Standing outside Leo’s front door, I knocked for the fifth time. That was odd. I couldn’t recall a time when I’d had to knock more than twice before the door swung open to his gold-toothed grin.
“Leo?” I knocked once more. “It’s me. Is everything okay in there?”
Maybe he just wasn’t home or we’d gotten our wires crossed about the time. But he’d never stood me up before. On our agreed terms, a last-minute cancellation meant an instant forfeit, adding an extra point to the opponent’s score. Since we were currently tied at sixty-seven games apiece, and both of us were intensely competitive, I doubted he’d give up a point unless something was seriously wrong.
I pulled my keys from my sweatpants pocket, trying to remember which one was Leo’s. My hands shook as the search became more panicked.
“Leo? Are you there?” I fumbled with them again, finally sliding the right one into the lock and turning it the extra rotation that was a quirk of doors in our building.
I stepped into the empty living room. The box of mahjong tiles was already on the table, but there was no sign of Leo. The only hint that something was amiss was the insistent whistle of the kettle on the stove. I threw my keys on the table and ran toward the sound.
Leo was bent over the kitchen counter clutching his chest. Sweat clung to his forehead.
“Leo, what’s wrong?”
“It feels like…” He put a hand on the cabinets to steady himself. “… an elephant is sitting on my chest.”
I quickly turned off the stove, then guided him to the living room, holding his forearms as he lowered himself down onto the sofa. “You could be having a heart attack.” I reached for my phone, hands trembling again. “I’m calling an ambulance, just hold on. You’ll be alright.”
Leo’s breath found fleeting depth. “Don’t call them, please.” He waved his hand weakly. “Just sit with me.”
“But you need a doctor.”
“I don’t.”
Dread weighed in my gut as my breaths matched his shallow ones. “At least let me get you some aspirin and water. If it’s your heart, that will help.”
Leo reached out a frail hand and put it on mine. “Just stay with me, please.” My dread turned to despair—the serenity enveloping his demeanor was one I knew well. I’d seen it many times in the faces of the dying.
When our eyes met, he confirmed my question without me having to ask it.
“Leo,” I whispered. “Please, no.”
“It’s time, Clover,” he implored. “I’m ready to go.”
Desperation surged through my body. All my years of experience and all I could feel was panic.
“But you can’t—I need you.”
Leo smiled sleepily, his hand to his sternum. “You should know better than anyone that when your time’s up, your time’s up.”
“I know,” I said softly. “But you’re all I have.”
“And what a ride we’ve had, huh?” His eyes blinked rapidly, but his smile remained. “I’ve lived the hell out of my life and now it’s time for me to take the next exit.” He gazed up at Winnie’s portrait.
I clasped his long fingers as he drew in a ragged breath, like an aluminum can was knocking about in his lungs.
“You really have lived the hell out of your life,” I said, returning his smile as best I could. There was no use trying to persuade him. When someone decided to walk confidently toward death, you couldn’t hold them back.
“Clover—I want to tell you something.”
I squeezed his hand. “Of course, Leo.”
For once, the constant city noise outside quieted. Reverent silence enveloped the apartment as I waited for Leo to form his words.
“I’ve watched you spend your life trying to help people have a beautiful death—the thing you couldn’t give your grandpa.” Even now, his brown eyes managed to sparkle. “But the secret to a beautiful death is to live a beautiful life. Putting your heart out there. Letting it get broken. Taking chances. Making mistakes.” Leo’s breaths were becoming too labored for him to speak. “Promise me, kid,” he whispered, “that you’ll let yourself live.”
I rested my head on his shoulder. “I promise.”
His grip loosened as he managed one last grin. “I love you, Clover.”
“I love you, Leo.”
What began as a trickle down my cheek soon became a deluge. And for the first time since I was a child, I let the tears fall freely.
52
The spice of early spring seasoned the afternoon breeze as Sylvie and I walked home after the celebration. Leo’s funeral had overflowed with people from the neighborhood who’d grown to love him dearly over the years. It had been doctors’ appointments—not out-of-town visitors—that had been keeping him busy. Heart disease, the specialists had told him.
But Leo hadn’t told anyone. Instead, he’d quietly gotten his affairs in order, set aside a sizable sum for his funeral—or “celebration of life,” as he’d specified, with ample food and drink—and donated the rest of his money and all his possessions to a community center in Harlem.
Well, all his possessions except for two—he bequeathed me his bar cart and his mahjong set.
“That was the perfect farewell for Leo,” Sylvie said, linking her arm through mine. “I’m honored to have spent even just a couple of months in his orbit. Wherever he is now, I’m sure he’s smiling like crazy with that gold tooth of his.”
The image was comforting. I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to make it through the past few days without Sylvie. Our apartment building felt like it was missing its heart.
“I hope so.”
We walked the next block without talking until Sylvie stopped outside a bodega. “Should we buy some ice cream then get in our pajamas and binge on nineties rom-coms? I vote for something with Cameron Diaz.”
Words welled up in my throat several times, only to meet a wall when they reached my lips.
“Actually,” I said tentatively, “there’s something I wanted to ask you. A favor.”
“Is it to watch a John Cusack movie? Because you know I can’t stand him.” Sylvie grinned. “But I would be willing to endure two hours of sad-sack Cusack for you.”
“No, not John.” The joke relaxed me a little. “I was thinking about what you said about all the stuff in my apartment—my grandpa’s things.”
Sylvie stroked her chin theatrically. “Go on.”
“And I guess you’re right. Maybe I’ve been holding on to the past so that I don’t have to think about what I really want in the future.”
Sylvie graciously feigned nonchalance. “I see.”
“I think maybe it’s time … I got rid of some of it.”
“And?” She was consciously teasing the words out of me.
“And I was wondering if you could maybe help me? Some of it might be valuable to museums or universities, which you would know better than me. But also…” Long, deep breath. “I think it’s going to be hard to let go.”
“Oh, C, of course it will be,” Sylvie said. “Your grandpa was the love of your life—how could it not be hard?” She draped her arm across my shoulders. “I’d be honored to be there to help you through it. What are friends—and neighbors—for, if not to help you declutter your emotional baggage?”
It was a relief to know I wouldn’t have to deal with it all alone. And for a moment, I let myself imagine what it would mean to have a space that was truly my own.
53
Sylvie was a ruthless adjudicator. After I spent each day sorting things into Donate/Throw Away, Definitely Keep, and Undecided, she’d arrive in the evening to sit with her imaginary gavel on the sofa that was now her judge’s bench.
The process quickly developed a pattern—Sylvie immediately relegated anything I’d categorized as Undecided to Donate/Throw Away and frowned skeptically as I tried to plead my case for most things in Definitely Keep.