Goodbye for Now (30 page)

The next day Livvie called before dawn. It was early even in Florida. The projection was agitated, Sam supposed. Meredith groaned but answered, and Sam climbed out of bed in the half-light to say hello but also, mostly, to put his hands on Meredith’s shoulders while she chatted, to let her lean her head back against his stomach, to make sure his fingers were there when she reached up to touch them absently with her own.

“Hi Sam,” said Livvie when he came on-screen.

“Hi Livvie.”

“How are you, sweetie?”

“Good, fine. How about you?”

“Excited to come home in a few days. Ready for a new baseball season. And to see my babies, of course.”

“M’s should be great this year,” Sam said. In reality, they were twelve and a half games back of first with a weekend of the regular season left to play.

“I hope so,” said Livvie. “Fingers crossed. Meantime, where shall we go for dinner the night I get in? The usual?”

“I guess,” said Meredith.

“Good. Why don’t you two make us a reservation for dinner at seven? And call Mommy and see if they want to come for brunch next Sunday.”

“I will,” said Meredith.

“And do me one more favor, baby? You know that place in the market with the oils and stuff I like?”

Meredith did.

“Will you go get me some olive oil and balsamic and some pasta to have around the house? I’ve got big plans for this summer.”

“I’ll do it this afternoon,” Meredith promised. “It will be waiting for you when you get here.”

“Be home soon,” sang Livvie. “Can’t wait. Say goodbye for now.”

“Goodbye for now,” said Meredith, tearing up.

They spent the morning in the salon doing the things that needed doing. About noon, Sam suggested they go out for lunch.

“We could use a break,” said Sam.

“You mean I could,” said Meredith.

“We both could, I think.”

She looked at him skeptically. “I have to go to the market.”

“For what?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why?”

She just looked at him. Didn’t want to admit it. Knew he knew. Knew it was ridiculous.

“Oh Merde, you’re kidding.”

“No.”

“She’s not really coming home this weekend,” said Sam. “Let’s go to the last game of the regular season with your folks and remember her the old-fashioned way.”

“I promised,” said Meredith, small shrug, small smile, like what could she do. What
could
she do? “If I go get olive oil and vinegar and pasta, maybe at least she’ll stop talking about coming home. At least I’ll have something to show her.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Sam, grabbing his jacket. “We’ll have lunch down there. Shop a little bit. It’ll be fun.”

“It’s fine,” said Meredith. “I’m fine. I need stuff for my folks this weekend anyway. It’s not a big deal. I just … It’s just something I need to do. Alone.”

“I love you, you know,” said Sam.

“I know,” she said. “I love you too.”

By late September, tourist season in Seattle is finally waning—not done yet, but on its way. This is true of the good weather too. It was a clear day and still warm in the sun, but Meredith wore a sweater and a fleece and shrugged off only one layer on her way down the hill. The season’s last Alaska cruise ship was docked across the busy viaduct, dwarfing the ferries as they came and went, dwarfing the hotels and docks and piers and everything around it, a skyscraper on its side floating in wait. The flowers in the market were all blood-colored dahlia bouquets, the produce all dark greens and apples. It was crowded but navigable, and Meredith walked along the cobblestone street instead of the interior or even the sidewalk, weaving around the strollers and the people taking pictures of Starbucks and the T-shirt perusers, head down, trying not to think too much about what she was doing. She didn’t really believe her grandmother was coming
home, but that didn’t mean she was going to break her promise. She didn’t really believe her grandmother was coming home, but that also didn’t mean she was one hundred percent sure she wouldn’t show up. Likely? No. Remotely possible? Who could tell anymore.

In the meantime, Herb Lindquist was renting a Ford Mustang from the Hertz on Eighth and Pike. He already owned a Ford Mustang, a white 1966 GT Convertible with red interior, but his daughter wouldn’t let him drive it. She didn’t think it was safe anymore. Well, she thought the car was safe; it was Herb she didn’t think was safe anymore. She’d been beating around the bush on the subject for months, clearly wanting to spare his feelings, but when she finally managed to bring it up, his feelings evidently came off the table. He refused to give up the car, of course. For starters, it was his car, and second of all, he was not in the habit of taking orders from his daughter. After some calm discussion followed by some less calm discussion followed by some yelling followed by some condescension (“We’re all very proud of you, Dad, because we know there’s so much you can still mostly do on your own”), which was most irritating of all by far, she’d calmly reached over and taken his keys, walked over to the hook in the hallway and removed the spare set, dropped both in her pocket, kissed Herb on the head, and walked out the door. He was still sitting dumbstruck at his kitchen table when she came back in laughing. “I can’t believe I did that,” she giggled, and Herb decided immediately to forgive her. “I almost walked out with your house key too.” She took that one off the ring and tossed it to him—he caught it cleanly in his right fist like a nifty party trick—and walked back out the door with his car keys. Why she imagined he’d need a house key, no longer having any means by which to leave home, he did not know.

