in the days after her mother’s death, February felt about as close to deaf as she ever had—a membrane of grief thick and phlegmy around her that the outside world could not penetrate. Even Mel, who had liaised with the florist and the undertaker, who shuttled paperwork to the minister for the funeral and stood beside her in the receiving line, could not fully puncture it.
February had grieved when her father died, had felt tired and angry and cried herself hollow. As her mother’s condition had worsened, she sometimes tried to moor herself to the memory of that sadness in preparation for its inevitable recurrence. But as it turned out, the heartache February suffered at the loss of her father provided her with no coping mechanisms in the face of this one. Being motherless was different than being fatherless. It was primal, the archetype for human suffering, like losing the North Star. And as she stood shaking the hands of her parents’ remaining friends and colleagues, her cousins in from Georgia, she wondered whether there was an age limit on orphandom, emotionally speaking. Surely the feeling of desolation one experienced as the last of one’s nuclear family knew no statute of limitations.
The funeral was the easy part, the performance of mourning and all of its trappings an effective diversion. It was returning home and the bleak, ever-darkening winterward days afterward that were difficult.
Their house was bursting with turkey—casseroles and sandwich fixings and soups their friends and neighbors had salvaged from Thanksgiving leftovers. The smell made February queasy, though she ate the leftover pies. She tried to work and read and watch the backlog of movies she and Mel had been too busy to see, but she could not concentrate. Instead she lay on the couch for several days straight, watching the entire canon of Big Brother punctuated occasionally by American Ninja Warrior, piling food onto paper plates, then throwing them out untouched.
Mel was thoughtful, helpful, but her company did not fill the absence left by February’s mother. At first, this didn’t bother February. How could her wife possibly provide the same things her mother had? Would she even want her to? The comforts of childhood seemed diametrically opposed to all things romantic. Then one day, Wanda appeared at her door with a roast beef.
Thought you’d be sick of turkey, she said in casual, one-handed sign.
February smiled, just a little, at how Wanda’s ease and wit were exactly the same no matter the situation. But as Wanda handed over the platter and invited herself in, February felt something different than fondness for a friend or old flame: an anchor back to the essence of herself, a moment’s peace. The film of February’s sadness was peeled back by Wanda’s signs, which were faster but otherwise not unlike her mother’s. In that moment, February knew she would be okay.
Then, at the realization that it was Wanda who’d lifted the haze, a new disquiet. What did it mean that it hadn’t been Mel? And how bad would Mel flip if she came home from work to find Wanda here?
February checked the time as she offered Wanda some coffee. She’d have to leave a big buffer to account for the Deaf Goodbye, which simply could not be completed in under a half hour. But Wanda remained oblivious to February’s anxious eye on the clock, or at least she pretended as much, sipping coffee and prattling on about how Thanksgiving dinner with her husband’s side of the family had ended in a politically fueled brawl that had her brother-in-law upending the gravy tureen. And it happened again—for a moment, Wanda’s story, the world she crafted so vividly before her, pulled February from her worry and she laughed.
How’s school? February said tentatively.
She hadn’t thought much about River Valley at all in the past few days, and now felt ashamed for having abandoned her students both in practice and in thought.
Getting on without you all right. Phil looks a little like a deer in the headlights, but he held it all down.
I think this is the longest I’ve ever been gone.
It’s only been four school days! Don’t you ever whisk Mel away anywhere?
I do my whisking during summer vacation.
Girl, you better take next week off, too.
Wanda laughed and patted February’s arm, but now that February had begun thinking about school it was difficult to stop, especially given the chaos that would crash through its gates once the closure news was out. Swall would alert the district’s principals to what was coming at the December administrative meeting just two weeks from now. And if it somehow stayed secret through the holidays, all hell would certainly break loose after the all-faculty summit in the new year. She placed her hand on top of Wanda’s and held it there.
Yeah, maybe, she said.
* * *
—
Later, when February had again deflated and returned to the couch, Mel arrived home from work and made a beeline for the refrigerator.
How was your day? said February.
Same old same old. You know, it’s not exactly good for you to be lying there twenty-four-seven.
Of course it’s not. It’s grief.
Grief doesn’t have to be unhealthy, said Mel. You could, like, develop a yoga compulsion or something.
Can a compulsion be healthy?
Hey, good roast.
Yeah, said February, propping herself up on her elbows so she could see into the kitchen. Wanda brought that over.
February saw Mel freeze mid-chew, then catch herself and continue.
That was nice of her, said Mel.
It was.
Why you looking at me like that?
Nothing. I’m not. I just thought—
She brought us food. Really, Feb, I’m not some kind of ogre.
Okay. Sorry.
Also it’s delicious, Mel said, heaping more roast and potatoes onto her plate.
We should buy some lettuce, said February. No one ever brings salad.
No one is comforted by salad.
Mel carried her plate into the living room and sat down on the couch.
I don’t know if I can go back to work, said February.
Don’t be silly, of course you can.
Everything reminds me of her.
Maybe that’s a good thing. A little bit of her all over campus. In all those kids.
I guess.
You could always take more time, said Mel. Lord knows you have the sick days.
I can’t, said February.
I know.
That night February finally pulled her laptop from her briefcase, feeling wary as it hummed back to life. Her work account contained 176 unread emails—from her teachers, her bosses, and students. From the subject lines, she could tell some were offering condolences, but most appeared to be regular items of business, the world, swift and savage, having moved on without her.
back at school, things fell into their old rhythms. Or not quite—they were better. She and Kayla chatted easily about their breaks (though Charlie didn’t mention the crockpots) and Kayla invited (insisted that) Charlie come out to the common room to watch YouTube videos with her and the rest of the girls on the floor. In class, she was following her lessons, even in history, once Headmistress finally got back from vacation. The next week at play practice, when Austin came for his sword, he kissed her hand and she felt her curiosity bloom once again. With Austin, it was different—it wasn’t a hunger like she felt with Slash—she was different. Whatever was between them, it was something much quieter. But maybe that was good. After all, there were other emotions beyond lust and anger. Maybe she was hitting her stride. Then, one night as practice was winding down, Austin returned to tell her that the football team had a night game over in Masonville.
O-k?