“Let me ask Dr. Ziferra to look,” the first ophthalmologist had said. This was on Tuesday. Brad had made himself go, though he still hadn’t said anything to Val.
“Hmm,” said the second ophthalmologist.
“You see?”
“Yes, I do.”
Brad stared at a popsicle stick as they moved a small paddle back and forth over one eye and then the other. The doctors studied him; they breathed into his face. Dr. Ziferra had recently eaten something with ketchup on it. “His eyes are moving,” the first ophthalmologist whispered. Then they paced across the room and had a hushed conversation, the second ophthalmologist saying “Yes,” and then “Yes” and “Yes.”
“When did you say this started?” Dr. Ziferra asked.
Brad wasn’t certain. A month ago, maybe two.
The doctors exchanged a look.
“We want to send you to a neuro-ophthalmologist,” Dr. Ziferra said at length. “And we’re scheduling you to have an MRI—just to be safe.”
“Okay,” Brad said. “After I see the other doctor?”
“Sooner, actually,” the first doctor replied. “What are you doing on Friday?”
Driving to a funeral, as it turned out. The MRI was postponed, and on this morning when Brad should have been sitting in the hospital waiting room, when he would have told his colleagues he had a dentist’s appointment and probably would have let his wife believe he had an early showing, Brad was instead en route to Greenwood Park, North Carolina, a town just outside of Wilmington.
A Volkswagen in front of Brad forced him to slow down to sixty-five, then sixty. The car was filled with young girls in swimsuits and sunglasses, and he could hear them singing even with his windows rolled up. He checked the rearview mirror, glanced over his shoulder, then passed them with a quick look to his right. It was hard to tell who was in high school and who was in college these days. One of the girls winked at him as he drove past.
It was with a guilty sense of relief that he had left Val behind. She was eleven weeks into a difficult pregnancy, and her fear of another miscarriage was making every stomach cramp that much more painful. So Brad discouraged Val from even trying to get a substitute for her class. She’d never even met Kara; he was fine going by himself, he told her. And in truth, he preferred having this chance to say good-bye alone. Oh, it’ll be fabulous, he could hear Kara saying. You can light candles and prop up my corpse. We’ll have a grand old time. In death, she was probably still chain-smoking.
Brad and Kara had been one of those college couples that seemed destined to stay together forever. When she moved to New York, there were resolutions to make it work, to visit each other every month or two, to talk daily or almost daily or soon. After there weren’t any more resolutions, there were still phone calls for a little while. Then a few quiet years of birthday text messages and holiday cards, until those two unsettling phone messages that Brad left unanswered. Then there was silence.
The silence made this drive a little worse. The silence and the twin exit signs announcing his arrival in Greenwood Park.
He’d made a reservation at the Greenwood Inn, because—well, he didn’t need to be on the road at night. Not that it was dangerous, but it was a two-and-a-half-hour drive. After a stressful day. He might be tired.
“Supposed to be a lot of sun this weekend,” said the girl working at the front desk. She wore her hair in a ponytail and had freckles and braces. “You’re going to the beach, right?” she asked as she pulled up his reservation.
Headed to my ex’s funeral, Kara would have said. Looking forward to it, too.
“Just a visit,” Brad told her, and in spite of himself, he flashed the girl one of his reassuring smiles. She smiled back, and Brad dropped his gaze to the counter.
It was ridiculous how often he smiled these days. Big, toothy, dimpled smiles that Kara never would have recognized. They popped out like this, involuntarily, all the time—out of habit, not elation. When he was showing a house or at a neighborhood barbecue, at dinners and lunches and meetings, everyone could count on Brad for a smile. Maybe even a wink. He’d become a winker. He never saw it coming. It just happened once, the half-selective we’re-in-this-together wink, and it seemed to appeal, so he found himself doing it again and again, and that was how he became a winker. Over the years, his lazy waves hello and good-bye were so frequently mistaken for two-fingered peace signs that he finally gave in and let them be construed as such. He’d become a regular flirt, though a benign one. Women seemed to enjoy it, men seemed to admire it, and he had no trouble signing clients.
Funny, because no one would have pegged Brad as a guy anyone would have particularly respected or admired. But aging out of his teens and early twenties, buying white oxford shirts and bright neckties, jogging and joining a fitness club, these things slowly transformed Brad until he started to look like the kind of man who played golf—and played it well. And then at some point—when was it?—he did learn to play golf. Not well, but he had the shoes. He could never have told Kara that he had the shoes. They’d had sex on a golf course once. Dropped acid and tooled around in one of the golf carts, peed in the holes. She referred to number sixteen as “the ladies’ room” all night.
“I’m visiting my dead girlfriend,” he said to the girl behind the desk.
The ponytailed girl held up a finger and kept typing with the other hand. Then she turned to look him in the eye. “Okay,” she said, “what was that?”
“I said,” Brad began—he cleared his throat—“I just said . . . um . . . thanks for the tip about the weather.”
“Oh, sure,” she said with a shrug. “Have fun.”
Margot Cominsky stood around the corner from the funeral parlor. She’d tried standing right outside the door, hoping for a breath of air that didn’t reek of carnations, but she was immediately taken for the welcoming committee, and strangers kept hugging her and cheek-kissing her and grabbing her hand. “We’re so sorry.” “So young.” “Too soon.” What was she supposed to do, thank them for their profound and original words? We’re all fucking sad, people. Look at where we are.
Inside the lobby, it had turned into a regular college reunion, but of course, no one recognized Margot. Not one person. Not the girl who lived next to her and Kara freshman year, not what’s-his-name who did the lighting for The Women, not even that mediocre soprano they’d only cast in Oliver! because Margot thought they needed some fresh blood. And who wasn’t tall and thin and blond? That little twig who’d understudied for Kara in Cabaret looked exactly like the girl she was fifteen years ago. Whereas Margot looked like she had eaten the girl she was fifteen years ago—and followed that up with a hearty dessert.
There was a time she felt certain she’d keep up with this crowd. They’d be her friends forever, she thought. But as soon as Margot moved back to New York, she lost touch with pretty much everyone. Except Kara.
Had Kara really kept up with all these people? Well, Kara could say hello to a person she hadn’t seen in five years and make the girl feel like a long lost friend. Even if Kara hated the girl—and she totally hated Francis, who was now passing in front of Margot attached to a short man who looked way too young for her. Kara would have had something to say about that. Francis looked good. Unfortunately.
Margot pulled out her phone. No little envelopes. No message lights blinking. She clicked through her photos to find the image of Mike, and in her head she kissed him. Then she typed: “At K’s funeral. Feel fat and angry. Wish you were here.”
Seconds later, from Japan, came his reply: “But looking BEAUTIFUL no doubt. What R U wearing?”
Margot looked