Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Zoom meetings with Viv and Marin always start like a group project from hell. Someone’s muted. Someone’s frozen. Someone (usually Viv) is too close to the camera, like she’s trying to have an intimate chat with my pores.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Birdie, unmute!” Viv barks. “You’re muted again!”
“I’m not… wait, okay. There.”
Marin’s face fills the screen, half-shadowed by the glow of her fridge light and a comically large bowl of what appears to be fruity cereal. “I’d like to open this meeting by congratulating all of us! Our grief dares this week were smashing successes.”
“I didn’t realize we were giving ourselves awards now.” I settle back on the couch with a glass of wine.
“Surviving the week is the award,” Viv mutters. “Barely.”
“Oh, come on.” Marin points her spoon at the camera. “Viv, you did a full yoga flow alone in the park. No class. No distraction. Only you and the geese.”
“Don’t remind me about the geese.” I can see Viv visibly shuddering. “Do you know what it’s like to be in a deep squat while a flock of waterfowl stares at you like you owe them money?”
Marin snorts. “You did it anyway. That was your dare. Connect with your body in nature. And you didn’t even Instagram it.”
“I did take a photo of my mat. But I didn’t post it. That’s restraint.”
“Progress.” I raise my glass.
Viv nods toward Marin. “And you finally made a decision. Are you going to talk to the kids?”
Marin’s expression shifts. Not sad exactly. More like tired in that bone-deep way only other widows can spot. “Yeah. I think I’m ready. I kept telling myself I was protecting them. But really, I was protecting myself.”
Viv and I go quiet.
“Gonna start with Miles.” Marin stares into her cereal bowl, as though it holds the confirmation she needs. “He’s the oldest. And the most likely to not immediately condemn me about it all.”
“You’re brave.”
“I’m terrified.” Marin’s voice is matter-of-fact. “But I keep hearing you two in my head. That whole thing about not letting grief shrink your life.”
I swirl the wine in my glass, happy to let the moment breathe.
Then Viv leans forward so close her eyebrows fill the screen. “So… Birdie. You went to the block party.”
I nod.
“Yep.”
“And…?”
I sit back, take a deep inhale, and forge ahead. “And it might’ve changed my life a bit.”
Marin nearly chokes on her huge bite of cereal. “Do tell!”
I let out the breath. “I don’t know where to start.”
Viv crosses her arms and squints at me through the screen. “Okay, so this must’ve been one hell of a block party to shatter your inner Pinterest board.”
“I find that the beginning is always a good place.” Marin’s voice is warm and the push I need to open my mouth.
I groan. “It was supposed to be twenty minutes, max. Just enough time to show the neighborhood I was still functioning, clean pants, polite smile, head held high. Perfectly perfect.”
Marin raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“And… the neighbors started talking. You know, well-meaning but relentless. How are you holding up? You look amazing. Is that your new boyfriend?” I make air quotes and gag slightly. “Then Sharon brought over her infamous Bundt cake, which Noah tried, and something in me snapped.”
Viv leans in. “Define snapped.”
“I insulted the cake. Loudly. Then I accepted a challenge from Noah to a potluck tasting showdown. Then I talked a lot of smack at cornhole but didn’t have the game to back it up, but I didn’t care. And then…” I pause, wince. “I maybe wanted to kiss him at the end of the night.”
Both eyebrows raise on both screens.
“It was probably the stars. Or the lack of human touch for God knows how long.”
Viv and Marin continue to stare, eyebrows raised, bemused expressions on their faces.
“And now I feel like an insane person,” I add, voice pitching slightly higher. “Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe I’ve finally cracked like one of Sharon’s dry-ass Bundts. Either way, if either of you has a shred of compassion, please say something to get me to stop talking.”
They both pause. Marin takes another big bite of cereal, and Viv tilts her head to the side, like Frank does when he knows there’s more treats behind my back and I’m refusing to share them yet. Well, that’s not going to work on me. Until it does.
“And you know what?” The words are falling out of my mouth, one after the other. “It was the first time in a long time that I laughed until my ribs hurt. I wasn’t hosting. I wasn’t performing. I wasn’t curating anything. I was in the moment.”
The hush echoes over our tiny grid of digital squares.
“It wasn’t like some thunderclap moment,” I continue.
“Not a movie montage or some big rom-com voiceover. Just this quiet click. I realized I’ve spent my whole life trying to control the way things look.
I wanted it to look perfect on the outside, so no one could see I was far from it on the inside. ”
Viv’s eyes soften, and she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “So what changed?”
“The realization that I’ve lived my whole life trying to look the way I thought I should, show up the way everyone wanted me to…
except the people who loved me most. I’ve thrown parties for Owen before.
Big numbers deserve big parties. I did his thirtieth at a quaint little rooftop place with string lights, signature cocktails, and a jazz trio.
His fortieth was a backyard tent situation with caterers and napkins that I spent two weeks learning how to fold like peonies. ”
Viv whistles. “Of course you did.”
“They were beautiful.” I hear the defensiveness in my voice before I pause. “And unnecessary. And not what he wanted.”
I glance at the hallway, toward the room where Owen’s things still sit like they’re waiting for him to come back from a weekend trip.
