I’d never worn perfume before. And I definitely wasn’t moving to a new city or starting a new relationship. But I understood implicitly the way smell helped imprint memories—the distinct spice of Grandpa’s aftershave could transport me in a second. And the idea of choosing a scent felt like a way to inject some variety into my relatively monotonous life. I could at least consider sampling some perfumes to find one that fit.
As I started walking toward the nearest department store, I felt my phone vibrating in my coat pocket. I didn’t recognize the number, but that wasn’t unusual if someone was calling me about a job. Ducking under a shop awning, I steeled myself. Death I could handle; phone calls I loathed. Why couldn’t everyone just email?
“Hello, Clover speaking.”
A brief silence on the other end, then a throat clearing.
“Ah, hi, Clover.”
I recognized the voice immediately.
“It’s Sebastian. From the death cafés.” A nervous laugh. “And the vitamin aisle of Duane Reade.”
I could’ve just hung up, but curiosity stopped me. Why would he be calling me after I’d made such an embarrassing exit? And how had he gotten my number?
“Hello, Sebastian.”
“So, I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday … I bet you’re wondering how I found you.”
“You could say that.”
“I swear I’m not following you. I mean, I kind of am, but not in the way you think.” Uncomfortable silence. “After you ran out the other night, I went home and googled exactly what a death doula was. And you know, the more I read about it, the more I realized how great it was.”
“I see.” His flattery softened my defenses slightly, even if it wasn’t directed specifically at me.
“It made me realize that a death doula is exactly what my grandmother needs. I think it would really help her.” Sebastian’s sentences were gaining pace, like he was trying to get it all out before being interrupted. “She wants to stay in her house and so she has home health aides there to help her around the clock, but nobody like you—someone who can help her through the more, you know, experiential stuff. That’s what you do, right?”
“Yes, kind of.” I trod carefully. “But how did you get my number?”
Another nervous laugh. “It actually wasn’t that hard. I mean, how many death doulas named Clover are there in New York? And I’m pretty good at going down internet rabbit holes.”
A flock of boisterous teenagers bustled past me on the sidewalk.
“There are lots of death doulas in the city who could help your grandmother,” I said, trying to keep my voice low. “I can recommend some.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true, but I think she would like you a lot.” Sebastian’s persistence was a little exasperating.
“You don’t even know anything about me. The only thing you thought you knew about me was a lie, anyway.” The side of my neck ached from clenching my shoulders.
“Well, are you taking on new clients?”
It was hard to say no to a potential job. Long stretches between clients weren’t healthy for my finances, even if I was a diligent saver. You don’t become a death doula for the money—I usually scaled my rate to whatever the person could afford. Sometimes, like with Abigail, I even did it for free. But regardless of the payment, Sebastian’s grandma didn’t deserve a lonely death.
“Yes … but I may already have one. It’s not quite confirmed yet.” I’d never been a liar, but the instinct seemed to emerge whenever I spoke to him.
“I’d be willing to pay more than your usual rate. Just name the price.”
“You don’t even know if I’m good at my job.”
“Actually, I do,” Sebastian said with irritating satisfaction. “I found a death announcement online that mentioned you while I was searching for your contact details. It thanked you for your support.”
Who could that have been? It was rare that I got any kind of public acknowledgment.
“It turns out,” Sebastian continued, “I have a friend who works as a nurse at the hospital where the person, um, passed away, and he asked around for your name and contact details.”
It felt a little like an invasion of my privacy. But then again, if anyone else had done the same thing to track me down and offer me a job, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
Undeterred by my silence, Sebastian kept talking.
“You come very highly recommended, which doesn’t surprise me, of course. And it would mean a lot to me if you could help my grandmother. I just want to help make this whole thing as easy for her as possible.”
Part of me desperately wanted to say no. I felt uncomfortable around Sebastian, especially now that I’d been caught in a lie. But it would be unethical for me not to help someone if I could. Even if he wasn’t here to say so, I knew Grandpa would be disappointed in me.
Sighing, I relinquished.
“Okay, let me think about it. Text me your email address and if the other potential client I have doesn’t work out, I can send you all the usual paperwork and we can see from there.” One more lie for the road.
“Great—looking forward to seeing you again, Clover.”
A flutter filled my chest. Even if Sebastian had meant it in a professional context, it was the first time a man had ever said that to me.
14
For my ninth birthday, Grandpa gifted me three things: a navy-blue leather-bound notebook, a silver fountain pen, and a pair of binoculars. As we sat at the diner, empty breakfast plates between us, he produced a package from beneath the table and slid it in front of me. “Many happy returns, my dear.”
Already giddy with anticipation (I’d spied the wrapped gift tucked under his arm as we walked from our apartment), I eagerly peeled back the pinstriped paper. The asymmetrical folds and liberal use of tape were endearing evidence that he wrapped it himself.
“Intelligence will only get you so far in life,” Grandpa said, watching with satisfaction. “And the same can be said for wit and charm. But two things will serve you better than any others.”
His emphatic pause made me look up from unearthing the treasures from the paper. Grandpa was a man of sparing conversation, so I knew to listen closely whenever he took the time to impart any kind of wisdom.
“What are they?”
He took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Infinite curiosity and a keen sense of observation.”
I slid the notebook out from beneath the folds and ran my fingers over the smooth leather cover. A strand of the same leather looped around it twice, with the fountain pen hooked over it. For years, I’d watched Grandpa carry an almost identical journal, regularly pausing to scribble a series of notes, documenting life as he saw it.
And now I had my own.
“Thanks, Grandpa! I love them.” I raised the binoculars to my eyes and scanned the periphery of the diner.
“You’re welcome, dear,” Grandpa said. “But remember, those binoculars come with a caveat.”
“What’s a caveat?”
“It’s a condition or rule.”
“What kind of rule?”
“You must never use them to invade someone else’s privacy.” His tone was firm. “I know in this city we all live in one another’s pockets. And that closeness can make it tempting to delve into people’s lives—or their windows—in ways that we shouldn’t. So no spying on the neighbors, understood?”
“Understood.” I matched his somber tone, though I secretly regretted giving my word. Watching the glowing brownstone windows across the street every night, each with its own characters and storyline, was one of my favorite hobbies. And the binoculars would have made it even easier to watch those stories unfold.
“Good girl,” Grandpa said. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced his own notebook, waving it enticingly. “I thought we could go on a little field trip today. What do you say?”
I sat up straight to convey my enthusiasm. “I say yes!”
Every year, Grandpa found a memorable way to mark my birthday. The year before, it’d been a trip out to the Coney Island aquarium and a lunch of hotdogs and funnel cakes. The birthday before that, we went on an adventure to the abandoned subway station underneath City Hall.