Chapter 26 Maurice
Laughter and off-key singing were not at all what Maurice expected to hear when he exited the elevator to the Levinsons’ Lincoln Park penthouse.
The lobby was a round foyer with a console table where a guest book sat open. He found a pen, signed his name, and then scanned backward through the entries. There—Monique Moore, third signature down. Her handwriting was a careful, practiced script, each letter precisely formed.
He traced the curve of her M with his eyes.
Such a small thing, ink on paper, but it felt monumental.
Like the difference between reading about Egyptian tombs in a textbook and standing inside one, seeing hieroglyphics carved by human hands, realizing that what had been abstract was suddenly and powerfully real.
He would see her. Touch her. But would she let him stay?
A young man approached from farther in the apartment. Dewy blue eyes, warm smile. Yarmulke perched on peachy-blond hair. “How do you know Charlotte?”
“I don’t. I know her friend. Here for support.” If she’ll have me, Maurice wanted to say, but held his tongue.
The man’s eyes smiled before his mouth did. “I’m Derek Tedrow.” He extended his hand.
Maurice took it, the name clicking into place. “Dr. T?”
“Ah, so she does talk about me.” Tedrow grinned and hummed.
Maurice trained his eyes on the strange man as he moved to the table where the guest book sat and dug his hand into a basket.
“Here you go, Maurice.” Dr. Tedrow said, handing him a yarmulke. “Good to put a face to a name. Mo will be really surprised, but it’s just what the doctor ordered.” He laughed, big and genuine, though not loud enough to overpower the celebration happening in the next room.
Were all shivas like this?
“Wait—I didn’t tell you my name,” Maurice said.
Tedrow tapped the line Maurice signed in the guest book.
“Oh, right, but…” There was a galaxy full of questions he wanted—needed—to ask. He knew Monique. How did he know to greet him, given that there were plenty of clear signs instructing new arrivals on protocol? How far did this setup go?
A low thump began at the back of Maurice’s head.
“Why don’t you take a deep breath?” Tedrow said with well-practiced precision. “Watch me…”
Maurice met his eyes as the doctor put his hand on his heart and inhaled, counting out loud.
“I know what box breathing is, man. What I don’t know is why nobody seems surprised that I’m here.”
Dr. Tedrow blinked and dropped his hands. “What exactly do you think is going on here, Maurice?” The doctor’s tone was genuinely puzzled.
“You’re not in on it?”
“In on what?” Tedrow’s brow furrowed. “I’m a grief counselor. I work with cancer patients and their families. For the last four days, I’ve been here. And for the last four days, I’ve heard your name no less than a hundred times.”
Maurice was confused, but only for a moment. “Monique’s girls…” he said finally.
Tedrow nodded and chuckled. “Well, Chickie was kind of obsessed with you two.”
His instincts had misfired. This time he did the box breathing exercise.
“What kind of doctor are you?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
Tedrow’s mirth vanished, and he stood tall.
“I’m the kind of doctor who ushers his patients to the other side with dignity and joy.
I’m the type of doctor who helps his patients’ families say goodbye in a way that won’t ever hurt less but may feel less final.
I’m the kind of doctor who has lived this, walked this, just like them. ”
Maurice stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. He couldn’t argue with any of that. If he were ever in that position, he hoped he’d meet it with the exact same energy.
“Monique is easy to love because she sees and cares so clearly.” Tedrow’s voice hardened. “But you—I don’t know you despite all the glowing endorsements. That woman deserves someone who matches—no exceeds—her ability to love.”
“That’s why I’m here, Doc.”
Tedrow looked him up and down in that scrutinizing way that made some men come to blows. With an outstretched hand, Tedrow’s stern mask shattered, revealing a cartoonish grin. “Derek.”
Maurice stared at the outstretched hand and then back up at this young doctor. “I’m so confused.”
“Don’t be. We are all figuring this out together, listening and learning from each other. Where you’re confused, your community—your family—may offer clarity.”
It was as if Maurice had written a script that the good doctor had poached. He wagged a finger at Tedrow and allowed a small smile to occupy his face. “You’re good, Doc.”
Tedrow shook Maurice’s hand. “I’m a work in progress, but thank you.”
The revelry in the other room quieted, the silence replaced with a tone that, to his ears, rivaled heavenly harps. “Queue up the next track. I need a bio-break.”
Monique.
A chorus of voices followed after hers, theirs rising in a lighthearted debate over whether Cardi or Taylor would be their next song.
Maurice froze as the soft footfalls grew louder, closer.
Tedrow patted him on the shoulder. “I’d better get back to the group. Take good care of her. I’m sure we’ll talk more eventually.” He headed down the hallway directly across from the elevator.
The space was like a half sun whose rays burst out in three directions. Full of possibility. Tedrow’s frame filled his line of sight, blocking what awaited at the end of these off-center and curved halls.
Maurice blinked and looked away, down a darkened hall to his left. Blinked again. His vision was filled with Monique.
Head hung, shoulders slumped, her black dress dusting the floor with each slow step.
The urge to run to her was so powerful. He didn’t move.
She never lifted her gaze as she approached the foyer, her route hugging the wall, their curve guiding her left.
He shifted. Unable to control himself.
She looked his way.
Finally.
For too many long breaths, they stood and stared. Her eyes were darker than he remembered. More tired. Sadder. Cheeks more drawn. Lips quivering as tears spilled over her lashes.
He rushed forward just as her knees buckled.
“I gotchu,” he said, gathering her in his arms as she clung to his jacket lapel. “I’m here. I gotchu,” he chanted against the crown of her head as she crumbled.
He held her there and let her cry. No trying to stop it. No right thing to say. Nothing to say at all. He just stood there in the marble foyer of a stranger’s home and held Monique while she cried herself out, grateful to be the one allowed to do it.
After a while, he whispered, “You wanna get outta here?”
She sniffled and nodded a resounding, albeit soggy, affirmative into his chest.