I Was Here(6)

             “Why don’t I take the bus? She doesn’t have that much. Didn’t.”

             Joe and Sue look relieved. “We’ll pay for your bus tickets. You can ship any extra boxes UPS,” Joe says.

             “And you don’t have to bring everything back.” Sue pauses. “Just the important things.”

             I nod. They look so grateful that I have to look away. The trip is nothing: a three-day errand. A day to get there, a day to pack, a day to get home. It’s the kind of thing Meg would’ve offered to do without having to be asked first.





4

             Every so often, I’ll read some hopeful article about how Tacoma is gentrifying so much that it’s rivaling Seattle. But when my bus pulls in to the deserted downtown, it all feels kind of desperate, like it’s trying too hard and failing. Sort of like some of Tricia’s friends from the bar, fifty-year-old women who wear miniskirts and platforms and makeup but aren’t fooling anyone. Mutton disguised as lamb is how the guys in our town describe them.

             When Meg left, I promised I’d come visit once a month, but I wound up coming only one time, last October. I’d bought a ticket to Tacoma, but when the bus pulled into Seattle, Meg was waiting at the station. She’d had this idea we’d spend the day roaming Capitol Hill, have dinner at some hole-in-the-wall dumpling place in Chinatown, and go out to see a band play in Belltown—all the things we’d talked about doing when we moved here together. She was so hyped about the plan; I couldn’t quite tell if the day was her idea of a sales pitch, or a consolation prize.

             Either way, it was a bust. The weather was rainy and cold, whereas back home it had been clear and cold. Another reason not to move to Seattle, I told myself. And none of the places we visited—the vintage clothing shops and comic book stores and coffeehouses—seemed as cool as I’d thought they would be. At least that’s what I told Meg.

             “Sorry,” she said. Not sarcastically, but sincerely, as though Seattle’s shortcomings were her fault.

             It was a lie, though. Seattle was great. Even with the rotten weather, I’d have loved living here. But I’m sure I’d have loved living in New York or Tahiti or a million other places I’d never get to.

             We were meant to go see a band play that night, some people Meg knew, but I begged off, claiming I was tired. We went back to her house in Tacoma. I was supposed to stay most of the next day, but I told her I had a sore throat, and caught an early bus home.

             Meg invited me to come again, but I always had reasons why I couldn’t: my schedule was busy, bus fare wasn’t cheap. Both of which were true, even if they weren’t the truth.

                          x x x

             It takes two buses to get from downtown to Cascades’ tiny, leafy waterfront campus. Joe had instructed me to go to the administration building to get some papers and a key. Even though Meg had lived off campus, the university runs all student housing. When I explain who I am, they immediately know why I’m here, because I get that look. I hate that look, and I’ve come to know it well: practiced empathy.

             “We’re so sorry for your loss,” the lady says. She is fat and wearing the drapey kind of clothes that only make her bigger. “We’ve been holding weekly support groups for those impacted by Megan’s death. If you’d care to join us for one, there’s another gathering coming up.”

             Megan? Nobody but her grandparents called her that.

             She hands me some literature, a color copy with a big smiling picture of Meg that I don’t recognize. On top it says Lifeline with hearts dotting the i’s. “It’s Monday afternoon.”

             “’Fraid I’ll be gone by then.”