My body goes cold. I have a vague recollection of saying that. We were in the kitchen making a Sunday roast and my mom was trying to find me a date for the New Year’s party. She suggested Josh. And I…I judged him and rejected him.
“You forgot the part where she said that inspirational quote, the one about the gift of loving and that she wouldn’t waste it on a guy like Josh,” says Dylan. He gives me a dark look. “It wasn’t cool, Gemma. So if you’re just going to go over and tell Josh some positivity crap or make fun of his life choices, you can put the spaghetti down. He doesn’t need that right now.”
I look down at the food spread out across the counter, ready for the reception after the funeral.
“Ease off, Dylan. Gemma doesn’t go around dumping on people. She’s just trying to be nice. It’s not her fault Josh heard her. There were plenty of times she voiced her opinion of him and he didn’t hear. Remember the Fourth of July party the year Sasha was born? Josh was there and she said, ‘Where did all his potential go? Remember when we all thought he was going to do great things? But like Ian says, ‘It takes a great person to do truly great things.’”
I’m cold with shame.
“Okay, I won’t try to set Gemma up with Josh,” my mom says. “They wouldn’t be a good fit anyway. Gemma needs someone who doesn’t mind that she can’t have children. And who doesn’t care if she’s a tad bit overweight or wears oversized sweaters and—”
I press my hands to my cheeks. They feel drained of blood. Then I turn to my mom and my sister and brother. “Mom, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ever try to fix me up again. Or fix me, period. I know you mean well, but it hurts me when you try it, okay? It makes me feel as if you don’t think I’m okay just as I am. And I know I’m not as pretty as Leah, or as funny as Dylan, but that doesn’t mean you have to fix me. Maybe you could just love me as I am?”
My mom gives me a stunned look. “But dear. I do love you as you are.”
I look at her through watery eyes, and I realize that yes, of course she does.
“I’m sorry, Gemma. I was trying to be useful. It’s hard to be useful as a mom when your kids are all grown and living their own lives.” She reaches out and gently tugs on a lock of my hair, just like she used to when I was little.
“That’s alright Mom,” I say. “Don’t cry.”
She sniffs and dabs her eyes with the kitchen towel.
Dylan clears his throat. “Well, Mom, you could take care of me by letting me have that tray of meatballs. And maybe that chocolate chiffon pie? I also wouldn’t mind you ironing my clothes like you used to.”
My mom swats at Dylan with the kitchen towel. “Shame. That’s not what I meant. You’re thirty-three years old. Iron your own underwear.”
Leah snorts into her hand. Then she steps closer to me and knocks my hip with hers. “You alright?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
She nods. “Me either. I haven’t for a while now.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it, then we watch my mom chase Dylan around the kitchen while he tries to steal another meatball.
“I’m going to take these over to Josh.” I grab the containers of spaghetti and Jell-O.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Leah says.
“Tell Josh I’ll bring him a tie in the morning,” calls Dylan through a mouthful of food.
I wave as I slip out of the noise and warmth of the kitchen.
No one answers the door, but it isn’t locked, so I slip inside. The house looks exactly the same as the last time I was here with Josh, except his dad isn’t in the recliner in the living room and the television isn’t turned on to some “medical drama garbage.”
“Josh?” I call out.
There’s no answer. I walk farther into the house. It’s quiet and dark and there’s a sadness hanging in the air that wasn’t here before. It’s like a curtain has been pulled and the room has been shaded from laughter.
I stop when I see a half-finished sudoku puzzle on the seat of the recliner. I wonder how many half-finished things lie around the house, waiting for Josh to stumble on.
I clasp the containers of food to my chest and move farther into the house. There’s a light coming from under the door leading to the basement. I turn the door handle and walk down the carpeted stairs.
I let out a shaky breath when I see Josh hunched over his drawing table. His back is to me, his shoulders are slumped and he’s running his pencil over a piece of paper. I stop on the stairs. He looks so…un-Joshlike.
His dark hair falls over his forehead and blocks his face from view. But the lonely tilt of his head, the darkness of the room, the tightness with which he holds the pencil, he looks so alone.
I must have made a noise, because suddenly he stiffens and then turns in his chair toward the stairs.
I pull in a breath when I see his face.
Oh Josh.
He looks…he looks like I did when I looked into the mirror this morning. At the time, I didn’t think there was a difference in me, but now I know there was, because I can see it in him.
He tries to lift his lips into a smile, but it falls flat.
“Hey Gemma,” he says. He sets his pencil down and stands. “What’s up?”
The air I pull in burns my lungs. My legs are shaky as I walk down the rest of the stairs. I hold up the plastic containers. “I brought you dinner.”
He stares at the containers, like he isn’t sure exactly what they mean or what he’s supposed to say. Finally he swallows and nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
I set the food down on the edge of the drawing table. I catch a quick glimpse of what looks like a kid in a spaceship and planets and stars.
I turn back to him, try to smile and fail. “It’s spaghetti and lime…”
He nods politely, distantly, so I trail off, then say, “Did you get my messages?”
He shakes his head. “I have so many calls I stopped checking. I didn’t realize how much work it is to bury someone.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. “Look Gemma. It’s been a long few days—”
He’s going to ask me to go. The back of my eyes burn. I thought I couldn’t cry anymore, but I think I was wrong. My throat feels raw.