Chapter 25 Monique
The synagogue rose like a fortress, dark wood panels climbing toward heaven. Monique sat in the front pew flanked by Eleanor and Dr. Tedrow. The room, overflowing with mourners, was quiet. Grief filled in all the empty spaces and expanded.
All around were giant posters of Chickie throughout her life. Her smile, broad and real, was identical to the one Monique knew and sometimes avoided. This girl loved her life, and that shamed folk. It shamed Monique. This girl had loved life, had embraced every moment even as her body betrayed her.
The cantor stood. “Those of us who knew Charlotte understand that she embodied the term ‘unconventional.’ Zichrona livracha. May her memory be for a blessing. So, before we close our time together, she asked that I share this song with you. Will you allow our beloved this one last wish?”
Watery chuckles and affirmative voices filled the air.
The cantor cleared her throat before filling the sanctuary with the gentle tones of an acoustic guitar and a smooth alto voice. Monique didn’t know Hebrew, but she understood the song’s meaning.
Peace to the mourning. Let their memory be a blessing.
She strummed the last note and transitioned into a prayer. Monique could make out Chickie’s name woven into the melody. Turning the program over, she found the translation.
May God remember the soul of Charlotte Rachel Levinson who has gone to her eternal rest. May her soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life. May she rest in peace. And let us say: Amen.
“Amen,” Monique said, pressing the paper against her fractured heart. The tears came then, burning tracks down her cheeks in fits and starts. She knew there would be much more crying today.
Eleanor stuffed a tissue into her hand. Tedrow’s arm went around her shoulders. Monique let them hold her because what else could she do? She’d run out of strength, run out of energy after pretending she was fine.
She was drowning. So far from fine. And the person who might have helped pull her to shore was a thousand miles away.
She came with cancer and death and grief as dowry.
He knew that. All of it, and he’d stayed anyway.
She had a habit of choosing flight over fight.
What Monique hadn’t known until now, with grief pressing on her from all directions, was that she’d chosen retreat when he’d chosen to be rooted.
She wasn’t okay with that.
The prayer ended. The cantor’s voice faded. People began to move toward the exits, murmuring about the shiva, about when they would head to the Levinsons’ penthouse.
Monique stood, smoothed her dress, arranged her face into something that wouldn’t worry anyone. With her mask firmly in place, she prepared to do what she did best: endure.
Even if enduring felt like slowly dying. Even if the only person who might have taught her the difference between surviving and living was someone she’d probably already lost.
Chickie’s mother found their group and greeted them like family. “Your being here means so much. We do hope you’re still up to joining us later.”
“Of course, Mrs. Levinson,” Dr. Tedrow responded. “We plan to see Chickie’s wishes through.”
Chickie’s wishes were an abbreviated shiva that included karaoke, board games, and chocolate fountains. She wanted people to laugh, and if they needed to cry, cry laughing.
Monique nodded, smiled, and said the right things.
She watched herself do it, the smile, the right words and careful self-management.
It made her sick to her stomach that she was so good at it.
Masking this empty feeling with busyness.
With tasks. All of it tissue paper over the void where comfort should be. The void where Maurice should be.
Eleanor linked arms with her. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Monique lied.
“Liar.”
Monique almost smiled. “Yeah.”
“You know,” Eleanor said carefully, “it’s okay to need people. To want comfort. To let someone—”
“I don’t know if I can handle this topic today, El.”
Eleanor squeezed her arm. “Okay. But when you’re ready, we’re here.”
Monique nodded because she couldn’t speak.
If she spoke, she’d crack. If she cracked, she’d shatter.
If she shattered, she’d have to admit that she’d never been fine in the first place.
She’d left him standing in Old San Juan.
She’d promised to answer when he called, but she’d been too afraid even for that.
Too certain that hearing his voice would break her.
So she’d let the calls go to voicemail. Let the texts pile up unread. Let another good thing slip away because she was too damaged to hold on. They filed out of the synagogue into the brutal January cold. Monique pulled her coat tighter, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.