I wrap my free hand around my stomach.
That doesn’t make any sense though, not even to my groggy mind.
“Oh right. You haven’t heard. Josh’s dad died on Saturday. You remember Mr. Lewenthal?”
I reach out behind me and grab the edge of the kitchen counter.
“What?”
“I know, kind of a shock. I didn’t realize he was sick. His funeral’s tomorrow. You don’t have to come, obviously, since you and Josh aren’t close.”
I blink and try to take in what she’s saying.
Josh and I aren’t close.
Josh’s dad, Mr. Lewenthal, died.
I think about the look on Josh’s face when he talked about his dad. About how much he loved him. How he brought him dinner at night, took him to see the beach in winter for goodbye, how he said that when his dad was gone he’d be alone. How he asked if he could tell him that we were having a baby.
That he wanted his dad to know he’d be a grandfather.
I press my hand to my stomach, the sharp cramps have faded to a dull, echoing ache.
I hope Josh got to tell him, I hope he told him while it was still true. I hope…
Leah is still talking. “Mom wanted me to call you, since she offered to do all the food for the funeral reception and she wanted to know if you’d come up and help her. She’s all stressed out, elbow deep in dips and casseroles. You know how she gets, I’ll be there, but she’s stressed. And she said you make the best Jell-O molds, which apparently Josh loves and she said it’d make him feel better. Kids let’s go, it’s time for school! Call Mom, okay Gem?”
“I…Leah…I…” My fingers dig into the metal edge of the old laminate countertop. I’m about to tell her, to tell her everything. But then I realize the line is quiet, and that she’s already hung up.
I stare at my phone and at my distorted reflection in its surface. My chest aches and I’m surprised when a tear drop falls from my cheek onto my phone’s screen. I swipe at my cheeks and then scroll through my contacts to find Josh’s number.
The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Until finally his voicemail picks up.
I swallow down the hard lump in my throat, “Hey, it’s me. I just heard. I’m sorry. Josh, I’m so sorry. I’m coming, I’ll be there soon. I…” I stop and press my hand against my stomach and draw in a shuddering breath, “I’m coming. I’m sorry.”
I take the train up and then spend the next eight hours in the kitchen with my mom and sister making funeral foods. Creamy potluck potatoes, seven layer salad, five bean salad, savory meatballs, stuffed mushrooms, macaroni salad, potato salad, chocolate chiffon pie, Texas sheet cake, lime, lemon and raspberry Jell-O molds.
Every three to five minutes I glance out the kitchen window. It overlooks the front yard and the street. Josh is out with Dylan and my dad. They’ve been at the funeral home all day, and then, according to my mom, at the lawyers, and then back at Josh’s dad’s house, and then back at the funeral home.
I want to see him, I want to hold him, I want to tell him I’m sorry. But I’m glad that if I can’t be the person he needs that he has my brother and my dad. They haven’t let him down like I have, that’s for sure.
Josh said he’d be alone when his dad died, but he’s wrong. He has my brother, he has my dad, he has my mom and my sister.
He has me.
He has all the people in town that have stopped by to drop off flowers and cards and food. People care. More people than he knew.
Leah plops down a bubbling hot tray of spaghetti casserole onto the counter. It’s one of dozens of dishes lining every surface. She arches her back and lets out a groan as she stretches.
“I’m beat,” she says.
My mom clucks then dusts the flour off Leah’s face with a kitchen towel even though Leah is going on forty and well beyond having her mom wipe her face down. Leah wrinkles her nose. “Thanks Mom.”
My mom taps her finger on Leah’s nose. “You girls were life savers today. Josh the poor dear, when he showed up on Saturday I knew something was wrong. He looked so lost. Luckily, your father was there, and Dylan too. You girls are lucky to have each other, don’t forget it. It’s hard losing a parent when you’re an only child. No one to share the load. But that’s why we’re here.”
Leah bumps her shoulder against mine and says. “Hear that, Gemma? We’re lucky to have each other.”
My throat goes tight and hot, so I turn and pretend to readjust the chicken casserole cooling on the counter. “That’s right,” I say.