“Great!” Sylvie said. “Meet you downstairs at ten tomorrow morning?”
A giddiness spread through my limbs—that same cocktail of adrenaline and nerves that came whenever I took a risk. It reminded me how long it’d been since I’d done that.
“Yes, that’s fine.” I probably should’ve pretended to check my schedule.
“Perfect—see you then!” Sylvie flashed one last grin before closing her door.
* * *
It was an unusual feeling to actually walk into the café with someone—I was used to heading straight to the single-seat table in the corner. I looked around at the people clustered in twos and threes at the nearby tables and envied their nonchalance. Could everyone tell that this was one of my first real coffee dates with someone? Could Sylvie?
As we sat down, I began fidgeting with the sugar packages in the center of the table to distract myself from the nerves pressuring my bladder.
“So,” Sylvie said, apparently immune to awkwardness, “I know what a birth doula is, but what exactly does a death doula do?”
Leo must have told Sylvie about my job. I braced myself for the look of judgment and revulsion I’d learned to recognize whenever I revealed my profession, but it never appeared. Sylvie’s expression was open and friendly, like she was genuinely interested in my answer. I still proceeded cautiously.
“Well, it’s basically the same thing when you think about it, but kind of in reverse,” I said, arranging the sugar sachets in a row. “A birth doula helps usher someone into life, and a death doula helps usher them peacefully out of it.”
Sylvie arched a curious eyebrow. “But you’re not a doctor, right? Do you need to have any medical training?”
“Some death doulas do, but that’s not the kind I am. I guess what I do is more … experiential,” I said, searching for the right words. “I’m just there to keep them company and listen, helping them reflect on their life if that’s what they want to do. I also help them with finding peace with any wrongdoings or regrets—things like that. And if they have nobody else, I’m there to hold their hands as they’re dying.”
“Wow, that’s heavy,” Sylvie said. “Don’t you find it depressing? I don’t think I could handle watching people die over and over again. It would really mess me up.”
“I guess I’ve just learned to shut my feelings off.” I was proud of that strength. “It makes me better at my job if I’m not emotionally involved.”
Sylvie’s brows now flirted with skepticism. “You don’t even shed a single tear once in a while? You know, with the super heart-wrenching cases?”
“No,” I said, shrugging. “Actually, I don’t ever cry.”
“Ever? Like, never in life in general? Not even during sad movies?”
I shook my head. “Nope.” Another fact I wore like a badge of honor.
Sylvie eyed me curiously. “Girl, I’m not sure that’s healthy. Just because you don’t feel your feelings, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“It works for me.” The defensiveness in my voice surprised me.
“If you say so.” But she clearly wasn’t convinced. “Anyway, I bet you’ve heard some pretty wild confessions from people on their deathbeds.”
I thought about the books on my shelf. By now I had years’ worth of confessions, some more sordid than others. But I took my ethical duty seriously—I’d never reveal a word of them to another soul. “I guess there have been a few.”
Sylvie leaned across the table. “Has anyone ever asked you to go out and do something crazy to help them resolve their unfinished business?”
I found myself mirroring her movement, as if we were sharing a secret. “I’ve helped people make difficult phone calls or write letters to apologize. But it’s usually an anticlimax because most of the time they leave it too late and the person can’t be tracked down in time.”
“Oh, man, that’s sad—I hope that never happens to me.” Sylvie’s cheerfulness dulled briefly. “But then again, I find it really hard to hold grudges. After a few days, I’ve usually pretty much forgotten what I was even upset about in the first place.”
That made complete sense—if Sylvie had a tail, I bet it would be wagging constantly. I couldn’t help feeling a little charmed by her general enthusiasm for life. It made me feel better about the world.
I fumbled for a segue to a topic other than me. “So, Leo mentioned you’re an art historian?” Most people love talking about themselves, so they rarely noticed when I deflected the focus to them.
“I am!” Sylvie said, then cocked her head and studied me, as though examining an artwork for its meaning. “But don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject there.”
“Right, sorry.” I blushed, embarrassed that my motives were so obvious. “Are you from New York?”
“Nope—Chicago.” A hint of bravado stiffened her posture. “I always swore I’d never live in New York, but here I am. I was working at an art museum in Tokyo for two years and then the Frick made me an offer that I couldn’t turn down. Never say never, I guess.”
“I love Tokyo. I spent a semester abroad there during college.” I hadn’t expected to find something in common with Sylvie so quickly.
“Wait—what do you even study to become a death doula?”
I shrunk from the server’s scrutinizing look as he set down our coffees.
“Everyone has their different path, like I said.” I waited until the server was gone before continuing. “But I did my thesis in thanatology.”
“Which is…”
“The study of death.”
“No way. That’s a real degree? So cool.”
Cool. Not a word that I’d ever heard used to describe me. “Well, there are lots of things you can focus on, but I studied the death traditions of different cultures. That’s what I was doing in Japan.”
A series of curse words coming from the next table shifted our attention. A curly-haired British woman was frantically mopping a cold-brew stain that streaked across her white dress while her companion tried to contain the spill on the table.
“Here, take these.” Sylvie passed the woman a handful of napkins with a sympathetic smile, then turned back to me. “So, you travel a bunch?”
“Not really anymore … because of my job.” The woman was just making the stain worse by rubbing it.
“Hard to schedule it around people dying, huh?” Sylvie sprinkled sugar across the top of her latte. “You do realize that I’m going to ask you a million questions about your job now, right?”
That she found me remotely interesting was flattering. “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, how did you go from traveling the world studying the traditions of dying to being here in New York working as a death doula?”
I stirred my black coffee, uncertain whether I wanted to venture further into that topic. “My grandpa died alone while I was abroad,” I said quietly. “It made me realize how many people die alone and that I could be more useful to the world by being a death doula than by being an academic who just studies death in the abstract. And I just didn’t feel like traveling much after he died—I guess I kind of lost my love for it. Staying in New York has helped me hold on to him.”
“I’m sorry—Leo said you guys were really close.”
“Thanks, we were.” I wondered if there was anything Leo hadn’t told her. “Anyway, where in Tokyo did you live?”
Sylvie graciously let my obvious subject change slide this time. “Ginza, mostly. I had the cutest apartment—I’ll show you some photos of it next time.”
Next time. The thought of hanging out with her again triggered an unfamiliar sense of possibility. It felt like putting on a stiff, new leather shoe for the first time—the right fit, but still slightly uncomfortable.
Was this how the beginning of a friendship felt?
18