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That was what Kate had never understood, or at least hadn’t believed: of the two of us, I needed her more than she needed me.
I fold up the sweatshirt and set it aside. I will take it home with me.
For the rest of that night, I sit in my best friend’s closet, remembering our friendship and boxing up her life. At first I try to be strong, and the trying gives me a terrible headache.
Her clothes are like a scrapbook of our lives.
At last, I come to a jacket that hasn’t been in style since the late eighties. I bought it for her on her birthday, with the first big paycheck I ever earned. There are honest-to-God sparkles on the shoulder pads.
You can’t afford this, she’d said when she pulled the purple double-breasted suit from the box.
I’m on my way.
She’d laughed. Yeah. You. I’m knocked up and getting fat.
You’ll come to New York to see me after the baby is born and you’ll need something totally rad to wear …
I get to my feet. Holding the jacket to my chest, I go downstairs and pour myself another glass of wine. Madonna’s voice comes at me through the living room speakers. As I stop to listen, it occurs to me that I’ve left my lunch dishes on the counter and the takeout boxes from my dinner should really go in the garbage, but how can I think of that when the music is in me again, taking me back?
Vogue. We’d danced to the music in suits just like this one. I go to the CD player and crank the volume so I can hear it upstairs. For just a moment, I close my eyes and dance, holding her jacket, and I imagine her here, hip-bumping me and laughing. Then I go back to work.
* * *
I wake up on the floor of her closet, wearing a pair of her black sweatpants and the old UW sweatshirt. The wineglass beside me has fallen on its side and broken into pieces. The bottle is empty. No wonder I feel terrible.
I struggle to sit up, pushing the hair out of my eyes. It is my second night here, and I am almost done packing Kate’s things away. Her side of the closet is completely empty and there are six boxes stacked beneath the silver rod.
On the floor next to my broken wineglass is Kate’s journal, the one she wrote in the last months of her life.
Marah will come looking for me one day, Kate had said, pressing the journal into my hands. Be with her when she reads it. And my boys … show them these words when they can’t remember me.
The music is still blaring downstairs. I’d drunk too much wine and forgotten to turn it off last night. Prince. Purple Rain.
I get to my feet, feeling weak, but at least I have done something. This will make Johnny’s life easier when he gets back. It is one difficult job he needn’t do.
Downstairs, the music snaps off.
I frown, turn, but before I leave the closet, Johnny appears in the doorway.
“What the fuck?” he yells at me.
I am so taken aback, I just stare at him. Was it today they were returning from Kauai?
He glances past me, sees the boxes lining the wall with labels like Kate’s summer clothes, and Goodwill, and Kate, misc.
I see his pain, how he is struggling for composure as his children come up behind him. I push my way into his embrace, waiting—waiting—for him to hold me. When he doesn’t, I step back. I feel tears burn my eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t want—”
“How dare you come into this house and go through her things and box them up as if they’re garbage?” His voice breaks, words vibrate. “Is that her sweatshirt you’re wearing?”
“I was trying to help. ”
“Help? Is it a help to leave empty wine bottles and food cartons on the counter? Is it a help to blast music at the edge of pain? Do you think it will help me to look into her empty closet?”
“Johnny—” I reach for him. He pushes me aside so hard I stumble and almost drop the journal.
“Give me that,” he says in a voice that is trip-wire tight.
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