving,” I say. My fingers buzz, itching to turn the knob of the front door. I can’t stay in this house for another second.
Mrs.Lewis places her hand on my arm. My chest constricts at this wrinkle in my escape plan. “I have a gift for you. Richard, can you grab the box from the sideboard?” she calls out to her husband, who advances toward her voice.
“Judy, are you down here in your robe?” Dr.Lewis’s question holds no judgment or embarrassment, only concern. “I’m sending everyone home. I thought this would be good. I thought—”
“You thought we could eat charcuterie and drink wine on my brother’s birthday and pretend he didn’t die?”
The room collectively winces at Rachel’s direct shot.
Mrs.Lewis pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please, Rachel. Not now.”
“Why are you turning on me? I flew all the way out for a party I knew was a bad idea.”
“Richard, get the box from the sideboard in the hall so I can give them Sam’s presents and go back to sleep.”
“Presents? Mom, you don’t have to—”
Mrs.Lewis cuts her daughter off with a wave of her hand. Her whole body shakes. Adam swallows hard, and I know he sees how frail she looks.
Her husband fulfills her request, returning to the room holding an envelope and a tiny box. The small room is packed with bodies that suddenly feel like an audience. Dr.Lewis hands his wife a box, but everyone’s eyes fix on me.
The room feels elastic, like it’s stretching around me and snapping against my skin. I paste on a smile, my face hot.
Mrs.Lewis tightens her terry cloth belt. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this. It’s a, uh, hard day.” The word hard seems insufficient.
Dr.Lewis cleans his glasses with his sweater. “Russell tells us you really went above and beyond with the condo. I know you must be anxious to have his more valuable personal effects distributed,” he says.
“No,” Adam assures him. “Please don’t worry about that.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than I anticipated. These things take time.”
“But these are things we can give you both now. They’re from Sam.” Mrs.Lewis’s clasped hands shake as she speaks. I think I’m shaking too.
Rachel looks confused. It twists my stomach even more.
Mrs.Lewis hands Adam an envelope. “That’s your Christmas gift from Sam. His phone had a calendar alert this morning. He wanted Rachel to make arrangements while she was here for the party.”
“A calendar alert?” I ask, just as Adam says, “What arrangements?”
He opens it carefully, reverently, aware it’s a message from beyond, something every other person in the room is desperate for. He unfolds a piece of printed paper. “A plane ticket?”
“To Chile,” Rachel explains to him. “A week before he—we switched your name on the ticket for…” We trade glances. “Someone who could no longer go. He was going to invite you. He said he wanted to ‘shake things up’ for you.”
Mrs.Lewis claps her hands together and smiles through tears, the thought of her son, his gift, and a trip he’ll never go on eliciting warring emotions. Adam hasn’t taken his eyes off the ticket.
“Alison.” Mrs.Lewis faces me. “I don’t know what Sam had planned for you for Christmas, but I have something I can give on his behalf. It’s technically mine. It’s a family heirloom—”
Rachel grabs her mother’s arm. “Mom, you shouldn’t…”
“You don’t have to…,” I say. Neither of us has any idea how to stop this speeding train.
Mrs.Lewis shakes her arm free. “Rachel! Please. This was for Sam to give to the woman he loved when he settled down and got serious about his life.”
“He was serious about his life. He was serious about living it.” Rachel’s voice cracks.
Sensing the impending crash, Adam takes my hand. I think I take his too, but I’m not sure. I’m frozen in place. My limbs are too heavy to move.
I feel the blood coursing through my body even before she reveals a silver pendant I remember her wearing at the funeral.
“It was my grandmother’s,” Mrs.Lewis continues. “I always knew he would give it to the woman he chose. I wish he could have given this to you himself…”
Mrs.Lewis is trying to smile through her tears as she removes the necklace from the box. I can see her holding it up to my neck, but my vision is pulsing.
Dr.Lewis is confused.
The light is flickering out behind Adam’s eyes.
Rachel is trying to pull the necklace away from her mother.
I observe every movement as both immediate and delayed as their arguments fade beneath the sound of my thunderous heartbeat.
My limbs are stiff. My hands are shaking. My chest feels like it’s being pulled tightly together and zipped up. The rock of guilt presses against my lungs as my breaths become too thick. Too heavy.
“It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. You were supposed to forget about her,” Rachel shouts, shoving a hand through her perfectly tousled blond waves.
“They didn’t,” I hear my voice say.
Adam squeezes my hand. “Take a breath, Ali. Please.”
“I was just trying to help you. And him. I wanted you to be proud of him. He deserved that,” Rachel cries.
Now I’m crying.
“What is she talking about?” Dr.Lewis presses.
Everyone’s looking at me. My throat tightens like hot fingers gripping my neck. “I’m sorry. I can’t accept this.” But I can’t make myself move my trembling hands. I feel a familiar touch guide me to the floor.
“Breathe,” Adam says, but I barely register it. He’s underwater.
My heaving sobs come faster. I gasp for air, but it’s no use.
Mrs.Lewis grabs her husband’s sleeve. “Richard, you’re a doctor. Do something!”
“I’m a podiatrist!”
It’s the last thing I hear before I fall underwater too.