Three hours into the road trip, somewhere in the belly of Massachusetts, I was wishing for the awkward silence of the early morning.
Sebastian launched into a detailed description of a documentary he watched about soybean production, no part of which sounded remotely appealing. I was pretty sure I’d never mentioned an interest in soybeans. But he was probably just dealing with the same nervousness I was about spending an extended time together in an enclosed space. So I indulged him by nodding and making occasional affirming noises, feigning enough engagement to seem polite but not encourage elaboration. At least it was keeping me awake. And it was a distraction from thinking about Sylvie. But as the mile markers ticked by, I wondered how much time would pass before he’d pause to elicit a response from me.
When he finally did—exactly three hours and forty-seven minutes after we’d hit the road—it took me by surprise.
“Want to listen to a podcast?” He picked up his phone from the center console. “I downloaded a few new ones last night.”
“Good idea.” I tried not to sound too relieved.
He handed me the phone. “There are lots on there. I’m kind of a podcast addict—I’d rather listen to someone else than be alone with my own thoughts. You know how it is.”
Not really. I’d spent most of the past decade alone with my thoughts. “Actually, I’ve never been able to get into podcasts. It always seemed to me like having an unwelcome presence chattering away in my brain.” Kind of like going on a road trip with someone who doesn’t stop talking.
The list of podcasts was like a window into Sebastian’s mind. He subscribed to several on classical music, another on managing life as someone who is allergic to many things, and a few about the economy and cryptocurrency. I stopped scrolling on an NPR episode.
“What about this one on the regrets of the dying? Kind of on theme for the trip.”
Sebastian grinned. “Yeah, I thought you might like that one—I downloaded it especially for you.”
My bubbling annoyance subsided, as if someone had switched off a hot plate. The gesture was unexpectedly touching.
“Thanks, that’s really nice of you.” I’d probably heard all of the regrets over the years, but I was curious to see if some hadn’t yet made it into my notebooks.
“Before I started going to the death cafés, I listened to a lot of podcasts about death … to kind of dip my toe in,” Sebastian said, squinting at the road. “At first it was kind of excruciating, and I could only listen to a few minutes at a time. I guess it made all of my fears about death come up to the surface.”
I plugged his phone into the USB cable. “What scares you most about it?” This was a conversation I didn’t mind having.
“I don’t know, exactly.” Sebastian adjusted his hands on the steering wheel and tapped his thumbs to a silent rhythm. “It’s the finality of it all, I guess.” I let him mull further, sure he would continue without a prompt. “Like, when I was a kid, I’d always work myself into a panic thinking about death before I went to sleep at night. At first, it was that Sunday-school guilt, you know—was I doing all the right things to get into heaven? The potential of having a whole life to fuck it up was terrifying to me. There were just so many rules.”
“Right.” I imagined a child-sized Sebastian tucked into his bed, terrified, and felt a surge of compassion.
“And then, when I was about eighteen and decided I didn’t believe in God, that still didn’t really take the pressure off like I hoped it would.” The white across his knuckles brightened as he gripped the wheel. “Because every time I imagined dying, I would freak myself out by thinking about how that was it for me. You know, like, for the rest of eternity, I would no longer exist. And eventually, everyone who knew me would die, and then I’d be forgotten forever. It just made me feel so isolated.”
I was impressed at how well he could articulate his fear. “Did you ever talk to anyone about it?”
“That’s the thing.” Sebastian glanced at me helplessly. “Whenever I had the panic attacks as a kid, I’d run into my parents’ bedroom and tell them about being scared of dying. And my dad would just tell me to be brave like a man and go back to bed.”
It fascinated me how parents messed up their children so obliviously.
“And your family never discussed death? What about when your grandfather died?”
Sebastian shook his head. “We’re your pretty typical WASP family—stoic to the point of emotional denial and too proud to ever discuss our feelings, let alone see a therapist. I mean, of course they discussed the logistics of it—the funeral, the will, all that stuff. But we didn’t talk about it afterward, about what it meant to lose him.”
I waited a few beats as a station wagon cut in front of us. “How do you think losing his father impacted your dad?”
Sebastian changed lanes, speeding up to pass the car.
“You wouldn’t think it did at all, to look at him. He didn’t even cry at the funeral—he just stared straight ahead the whole time during the service and then did his duty as the son, thanking everyone for coming and all that stuff.” He kneaded the steering wheel again. “After everyone had left our house when the wake was over, I saw him sitting in his study, just staring. I went in and asked if he was okay and he just turned to me and said, very calmly, ‘Of course, why wouldn’t I be?’ And that’s all we ever said about it.”
It was a typical male response to grief. No wonder Sebastian struggled with death.
He wriggled his shoulders, shrugging off the emotion. “Anyway, you probably don’t want to hear about all of this.”
“No, I do.” Honestly, I was flattered that he felt comfortable enough to open up to me. It made me feel closer to him. More relaxed.
Our eye contact, though brief, felt weighted.
“Okay, well, I remember when I was a kid and I’d ask questions,” Sebastian continued. “Like why we die and all that—and my parents would always just tell me that it wasn’t appropriate to talk about. And then I’d ask my teachers, and they’d get all uncomfortable and tell me to ask my parents. The only time we ever really got to talk about death was during Sunday school, and then it was in the context of being sure you were good while you were living so that you didn’t end up in hell, which obviously only made things worse.”
I shifted in my seat so that my shoulders faced toward him. “Is that why you started going to the death cafés?”
“Yeah. I stumbled across the first one by accident when I was at a restaurant on … a date.” We both stared at the road. “There was a back room where it was being held, and I overheard the discussion while I was on my way to the restroom. I asked the moderator if I could join the next one. At first, I never said anything at them because I was petrified of talking about dying. As if I said it out loud, it would bring me closer to my death, or something stupid like that. But then hearing everyone tell their stories about why they were there—and being able to discuss it like it was a normal thing—really helped me feel less alone.”
Death cafés made me feel less alone too, but for entirely different reasons.
“Well, death is a normal thing,” I said instead.
Sebastian’s posture stiffened, as if the shield he’d temporarily lowered had snapped back into place.
“For you, maybe, but not for the rest of us.” His laugh was forced. “It’s cool that you’re so comfortable with it, but that’s pretty unusual, don’t you think? Nobody I know ever wants to talk about death.”
His words scratched the same wound as when Sylvie questioned the contents of my apartment. Another reminder that I was out of step with the rest of the world. A weirdo.
I let the silence endure, partly in retaliation, while I watched a flock of geese take off from a field beside the highway. Then I picked up his phone. “Should we listen to the podcast?”
“Sure—fire it up.”
For once, he seemed happy not to keep talking.
I hit Play and settled back into my seat, grateful for the chance to spend the next forty-five minutes freed from conversation.
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