Sebastian’s leg started jackhammering. “So, there’s also something else I should probably tell you.”
Since the past few weeks had been full of sensational revelations, I wasn’t really surprised there was another one. I steeled myself for whatever was to come.
He moved to face me. “I know you said you wanted to cool things down between us until after Grandma … you know.”
“Yes.”
“Well, it turns out that I’m kind of back together with Jessie.” He eyed me warily as I tried to place the name. “We ran into her when we were at the bar that time, remember?”
The trio of brunettes. “Right, I do remember.” I braced myself for everything movies and TV shows taught me I should feel in response to this news—rejection, jealousy, betrayal, heartache.
But all I felt was really, really relieved.
I even double-checked to make sure I wasn’t lying to myself by just numbing the other feelings. Nope, definitely relieved. But maybe I should pretend to be a little disappointed.
“I really appreciate you letting me know.” I hoped it didn’t sound indifferent.
“Of course.” Sebastian’s leg stopped jackhammering. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for us—I guess it just wasn’t the right timing, huh?”
The knock on the door, on the other hand, felt like excellent timing. Until I saw the look on Selma’s face.
“I think you’d better come,” she said to us soberly.
As soon as we walked into Claudia’s room, I noticed it—that distinct yet indescribable smell.
Though her breaths were labored, Claudia was still conscious.
“I’ll go get everyone from downstairs,” Selma said, her usually officious demeanor softer.
Sebastian stood frozen in the doorway. “Uh, I’ll be right back.” He turned abruptly and left.
I sat beside Claudia, resting my hand on her forehead.
“Thank you for bringing me some peace,” Claudia whispered. “There’s so much I regret about this life, and you’re helping me leave it with my soul a little less burdened for the next one.” She stopped to catch her breath. “And I’m ready for the next one.”
“I bet he’s waiting for you there.” It didn’t even feel like a merciful embellishment.
Claudia settled back on her pillow. “Learn from my mistakes, my darling.” Each word was quieter, more staccato than the last. “Don’t let the best parts of life pass you by because you’re too scared of the unknown.” One last wink. “Be cautiously reckless.”
Sebastian reappeared, lugging his cello into the room, its spike catching against the ridges in the carpet. He pulled another chair next to the bed and balanced the instrument between his knees.
“I thought you might want to hear some music, Grandma,” he said tenderly.
Claudia nodded sleepily.
Sebastian positioned his hand high on the neck, his fingers hovering over the strings. His head nodded as he counted himself in. Then he pulled the bow across the lowest string in one long note that merged into a slow rendition of Billie Holiday’s “I’ll Be Seeing You.”
I stood up and receded into the corner next to Selma, as the rest of the family shuffled into the room.
Gathering around Claudia’s bed, they allowed Sebastian’s music to say what they could not.
48
The walk from Claudia’s house on the Upper West Side to my apartment took almost two hours, but I barely even noticed the time passing. I didn’t mind being slowed down by the gaggle of schoolkids walking in a serpent of pairs along the edge of Central Park. They couldn’t have been more than seven years old. If they were lucky to live as long as Claudia, that meant they’d still have eighty-four years of life ahead of them. I wondered how long it would be until that look of wonderment in their eyes dulled and their curiosity stopped burning. When living became a habit rather than a privilege and the years ticked by unnoticed.
The world felt a little emptier, like it always did when one of my clients had just passed, but this time the hole was more pronounced. It’s funny how you don’t notice how significant someone’s presence is until it’s no longer there. I already missed Claudia’s wit and warmth. Yes, she’d died with regrets, but she had still lived out loud, unafraid to take up space in the world, never losing her sense of adventure and playfulness. As I walked home, I began to realize that this was first time I’d encountered a woman whose approach to life I could aspire to.
“How about a photo, baby?”
A man in a cheap Batman costume stood in front of me, hands on his hips and chest thrust outward.
I’d been so caught up in my thoughts that my feet had somehow taken me right into the neon-drenched triangular block that any self-respecting New Yorker avoids. But despite the flashing billboards, the competing street musicians, the mishmash of languages and accents spoken at obnoxious volumes, today I found Times Square oddly comforting. The energy, the noise, and the frenetic movement were all symbols of the living. Of paths crossing, of memories being etched into psyches, of the beginnings of youthful dreams. And most of all, of a blissful ignorance that your time could be up at any moment.
I stood still, right in the thick of it, allowing myself to be the swaying seaweed for once instead of the darting fish. Closing my eyes, I breathed in the comfortably familiar blend of smoky pretzels, rotting trash, and car exhaust, and let the auditory chaos beat against my eardrums.
I was still here, still living.
But was I just existing out of habit?
* * *
George was sitting in darkness on his dog bed when I arrived home—I’d forgotten to leave a light on in my apartment before I left that morning. He squinted when I switched on the lamp, but otherwise didn’t move. As my own eyes adjusted, I noticed something resting under his chin: the REGRETS notebook, lying open. It must have somehow fallen from the shelf—strange, since it was jammed in pretty tightly. I hurried over to rescue it, praying that it wasn’t saturated in drool, rendering the entries illegible. George grunted as I eased it out from under him.
I exhaled in relief—everything was intact. Settling onto the sofa, I looked at the notebook in my hands, and its ADVICE and CONFESSIONS counterparts still on the shelf.
Those books weren’t just a collection of people’s final words. They were also a record of some of my most meaningful encounters. From the outside, I might have helped those people, but, really, they’d helped me more. They had helped fill the void of intimacy that I felt so keenly in my own life. And by carrying out rituals inspired by their regrets, advice, and confessions, I wasn’t just honoring my clients’ memories. The truth was, I’d been using the notebooks to avoid the fact that, subconsciously, I knew exactly which one I’d end up in.
I’d accepted regret as the foregone conclusion of my life.
The question was, how could I change that? I’d spent the last thirty-six years coming to grips with the idea that it was difficult to be anything other than what the world already thinks you are. But what about what you already think you are—was it possible for me to change what I believed about myself?
I took a deep breath, then grabbed the pencil I usually used for crosswords.
Turning to a blank page in the REGRETS notebook, I wrote my name at the top.
Clover Brooks
I regret not taking more chances.
I regret closing off my heart.
I regret existing out of habit.
An invisible weight lifted from my shoulders. As I sat rereading my entry, I felt something other than the despair I’d been expecting to consume me.
Hope.
Documenting my regrets didn’t make them inevitable. It gave me a gift that I hadn’t been able to give anyone else in this notebook—a chance to do things differently before it was too late. My regrets were written in pencil, after all.