Herb had stewed about it all morning, taken a nap, and woken up with the revelation that he lived in a big city where surely he could rent a Ford Mustang. Twenty seconds’ worth of Googling later (working a computer being one of the things he could “still mostly do” on his own), he found a place just a quick bus ride from his front door. So he would need that house key after all. It was a new car, with none of the charm and history
of his own, but it seemed a pretty sweet ride nonetheless, and the car itself was beside the point he was trying to make anyway. He eased the clutch out and gently got the feel of the thing, nosed out of the garage, and turned into the right lane, west down Pike. Slowly, he realized that the right lane, like the left, was headed eastbound, up the hill, and slower still it dawned on him that the street was one-way, and not the way he was going. He hopped onto the sidewalk, which admittedly wasn’t a great option but seemed the only one available to him, and then veered back into the right lane when it became reassuringly clear again. He was just considering that he should turn if possible when a light changed somewhere and a flood of traffic headed straight for him, so Herb chose another block on the sidewalk, a mad squeal of tires through the intersection at First, and then squeezing his eyes shut against the sea of tourists and shoppers and vendors in Pike Place Market, Seattle’s number one tourist destination, even in late September, for more than one hundred years. He did not, however, think to take his foot off the accelerator.

Meredith watched the car spin across the cobblestones, through a fruit vendor and a flower stand, and felt the panic spark all around her and also deep inside. They started as separate panics like that—one that she watched catch from face to face around her, one that kindled behind her navel and washed through her like that first swallow of water in the morning, fast but not instantaneous, so she could feel its progress. Then the two panics came together, ignited, and obliterated everything else. She thought
why is there so much death everywhere
. She thought
at least it will be good for business
. She thought
what kind of a thought is that
. And then Herb Lindquist’s rented Ford Mustang plowed into one of the steel poles holding up the roof of the market and came blessedly to a stop.

Meredith rushed toward the car. Everyone rushed toward the car. Almost immediately, there was a swarm of people pulling Herb Lindquist from his Mustang, supporting his shaky limbs with their own, reassuring him he was okay and everything was all right, even though neither of those things seemed remotely true. Meredith spun slowly in place on the cobblestones, looking for someone who needed assistance, a way to be helpful, but for every person with a bloody face or a head wound or a hurt leg, there were four or five more already kneeling down, speaking in soothing tones, wielding cell phones and tissues and making their jackets into
pillows. The kindness of strangers, thought Meredith. Then she heard an airplane overhead.

She identified it immediately and smiled at the scene above her, never mind the one before her on the ground. It was a Cessna 172 with floats—a seaplane. Livvie had taken her on an aerial tour of the city for her eighth birthday and afterward bought her a model kit of the very same plane. They spent the weekend putting it together, and her grandmother made a tiny model Livvie and a tiny model Meredith out of felt to sit in the cockpit. But at the end of the weekend when Kyle and Julia came back to retrieve their daughter, the model wasn’t dry yet and couldn’t be moved. Meredith had burst into tears and refused to leave, but Livvie held her close and whispered in her ear, “Someday you’re going to come live in the city with me, baby. I know it. So just be patient. In the meantime, it’s an airplane. When it’s dry, it’ll fly right to you.” Now it hung just inside the door of the salon. Of all Meredith’s airplanes, this was her favorite. Then the pole Herb’s car crashed into collapsed, and Meredith was crushed under the roof of Pike Place Market.

There were emergency vehicles in the seeming hundreds there within moments, but there were lots of people clamoring for their attention. There was no helping Meredith though. There wouldn’t have been even if every doctor in the city descended on the spot and she was the only one in need of care—she was gone instantly. In the chain of events, that one was inalterable. The rest were entirely sleeplessly excruciatingly screamingly crushingly shatteringly avoidable.

If Sam had been with her, he might have seen Herb as he crossed First and anticipated getting out of there. If Sam had been with her, he might have thought to hustle them both over the railing, crowded stairs be damned, and the worst they’d have suffered was a sprained ankle from the twelve-foot fall. If Sam had been with her, he might have been killed too. Any of these would have been far preferable to his staying behind at the salon for no reason other than her inclination to be crazy by herself. More to the point, if Sam had never invented RePose, her grandmother would have been safely dead and thus would never have told her she needed olive oil and supplies, and Meredith would have been nowhere near Herb Lindquist and his infernal show of independence. Even more to the point, if Sam hadn’t made dying little kids spend their final days on a computer,
well, maybe he would not have been thus punished by the universe. It didn’t matter how she died. What mattered was what killed her. What killed her was RePose. What killed her was Sam.

“I love you, you know,” Sam said.

“I know,” she said. “I love you too.”

So far as Sam knew, those were her last words. So, you know, at least that’s something.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you
.

—WALT WHITMAN, “SONG OF MYSELF”

RUBBLE

T
hey did a two-part funeral because surely, Sam thought, this was something you wanted to drag out as much as possible. Julia and Kyle, devastated, broken, essentially nonfunctional, insisted on nearly nothing but did want Meredith cremated and requested a small, private ceremony on Orcas to spread her ashes. Dash, also devastated, broken, and nonfunctional, insisted on nearly nothing but did want to throw a massive wake, a huge, sweeping, remembering, forgetting party. It was his way.