“I made those parties about aesthetics. About me. I wanted them to be perfect. Parties that people would talk about. And Owen went along with it. Smiled for the photos. Ate the fig crostini even though he hated figs.”
“You didn’t know he hated figs?” Marin’s eyes widen.
“Oh, I knew.” I give a wry chuckle. “I figured he’d love the thought that went into it. And he did, I think. But looking back? I don’t remember either of us actually enjoying the party. I remember worrying about the playlist volume and whether the cake was too dry and losing the last five pounds.”
Viv whistles. “You went full Martha.”
“Oh, Martha wished,” I mutter.
“Did he like it?”
“He smiled. He was grateful. But he looked… tired. Overwhelmed. Afterward, he told me he’d wanted a backyard barbecue. Burgers, karaoke, and an inflatable palm tree cooler. Pina coladas in plastic coconuts.” The memory twists around my heart.
“I flipped out at the idea and told him I wouldn't be caught dead throwing a party that tacky. He laughed and said, ‘Babe, if there’s no inflatable palm tree cooler, is it even a party?’ And now I’d give anything to go back and give him that stupid palm tree cooler, give him the party he would’ve thrown if I hadn’t hijacked it with floral arrangements and tapas. ”
They’re quiet. Not because they don’t know what to say, but because they do. Because this is the kind of thing we all understand now. The things we didn’t do. The times we didn’t listen.
“So,” I shift my laptop slightly so they don’t see the pile of laundry behind me, “for his would-have-been fiftieth, I want to do it differently. I want tacky. Loud. I want plastic cheese melted on burgers, bad karaoke, and someone falling into an inflatable pool after one too many pina coladas, served in coconut cups with little umbrellas. I owe him the party he would’ve loved. ”
Viv leans back in her chair, arms crossed, one eyebrow already halfway to the ceiling. “You want it to feel like him.”
“Exactly.”
“And also like you,” Marin adds, tilting her head. “The you now. The you that doesn’t give a damn what the PTA thinks.”
I grin. “Yes. That me.”
Viv narrows her eyes. “So what are you saying? You want help planning a tiki-themed griefapalooza?”
“Think more grief luau.” Am I doing this? “Less black dresses, more plastic coconuts and frozen drink blenders that will absolutely explode mid-party. Owen’s old colleagues, our college friends, a few of the neighbors. All of Owen’s favorite people.”
Marin gasps, dramatically clutching her cereal bowl like it’s a microphone. “Can I emcee the karaoke portion? I do a killer Alanis Morissette.”
“Only if I get to sing ‘Islands in the Stream’ with a cardboard cutout of Owen,” Viv adds, already pulling out a notepad.
“You’re joking.” I don’t know whether to laugh, be shocked, or be horrified.
Viv’s expression turns uncharacteristically soft.
“I’m not, actually. I think it’s perfect.
The whole point of grief, at least what we’ve decided in our very official weekly Zoom grief dare therapy club, is to stop letting it shrink us.
You’re not shrinking. You’re throwing a backyard blowout in honor of someone you love. That’s sacred.”
“And deeply chaotic,” Marin adds.
“Both. I want to remember him laughing. I want my kids to see joy. I want to stop living like being composed is the same thing as being okay.”
Viv straightens in her chair, eyes bright. “We’re coming out.”
I blink. “What?”
“We’ll come help. With the party. With everything. I’ve got unused vacation days, zero plans, and a growing need to escape my neighbor who’s started naked sunbathing on his back porch.”
“I’m in too.” Marin brushes cereal dust off her sweatshirt. “What’s the point of working from home if you don’t change up your office once in a while? And I’ve got a glitter glue gun and absolutely no shame when it comes to Dollar Tree décor.”
My mouth hangs open, and I snap it shut. “I can’t believe you’re serious.”
“Of course we are. We’ll help you plan.” Marin’s already tapping away on her keyboard, presumably activating accountant mode and crunching the numbers. “Keep you from spiral-purchasing a twelve-foot inflatable parrot.”
“Speak for yourself.” Viv is pulling out what appears to be an old Hawaiian print shirt from a dresser drawer. “I fully support the parrot.”
Tears fill my eyes as I listen to the two of them go back and forth about dates and details and plane tickets.
They both pause. “Birdie.” Viv’s voice is soft. “If we can’t show up for a tiki-themed milestone grief bash, what are we even doing?”
“She’s right.” It looks like Marin is already rummaging in her closet for a suitcase. “This is what the grief pact was for.”
“What pact?”
“The unspoken one we’re now speaking aloud,” Marin replies. “Support, no judgment, and showing up. Preferably with snacks.”
“And backup vocals,” Viv adds. “And me doing yoga on your front lawn at sunrise every morning.”
“Oh God,” I groan. “My neighbors already think I’m unstable after that block party.”
“Perfect.” Marin grins. “Let’s give them something to talk about.”
And just like that, the idea of my dead husband’s would-be-birthday doesn’t feel terrifying anymore. It doesn’t feel like trying too hard or not doing enough. It feels like maybe the best way forward is through the palm tree cooler—the kind of party where Owen would’ve laughed the loudest.