Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon

Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon

Grace

Stupid January

All things considered, I’m doing okay. I get that that sounds like something someone says when they’re not doing okay. I also get that “all things considered” is putting in some real work there because I’m still wearing the black dress I wore to my husband’s funeral this morning. But seriously. For real. I’m doing okay.

It started to snow right at the end of the ceremony. It’s been weirdly warm in Baltimore since Christmas, so the flakes melted the second they hit the ground, putting a reflective sheen on everything, including the coffin.

I couldn’t help thinking that my husband would’ve been psyched about the way the wood grain glistened in the late-­morning light. Tim chose a coffin with a chocolatey-­brown finish because it perfectly matched the desk in his office at school, and because—­his words here—­“It just looks classy, Gracey.”

He said this a month ago. We were having one of his “When I’m Gone” strategy sessions in the TV room. “It’s morbid, I know,” he said, showing me the image on his iPad. “But a coffin’s gotta look like something, right? Mine might as well look classy.”

My husband. My former husband? My dead husband?

Here’s something I’ve noticed: There’s no good way to describe him now. The first one leaves out some pretty vital information, the second is misleading, and the third is just too jarring.

I look up into the rearview mirror now at my kids. For the first time in weeks, Ian and Bella look hopeful—­happy even. Again, all things considered, because they’re still in their funeral outfits, too, like a couple of child models in the world’s most depressing catalog. Ian, who’s ten, tugs his tie and smiles at me. Six-­year-­old Bella’s eyes are wide and bright.

The three of us are on our way to the Maryland SPCA to adopt a dog.

“You’re going where?” my mom asked earlier. “Grace, come on, Jesus, at least change your clothes first.”

Not an entirely unreasonable suggestion, but by then it was too late. Thirty minutes ago in my parents’ driveway, when I turned to the shell-­shocked kids and asked, “Hey, do you guys wanna go get a dog?” their rush of joy was like an avalanche. My husband/former husband/dead husband would’ve gotten a kick out of that, too, I bet.

Damn, babe, I don’t think they’ve even put the dirt over me yet.

Whatever, dude. I’m winging it here. I’m doing my best.

A few cars ahead, a Mercedes keeps drifting into my lane like maybe the driver’s drunk. I have to notice these things now because it’s just me, no more safety net. Somehow, I, Grace White, am this family’s first, last, and only line of defense.

Good luck to us.

In the rearview again I watch Ian twist some more at his tie and smile at his sister. Bella smiles back. A big bag of organic dog food sits between them. We picked it up a few minutes ago at Petco on York Road, along with training treats and chew toys. The man-­child working there had green streaks in his hair and was tending to an aquarium full of squirming ferrets when we burst through the door all dressed in black.

“Um, hi,” I said. “What do puppies eat?”

As far as afternoon missions go, this probably sounds crazy—­ a thrown-­together bit of mania brought on by grief and sleeplessness. It isn’t, though. Well, mostly not. This is all part of the “When I’m Gone” action plan. So far, aside from the potentially drunk driver up ahead, it’s going surprisingly well.

“Mommy?” says Bella.

I turn the car stereo down. Per the kids’ demands, I’ve been Bluetooth DJing the latest Harry Styles album for two straight months. “What’s up, sweetie?”

Her smile is gone, replaced by doom. “What if one of us is allergic, too?”

“We aren’t,” I say.

“How do you know, though?”

“I just do.”

“But Daddy is.”

Ian and I look at each other in the mirror. Again, the stupid limits of our dumb language. Whoever’s in charge of words—­whomever?—­needs to come up with a new tense to cover the sudden shift from present to past.

“We aren’t,” I say, gentler this time. “I’m definitely not. And if either of you were allergic to dogs, we’d know by now. Okay?”

I assume this is true. Parenting in times of crisis, I’m learning, is a delicate balance between fiction, nonfiction, and pure fantasy, like when Bella asked if we could call her dad in heaven, and I told her they don’t have cell towers there. Thankfully Bella nodded and rolled with that, which she does again now. I turn Harry Styles back up. Not to overuse the whole “All things considered” line, but it really is a good album.

The guy in the Mercedes has gotten his shit together and isn’t swerving anymore, and the snow from earlier is long gone. We pass a sign for the Maryland SPCA. I’m sure the sign has always been there. I’ve just never noticed it before because dogs haven’t been an option until now.

“How can a nose be warm and cold?” Bella asks.

I turn the music down again. “Hmm?”

She repeats the exact same words, but I still can’t make sense of them.

“She’s asking about the sign,” says Ian. “The one for the dog adoption place. It said, ‘Feel the warmth of a cold nose.’ ”

“Yeah, that,” Bella says. “I don’t get it.”

People always talk about how tough I am, and I’ve prided myself on that because it’s good to be tough. Now, though, as my daughter awaits my response, all that toughness vanishes, and exhaustion arrives like a heavy bag dropped from above. I’m pretty sure if Ian and Bella weren’t with me right now, I’d slump over this steering wheel and let my gray Jeep Cherokee go careening off the road. Thankfully, Ian, my smart boy, steps in.

“It’s, like, an expression,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, dog noses are cold when you touch them, right? But they make you feel warm inside because people love dogs.”

Bella smiles again. Somehow, she rolls with that, too.

•

Those “When I’m Gone” strategy sessions were a nightmare at first. They were sad and surreal, depressing, panic-­inducing, weirdly officious, too. Like most god-­awful things, though, they got easier, particularly because Tim was so good at them. He kept things light by telling the dumbest jokes you could imagine, like when he said that the Loudon Park Cemetery was the dopest cemetery in Baltimore.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone’s just . . . dying to get in.”

He even printed out agendas for the two of us. That would’ve been annoying if it weren’t so completely like him. A high school principal, Tim was adept at administration—­an expert at checklists and the steady tracking of progress.

During one of our first sessions, the last item on the agenda read, simply, “Dog.” Ian and Bella have been obsessed with dogs since toddlerhood. They draw pictures of them, binge dog videos on YouTube, watch the Westminster dog show like it’s a Beyoncé concert. Tim proposed that I finally get them one when he was gone.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I just . . .”

“You just what?”

This was back in the fall. We were in the TV room again. The beginning of Die Hard was on pause. The plan was to talk about his death then watch his all-­time favorite holiday movie. Personally, I have trouble calling Die Hard a holiday movie on account of so many guys getting shot or blown up, but to each their own.

I looked at the ceiling. The kids, like always during these sessions, were asleep upstairs. “Will they think we’re . . . replacing you?”

“What? With a dog?”

“Well, yeah.”

He laughed, which made him cough. “First of all, I’m irreplaceable. Secondly, I think you might be overthinking this one, Gracey.” He adjusted his pillow, sat up. “Things are gonna suck for them for a while, right? Wouldn’t it be nice for them to have something that doesn’t suck?”

I briefly allowed myself to imagine having a dog again. I grew up with them—­a bunch of sweet, beautiful idiots who stole socks and napped under the kitchen table. He was right, it was going to suck for the kids, but it was going to suck for me, too. A dog would be nice.

Then, my still-­alive husband pushed Play and Die Hard started. “Oh, and you definitely need to adopt,” he said. “A mutt, for sure. Pure breeds are for assholes.”