Funny, sometimes heart-wrenching, and always uplifting, this novel from bestselling author Kristan Higgins illuminates how life's greatest joys are often hiding in plain sight.
3
Joshua
Twelve days later
February 26
WAS IT WEIRD to look for your wife at her funeral?
But he was. He kept glancing around for Lauren, waiting for her to come in and tell him what to say to all these people, what to do during this service. Where to put his hands. How to hug back.
She would know. That was the problem. She knew all about these things—people, for example. How to act out in the world. At her wake last night, she would’ve told him what to say as her friends cried and held on to his hand and hugged him, making him uncomfortable and stiff and sweaty. Classic spectrum problem. He didn’t like crowds. Didn’t want to hug anyone except his wife. Who was dead.
She would’ve told him what to wear today. As it was, he was wearing the one suit he owned. The same one he’d worn to propose to her, the same one he wore to their wedding three years ago. Was it a horrible thing to wear your wedding suit to your wife’s funeral? Should he have gone with a different tie? Was this suit bringing shit up for her mother and sister?
This pew was hard as granite. He hated wooden chairs. Pews. Whatever.
Donna, Lauren’s mother, sobbed. The sound echoed through the church. Same church where Josh and Lauren had gotten married. If they’d had kids, would they have baptized them here? Josh was pretty much an atheist, but if Lauren had wanted church as a part of their life, he’d go along with it.
Except she was dead.
It had been four days. One hundred and twelve hours and twenty-three minutes since Lauren died, give or take some seconds. The longest time of his life, and also like five seconds ago.
Lauren’s sister, Jen, was giving the eulogy. It was probably a good eulogy, because people laughed here, cried there. Josh himself couldn’t quite make out the words. He stared at his hands. When Lauren had put his wedding ring on his finger at their wedding, he couldn’t stop looking at it. His hand looked complete with that ring on. Just a plain gold band, but it said something about him. Something good and substantial. He wasn’t just a man . . . he was a husband.
Rather, he had been a husband. Now he was a widower. Utterly useless.
So much for being a biomedical engineer with numerous degrees and a reputation in healthcare technology. He’d had two years and one month to find a cure for idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a disease that slowly filled the lungs with scar tissue, choking off the healthy parts for breathing. He had failed. Not that a cure was easy, or someone would’ve done it before. The only devices on the market were designed to push air into lungs, work chest muscles or clear mucus, and those weren’t Lauren’s problems.
He hadn’t figured it out. He hadn’t created something or found a drug trial that would kill off those fucking fibers and scars. Since the day of her diagnosis, he’d devoted himself to finding something that would save his wife. Not just slow the disease down—they had those meds, she’d been on them, plus two experimental drugs, plus the Chinese herbs and traditional medicine, plus an organic diet with no red meat.
No. Josh’s job had been to find—or make—something that would cure her. Restore her. Keep her.
He had not done so.
A large picture of her was placed on the altar. It had been taken on their trip to Paris just before Christmas that first year they were married. Before they knew. Her red hair blew back from her face, and her smile was so full of fun and love and joy. He stared at that picture now, still stunned that he got to marry her. She was way out of his league.
The first time they’d met, he’d insulted her.
Thank God he’d gotten another chance. Not that God existed. Otherwise, she’d still be alive. Who the hell took someone like her at age twenty-eight? A merciful God? Fuck that.
It didn’t seem possible that she was gone forever. No. It seemed like Lauren, who had enjoyed childlike tricks such as hiding in the shower and jumping out at him as he brushed his teeth, could pull off the biggest trick of all—jump out from behind the altar and say, “Boo! Just kidding, babe!” then laugh and hug him and tell him she was just testing him these past few years. She’d never been sick at all.
Then again, she’d already been cremated.
Apparently, Jen was done, because she came down from the altar of the church and stood before him.
“Thank you, Jen,” he said woodenly. His mother, sitting beside him, gave him a nudge, and he stood up and hugged his sister-in-law. Former sister-in-law? That didn’t seem fair. He liked being related to Jen and her husband, Darius, not to mention their two kids. He even almost liked Donna, his mother-in-law, who, after a shitty start, had been great at the end there. When Lauren was actively dying.
Now, his wife was ashes inside a baggie in a metal container. He was waiting for the special urn to arrive from California, at which point he would mix her with an organic soil mix. He’d plant a tree in the bamboo urn, and Lauren would become a dogwood tree. Cemeteries were unsustainable, if beautiful, she’d said. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to be a tree? Better than compost.”
He could almost hear her voice.
“Well. That was a nice thought, but of course he was alone. His wife was dead.”
Everyone began filing out of the church. Josh waited, being at the front of the church. His mom slid her arm through his. “Hang in there, honey,” she whispered. He nodded. They both watched as Ben and Sumi Kim, his mother’s best friends and next-door neighbors, went to the altar and stood in front of Lauren’s picture. Ben bowed from the waist, then knelt on the floor and pressed his forehead to it, then rose and bowed again while Sumi sobbed gently.
