“Yeah. A bunch of us from Seattle are driving together. You have a place to stay?”
“Sally and Tim offered to put me up.”
“Are you going to take them up on it?”
“I’m not sure,” Cassidy said. The idea of being in Pete’s house and seeing his things both filled her with terror and rabid anticipation. She remembered Quinn’s warning: don’t let yourself dwell on this. Take what you need, and try to move on.
But she couldn’t seem to move on—or move at all for that matter. Since returning home she had only left to buy groceries and go to her office. Not that she was getting much work done. Her work felt so distant, and trivial. She wondered when the department would figure out that even though she put in long hours, her work showed little of the quality she was known for. Plus, she had missed a grant proposal deadline, had postponed editing two urgent paper reviews, and was expected to coordinate an upcoming research trip to Arenal.
“Well, Aaron and I were talking, and we want to do a celebration of life for him in Seattle.”
Cassidy began to cry as the image of a room full of people milling about, talking, with red party cups in their hands came into focus. Would she have to make some kind of speech? Her head began to pound. “Sorry,” she said.
“Why are you sorry?” Mark said. “This sucks. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” He paused, and Cassidy managed to regain control. “We’re thinking of Thanksgiving, you know, because Pete loved food and, well, eating,” he added with a soft chuckle that sounded so distant that she imagined herself on an ice floe, far out to sea.
“Okay,” Cassidy said through a fresh batch of tears.
“I can invite everyone, and organize the food.”
“Are you still at the apartment?” she asked. The image of the apartment Pete had shared with Mark appeared in her mind: the tiny table where she and Pete sipped coffee and talked about their day, the simple bedroom where she had slept next to him while listening to the traffic on the road outside and the sirens on the freeway. She broke down, letting the silent sobs take over her body.
“No,” Mark said. “I live with my girlfriend, Suzanne, in Ballard. Our place is really small, or I’d totally do it there.”
“How about Casa de Rocas?” Cassidy asked before she could think it through. “Emily is still there. I bet we can clear the other roommates out for the weekend. Or they may already have plans to leave town because of the holiday.”
“Really?” Mark asked. “’Because that would be perfect.”
Cassidy felt like some kind of animal had her heart in its teeth. So many memories were locked inside the walls of that house. “Okay,” she managed.
It took Cassidy two days to call Emily. First, she pulled down the bottle of Glenfiddich that she and Pete used for special occasions. She ignored the fact that the bottle, new only two months ago as a housewarming present to themselves, was approaching empty. After two glasses sipped over the course of the evening, she dug up her phone and settled onto the couch with a blanket.
Emily answered on the second ring. “Hey,” she said, and the kindness in her voice made Cassidy’s breath catch. Normally, Emily was sassy and bold and hilarious. The idea of the two of them laughing and joking together ever again seemed impossible.
“Hey,” Cassidy replied. She reached for her glass and realized that it was empty.
“How are you?” Emily asked.
Cassidy had been asked this many times since returning from San Francisco. If only she could give a “how to talk to people who are grieving” guide to the people in her life. Step one would be a ban on asking the question “how are you?”
“I mean, besides that,” Emily added awkwardly. “Shit, Cass, I don’t know what to say to you.” She paused. “I’m sorry?” she sighed. “That sounds stupid. I’ve wanted to call you, but I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry for that. You could probably use a friend right now and I haven’t been a very good one.”
“It’s okay,” Cassidy said.
“No it’s not,” Emily replied. “But enough of the bullshit. Do you want me to come down there? Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” Cassidy said, this sudden outflow of kindness making her cry again. The thought of Emily visiting and seeing her life in shambles filled her with shame. I should be able to get it together, she thought, thinking of the near-empty bottle of Scotch and the recycle bin full of beer bottles.
Emily sniffed and Cassidy realized that she was crying too. “This is fucked up, Cassidy,” she said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“I know,” Cassidy said, the words bursting out, as if pressurized. She choked on a sob.
“How’s Eugene?” Emily asked after more sniffs.
Relieved that the conversation had moved onto lighter subjects, Cassidy took a deep breath. “Busy,” she replied. “Our neighbors are nice,” she added, remembering the daily arrivals of food and the awkward hugs. Her next-door neighbor, a retired teacher, had invited himself over one afternoon to talk about his wife’s death ten years prior and how he coped by cultivating prize-winning roses.
“That’s great,” Emily said.
“How’s the thesis writing going?” Cassidy asked. The details of Emily’s project somehow eluded her, even though they had talked at length about it in the past. She wiped away fresh tears. “Do you know what you’ll do after?”
“Jesus, hopefully a job, and not one on some fracking rig in the middle of South Dakota.”
Normally, Cassidy would have replied with a sharp retort, but words failed her and the line buzzed with the silence that stretched between them. She got up and poured herself another finger of Scotch and a handful of ice cubes. The first sip burned her throat, but it gave her courage.
“So, Mark wants to plan a gathering for Pete in Seattle,” she said, forcing the
