My clients were already in the process of dying and often had a certain clarity about things. Knowing that death was impending seemed to allow them to deal in absolutes—as if they had one last piece to fit into the puzzle of their life and they knew exactly where it went. There was a freedom in having no future to speculate about. But for most people, death was an unknown—an inevitable but nebulous event that could be minutes or decades away. And from my experience, the ones who preferred not to think about it while living tended to have the most regrets while dying.
I liked to play a game with myself at these death cafés: guess the way each person in the room would process their dying moment. Some, like Allegra, would welcome it with grace. For others, like the latecomer Sebastian, it would likely bring panic and regret.
I just hoped they’d have someone like me to help them through it peacefully.
7
A misty rain floated around me as I descended the grand steps outside the library. After the staleness of the meeting room, the damp evening air slid through my lungs like a palate cleanser, my exhale forming a cloud in front of my face.
“Clover!” An enthusiastic voice called from behind me.
This caught me by surprise for two reasons. First, I’d never met anyone who shared my name, so the chances of them (a) existing and (b) being in my direct vicinity were pretty slim. Second, since most of the people I’d spent the past decade with were no longer alive, the fact that someone was calling to me specifically was also unusual.
But as I turned to identify my pursuer, I realized I’d announced my name to a roomful of people an hour earlier—and Sebastian was veering toward me with a slight jog in his step. I reflexively patted my coat pockets to check if I’d accidentally left something behind in the library. Nope, everything was there.
“Clover, hi!” Sebastian’s grin signaled he was oblivious to the shocked expression on my face. I began considering my nearest escape. The thing about New York City was that you had to be clever about extricating yourself from unwanted interactions. Never reveal your hand—aka the direction you were headed or the subway line you were taking—until the other person had shown theirs. Then you could choose the exact opposite to avoid any more than a short, polite conversation without seeming rude.
I could have just run without acknowledging Sebastian, but my good manners prevailed.
I smiled weakly. “Oh, hey, how’s it going.” I pretended not to remember his name—that would just make him think I wanted to talk to him.
“Sebastian.” He extended his hand so I had no choice but to shake it.
“Sebastian, right.” I said nothing else, praying it would speed things up and force him to get right to the point of whatever he wanted to say. We both cringed at the silence that followed.
He shifted his feet awkwardly and wrung the charcoal scarf he was holding—it looked like cashmere. “Hey, I’m sorry about your grandmother. My grandma isn’t doing so well either.”
Not the greatest attempt at condolence. But despite what I’d said in the death café, both my grandmothers actually died before I was born, so I wasn’t really in a position to criticize.
“Oh, thanks, yeah, she was a wonderful woman,” I lied. Grandpa had never said much about his wife, which I’d always assumed was his way of grieving (though he had once mentioned she was allergic to strawberries). Was it sacrilegious for me to lie about someone I’d never met, even if it painted them in a good light?
Sebastian pressed on. “So, I noticed you didn’t say anything in there either. It’s weird talking about death, right? Honestly, it really freaks me out.”
I felt obligated to counter his statement. Silence hovered while I considered whether to blow my cover.
“Actually,” I said, meeting his gaze for the first time and noticing the way the youthfulness of his round face countered the flecks of gray in his hair. Combined with his gold spectacles and scarf, it gave him the charming air of an eccentric professor. “I don’t think it’s weird at all. Death is a natural part of life. In fact, it’s the only thing in life that we can really count on.”
Sebastian looked a little stunned. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” His laugh was jittery. “That’s kind of why I came to this thing. I figure I’m going to come face-to-face with death sooner or later, so I may as well try to conquer my fear now so it’s not so bad when the time comes.”
I nodded, desperately trying to plot my exit without seeming rude. But he seemed eager to continue the conversation.
“So, Clover, what’s your story?”
“My story?” This was getting painful. And it made me uncomfortable how he kept using my name, like we were good friends. “Oh, nothing really interesting—just a girl who grew up here in the city.”
I turned toward the street, hoping it would be a clear sign I needed to leave.
“You grew up here? That’s cool. You don’t really meet many real New Yorkers these days. Everyone seems to be from somewhere else—like me.”
I ignored the obvious conversational volley. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I said quickly. “But I better get going.”
As I started down the stairs, he fell into step beside me. “Hey, which way are you going? Are you taking the subway? Maybe we could walk together?”
I knew the social convention here was to express a sense of good-natured regret, which I hoped my face was conveying. I was never good at pretending.
“Oh, actually, I was going to take a cab.” Another lie. The only time I ever took a cab was when the temperature was at frostbite-inducing levels.
“That’s a shame,” Sebastian said, a little too forthcoming with his disappointment.
I hurried toward the curb, pleading with whichever god might be listening (I figured I must be on pretty good terms with all of them by now) for a cab to whisk me away from this interaction. I thrust my arm in the air with as much confidence as I could. As my prayer was answered, I resisted diving headfirst into the cab and slamming the door shut. Instead, I turned dutifully and offered Sebastian a rushed goodbye. “Uh, see you later.”
The cab began to move, but he was still trying to talk to me through the partially open window. “Wait,” he called as the taxi pulled away. “Want to get a coffee sometime?”
“No way,” I muttered when Sebastian was out of earshot. The driver frowned at me in the mirror and though he said nothing, his judgment stung.
The cab sailed through the yellow light just before it turned red and I exhaled my relief. Through the rain-streaked windows, I watched the city lights blend together in neon smears. Should I tell the driver to drop me at the Twenty-Third Street subway station? No, I couldn’t risk it. That was one of the many ways New York could be cruel—in spite of the millions of residents, not to mention tourists, you still often ran into the person you were trying to avoid. There was no way I was going to take that chance, even if it meant splurging on a cab. I mentally struck that particular death café from my list. Now that the concept was catching on, I’d be able to find another one to add to my rotation.
* * *
George, Lola, and Lionel met me expectantly at the door when I arrived home. Since I’d fed them before I left, it was comforting to know that their enthusiastic welcome wasn’t driven by hunger. I felt missed.
After microwaving a pot pie—the only thing in my freezer—I reassumed my position on the sofa, armed with the remote. But after minutes of scrolling through my Netflix queue, I realized I wasn’t taking any notice of what was on the screen. Unease sat flatly across my lungs. Why did that guy, Sebastian, want to talk to me so badly? There were lots of other people at the death café and I’d hardly looked at him except when he was introducing himself, which was the polite thing to do. And I’d made it pretty clear that I wasn’t interested in having a conversation outside the library. So why was he so persistent? If there was one thing I was good at, it was blending into the background and slipping through life unnoticed. It was rare that someone actually singled me out, so there had to be a reason for it.
I looked at the line-up of ’90s romantic comedies on my TV screen and felt a brief flutter in my stomach.
Was it possible that our encounter on the library steps was … a meet-cute?