Josh had to cover his eyes for a minute at the reverence, the heartache in that gesture. Lauren had loved the Kims, who were essentially Josh’s second parents. Ben was the closest thing to a father he’d ever had. Of course Lauren loved them. She loved most people, and they all loved her right back.
The Kims came over, hugged him. Josh stood there with the three adults who’d raised him, all helpless now in the face of his loss.
No one could help him.
“You’ll get through this, son,” Ben said, looking him in the eye. “I know it seems like you won’t, but you will.”
Josh nodded. Ben wasn’t the type to lie. Ben gripped his shoulders and nodded back. “You’re not alone in this, Josh.”
Well. That was a nice thought, but of course he was alone. His wife was dead.
“Shall we head out, then?” the older man asked. Like his mother, Ben was good at giving Josh the cues he often needed in social situations. Not as good as Lauren, though.
Panic flashed painfully through his joints. What was he going to do without her?
“Let’s go, honey,” his mom said.
Right. He hadn’t answered. “Okay,” he said. It felt wrong, somehow, leaving the church. Ending the funeral.
There was a lunch after the service. So many flowers, despite Lauren’s wish that in lieu of, there’d be donations for the Hope Center, her favorite place in Providence, her hometown. Her workmates from Pearl Churchwell Harris, the architectural firm where she’d worked as a public space designer, were all here—Bruce, who’d been such a great boss to Lauren, crying as if he’d lost his own child. Santino and Louise, who’d gone on walks with Lauren to keep her lung capacity up. That shitty Lori Cantore, who’d asked if she could have Lauren’s office two years ago. Such a vulture, coming to the funeral when she’d been a pill in real life. He imagined grabbing her scrawny arm and dragging her out, but he didn’t want to make her the center of attention. This was Lauren’s funeral, after all.
And there were so many of Lauren’s friends—Asmaa from the community center; Sarah, her best friend from childhood; Mara from Rhode Island School of Design; Creepy Charlotte, the single woman who lived on the first floor of their building, and, Josh was almost sure, had been making a play for him since they’d met, wife or no wife. People from Lauren’s childhood, high school and college, teachers, classmates, the principal of Lauren’s grammar school.
Some people even came for Josh, having read Lauren’s obituary. Not exactly his friends . . . he didn’t have many of those. Lauren had been his friend. His best friend. Her family had welcomed him, but he was really just a phantom limb at this point. An amputation without her.
A short, stout woman with steel-gray curls came up to him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. Her voice was familiar. He glanced at his mother, who gave a small shrug.
“ Uh . . . how did you know Lauren?” he asked.
“I don’t. I work for you. I’m Cookie Goldberg. Your virtual assistant.”
“Oh! Hi. Uh . . . right.” Cookie lived in New York. Long Island. They’d never met face-to-face, though he’d seen her on Zoom and Skype often enough.
“Yeah, well, I’m . . . shit. I’m so sorry for you, Joshua. My heart is breaking for you.” Her raspy voice cracked, and she looked a little shocked at her own words. “Okay. I got a long drive home. Call me if you need anything.”
She turned and left.
“She works for you, but you didn’t recognize her? You only have one employee, Josh,” his mother chided gently.
“She’s out of context,” he said, sitting back down.
He didn’t eat, or maybe he did. Darius, Jen’s husband, got him a glass of wine, forgetting that Josh didn’t drink. Eventually, Josh got to hold Octavia. Was she still his niece? He was her dead aunt’s widowed husband. Did he still get to claim her and Sebastian? Was he still Uncle Josh?
Sebastian, age four, wailed, inconsolable despite Darius’s best efforts. The kid was just old enough to understand Auntie Lauren was never coming back. Josh envied him. No stiff upper lip there. He was crying the way Josh wanted to: unfettered, anguished, horrified.
“Call if you need anything,” said Creepy Charlotte, her pale blue eyes eerie. She handed him a piece of paper. Her phone number, he assumed. As she moved in to hug him, Josh stuck out his hand at the same time. Awkward. Lauren would’ve fixed it so it would’ve been funny, but it stayed awkward. Charlotte lifted an eyebrow, but Josh wasn’t sure how to interpret that. He took the paper and put it in his pocket, then sat back down, but the paper rankled. It felt like betrayal, so he wadded it up and tossed it under the table with a silent apology to the cleaning staff. Those people, he pictured them saying. Throwing trash on the ground like animals.
He bent over and looked for it. “What are you doing?” his mother hissed.
“Stephanie,” he heard a woman say. “I’m so sorry! She was a lovely girl. Um . . . where’s Joshua?”
