The NPR podcast featured stories of people who’d had near-death experiences and the regrets they’d felt when faced with the fact they might die. Most of them were recurring themes in my REGRETS notebook—people wishing they’d worked less, loved more, taken more risks, followed their passions. Sadly, regret was pretty predictable. For some of the people, the near-death experience was a wake-up call; for others, it was unfortunately a lesson that was easily forgotten. Habits are hard to change, after all.
The podcast’s closing music rang out and I reached over to pause it before the next one began. Sebastian piped up as soon as the speakers quieted.
“Guess you’ve heard most of those before, huh?”
“A few of them.” I didn’t want to sound smug.
“What’s the weirdest regret you’ve heard?”
Watching pine trees flicker past the car window, I thought through all the ones I’d documented over the years.
“One woman said her biggest regret was not splurging on the expensive dish soap she always saw advertised on TV.” It was a banal revelation, but I still felt a tiny bit guilty for betraying Helena’s trust. I promised myself I’d make up for it this week by splurging on the fancy eco-friendly detergent in her honor. I loved the scent—a blend of lavender and lily of the valley.
Sebastian scoffed. “She must’ve lived a pretty good life if that was her biggest regret.”
“I think it was more that she spent her whole life scrimping and saving and never let herself indulge in simple pleasures like that.” I felt protective of Helena’s legacy. “She ended up dying with all this money in the bank that she never spent.”
“At least she could leave it to her family, right?”
I wondered if he was thinking about Claudia. “Actually, she was ninety-five and never married, so she didn’t have any family. I think it all ended up going to charity.”
“Man,” Sebastian said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That would suck, dying without anyone left to miss you.”
“It happens to more people than you’d think,” I said quietly, feeling an invisible punch to my gut.
“So a lot of the time it’s just you alone with the person who’s dying?” He shuddered. “No way I could do that over and over.”
“If I didn’t, they’d often die alone.” I reflexively slid my hand back between the seats to touch Grandpa’s leather bag behind me.
“It’s still a little strange that you spend your days doing that.” Sebastian’s tone had shifted. His vulnerability from an hour earlier—and the closeness I’d felt—had evaporated. We were sitting the same few inches from each other, but it felt like we were drifting farther apart.
“I think it’s a privilege to be with someone as they leave this life.” My voice wavered. “And sometimes it’s really beautiful.”
He resumed his nervous tapping of the steering wheel.
“Beautiful? How?” Agitation underscored his words.
“Well, for some people, especially the ones who love music, I arrange a threshold choir—they sing at people’s deathbeds to help comfort them.” I figured music was something he could relate to. “It’s amazing what a difference that can make, how the music can calm them so instantly, like it’s healing their souls or something.”
The skepticism in Sebastian’s forehead softened. “Music can be healing for sure.”
“And even without the music, there’s often this kind of serenity that people get, right before they die. Something that you never see in the living—like they’re letting go of everything they’ve held on to so tightly and finally just letting themselves be. I wish everyone could learn to do that sooner.”
“But…” Sebastian pressed his lips together and then shook his head. “Never mind.”
“No, what were you going to say?” Maybe he would open up again with a little encouragement.
Shifting in his seat, he focused on the road. “No offense, Clover, but sometimes you come off as a little preachy. And kind of hypocritical. Like, you’ve gained all this wisdom from watching people die, but what’s the point of having all that wisdom if you’re not going to use it?”
For the second time in five minutes, an invisible punch assailed my gut. “What do you mean?”
“Well, except for that old guy, Leo, you said you don’t really have much of a social life, right? And I overheard you telling Grandma that you’ve never really dated anyone. I bet if you knew you were going to die tomorrow, you’d probably have more than a few regrets.” He swallowed hard and stared ahead, steeling himself for my reply.
Anger boiled beneath my ribs.
Respond, don’t react, Grandpa had always said. But in this instance, my tongue wasn’t open to negotiation.
“A successful life doesn’t mean you have to date people all the time—or anyone at all.” I recognized the unhinged pitch of my voice from my argument with Sylvie. “In fact, I’d say that the opposite is true. It sounds like you date people all the time, just so you don’t have to be alone and think about who you really are.”
The blaring horn of a truck speeding past us felt like a satisfying conclusion to my statement. We sat fuming in silence.
“At least I’ve been in love.” He turned to look at me, his tone clipped. “You’re impossible to get close to. There’s a difference between being alone and never letting anyone else in.”
His final blow was short, incisive, and hurt the most. Suddenly the car felt like it was closing in around me. I couldn’t stand another minute inside.
Through the windshield, a gas station loomed.
“Pull over, please,” I said.
“What?”
“PLEASE. PULL. OVER.” It was the first time in my life that I’d ever yelled at anyone.
Sebastian turned into the gas station and slowed the car to a stop. I got out and clumsily retrieved my duffel from the back seat.
“Clover, what are you doing?” Sebastian said.
“I’ll find my own way back to New York.”
I slammed the door and didn’t look back.
39
The day I learned that Grandpa was dead was a Wednesday, three days after my twenty-third birthday. I was in Cambodia, crammed with a large man and woman into a bus seat meant for two, my suitcase balanced on my lap and a cage of live chickens lodged in the aisle. We’d been in that same Tetris-like arrangement for the past two hours, rattling along a narrow, winding road somewhere between the southern province of Takéo and the capital, Phnom Penh. Sweat drowning our brows, we collectively dreamed of a vestige of fresh air and I regretted not spending the extra money for a ticket on the air-conditioned bus. The lethal combination of heat, chicken manure, and rank body odor had brought my nausea close to delirium. All I could do was focus on breathing.
The tortuous journey was the last of my two-month stay, during which I’d been studying the Cambodian Buddhist traditions of death. I was booked to fly back to New York via Singapore on Thursday, meaning I’d make it home in time for breakfast with Grandpa at the diner on Sunday.
I hadn’t felt the comfort of his presence in almost a year and I ached for it.
Before Cambodia, I had been at the Sorbonne in Paris completing my master’s thesis in thanatology. My small suitcase wasn’t stuffed with clothing, but rather stacks of notebooks I’d filled with all my observations from my travels. I’d been counting the days until I could share them with Grandpa, imagining him stirring his coffee thoughtfully as he methodically studied each page.
Our most recent conversation had taken place a couple of days ago, early on Monday morning—Sunday evening his time. I’d snuck out of my hostel bunk room and padded down to the old rotary telephone that rested on a stool in the corner of the communal area. It was the only time of day when it was possible to talk on the phone in peace. The way the morning sun streamed in through the curtains reminded me of our apartment in New York.