“Pebbles, their goofy Australian shepherd mutt, had been staying with Jen since Lauren’s hospitalization; Josh had forgotten to ask for her back. Well. Another day wouldn’t matter.”
The wad was just out of reach. He stretched, heard his chair fall over behind him, grabbed the paper and stood up. Righted the chair. “Hi,” he said to his mother’s friend.
“Joshua, you remember Nina, right? From the lab?”
His mother had worked at Rhode Island Hospital’s lab for thirty years. He didn’t remember this woman. “Yes,” he lied, shaking her hand.
She pulled him in for a hug, and he winced. “So sorry for your loss, honey,” she said.
“Thank you.” He stood there another minute, then turned and went to the bathroom to throw out the paper. He didn’t want Creepy Charlotte’s number, or anyone’s number. He just wanted his wife not to be dead.
The face in the mirror was nearly unrecognizable. He lifted his hand to make sure he was really there. This had to be a dream, right? Groping under a table for a piece of paper, all these people he didn’t quite know . . . next thing would be he wouldn’t have any clothes on, and then he’d wake up next to his wife. He’d hold her close and breathe in the smell of her hair and she’d smile without opening her eyes.
But he was still in the bathroom, looking at the face in the mirror.
Sarah, Lauren’s best friend, was waiting for him when he came out. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Me neither.” Her eyes were wet. She took his hand and squeezed it. “This is a fucking nightmare.”
“Yep.”
“Did you eat anything?”
“Yes,” he said, though he couldn’t remember.
Sarah walked him back to his table. People spoke to him. Some of them cried.
Josh stared at the table. He may have responded to the people who talked to him. It didn’t really matter, though, did it?
Sometime later, Darius drove him home to the old mill building turned condos. “Want me to come in, buddy?” he asked in the parking lot.
“No, no. I . . . I think I want to be alone.”
“Got it. Listen, Josh, I’m here for you, okay? Anytime, night or day. We married sisters. We’re family forever. Brothers.”
Josh nodded. Darius was very tall and had rich brown skin, so Josh doubted anyone would mistake them for brothers, but it was a nice thought. “Thanks, Darius.”
“This really sucks, man.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry. She was . . . she was a peach.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll text you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep, okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He went up the stairs, his legs heavy. For the past six days, he’d been staying at his mom’s house, glad for the familiar comfort of his childhood home, the smells and furniture. Lauren, whose own mother was a bit of a drama queen, had welcomed his mother’s calm ways, understood her devotion to her only child, admired Stephanie for raising him alone. Lauren was more than a daughter-in-law to his mom; she was the daughter Stephanie never had.
Had been. She had been.
Jesus. He had to change tenses now. He unlocked the apartment door and went inside. He hadn’t been here since Lauren was hospitalized . . . when was that? Six days ago? Eight? A lifetime.
The island lights shone gently, and the lamp by the reading chair was on low. Someone had been here. The place was immaculate. The pillows were plumped on the couch, pillows Lauren had bought. A bouquet of yellow tulips sat on the kitchen island, smack in the middle, obscenely cheerful. The blankets that Lauren had used, since she was always cold, were folded, one draped over the back of the couch.
It was so quiet.
Pebbles, their goofy Australian shepherd mutt, had been staying with Jen since Lauren’s hospitalization; Josh had forgotten to ask for her back. Well. Another day wouldn’t matter.
Josh went into the bedroom. Lauren’s medical stuff—her athome oxygen, her percussion vest—was gone. Josh had agreed to that, he remembered vaguely. Donate the stuff to someone in need or something. The pill bottles that had sat on her night table, the Vicks VapoRub . . . those were gone, too.
Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. Twelve syllables of doom. A disease for which there was no cure. A disease that usually hit older people but, occasionally, chose a young person to invade. A disease that had a life expectancy of three to five years.
Lauren had gotten the shorter end of that.
Their bed was made perfectly, same as Lauren used to make it, before the small task took too much out of her. He always tried to make it as precisely as she did and never quite managed, something that made her smile. The cute, useless little flowered pillows were in place.
It was as if she’d just been here.
Josh grabbed some jeans and an MIT sweatshirt and changed into them. In the kitchen, he pulled the tulips out of their vase and threw them in the trash, then dumped the water and tossed the vase in the recycling bin. He gathered up his suit, shirt, socks, even his boxers, and carried them up to the rooftop garden that had come with this apartment. For once, he didn’t think about how much he hated heights. The bite of cold, damp air was welcome.
A seagull sat on one of the posts of the iron railing that encircled the garden, watching him, its feathers ruffling in the breeze.
He turned on the gas grill, all burners, as high as they’d go.
Then he burned the clothes he’d worn to his wife’s funeral, and stood there long after they were ash and the snow began to fall.
Extracted from Pack Up the Moon by Kristan Higgins, out now.
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