Page 2 of Lost and Found

“The storage fee is five hundred dollars a year or fifty dollars a month,” he says. And I realize he can’t answer the second question, anyway. That Merritt planned it like this, she didn’t donate them because she wanted them to go to me.

I flinch like I’ve been slapped when it clicks. When I think of Merritt plotting a future she wouldn’t be part of. He mistakes it for something else.

“I get it. Normally when I tell people they’ve been left something in a will, it’s not something that coststhem.” Whatever my face does makes him double back. “I mean, it’s nothing to shrug at, considering the cost of the IVF you’d have to do if you chose to utilize Miss Young’s eggs, in conjunction.”

“How—how much is IVF?”

He trills his lips. “Depends on what your insurance covers. When my wife and I did it, years ago, most policies didn’t cover anything.”

I want to tell him that I’m a hairstylist on the edge of a small town. I built an extensive client list within two years, so as long as I work consistently, I do a little more than fine for myself; however, I pay out of pocket for my insurance and therefore have the most affordable, egregiously mediocre insurance available. But there is something more urgent gaining volume inside me, crying out from somewhere deep in my chest.A piece of Merritt, it says. I could bring a piece of my friend back into the world. Something beautiful and miraculous and mine—all concepts I can’t fathom at the moment.

“You don’t have any idea on cost range?” I ask.

He hooks a finger into his collar and pulls at it like this conversation is choking off air. “I believe it’s anywhere from ten to twenty-five thousand, with a great many factors in between.” He clears his throat forcefully. “Like, would you also need to pay for donated s-sperm, or would you have a partner in mind? And, of course, there’s always the chance that it could take more than one round. Then, beyond that, there’s the cost of OB care during pregnancy. Delivery. All the . . . all the stuff you need for a baby.” His eyes go downright haunted. “It’s been years, but. There’s a great deal of . . .stuff.”

There would also be a piece of Merritt.

“—stroller, car seat, crib, clothes. My oldest had bad allergies and had to go on a special formula that cost us a couple hundred bucks a month. And god,diapers.”

A piece of Merritt.

“—the cost of adding another person on insurance.”

A piece of Merritt.

“I’d have up to two years, though?” I interject. I can’t unscramble my thoughts from my feelings just yet. I want time.

“Well, yes.”

I focus on the painting again. On those two girls laughing above rough waters. “I’ll take all the information. Thank you.”

I know better than to open the letter right away. I drive home in silence so I can’t be triggered by any songs, then force myself to do the dishes I haven’t touched in a month before I let myself open it—like doing this means I’ll be allowed to fall to pieces later, some sick sort of reward system. Afterward, I climb into my bed on weary limbs, my hands shaking when I finally pry open the envelope.

If you’re reading this, it means that I am dead. WOMP WOMP WOMP.

That’s all it takes. I hear the words like they’ve been spoken in her bright voice—sarcastic and indelibly on the brink of a laugh—and implode. The sob that rips through me shakes my bones and sets my throat on fire. I want to turn myself inside out and put my soul on ice. Anything to relieve the burn of this deep, rawhurt. I cry and gasp into my knuckles until the worst of it passes and I can go on.

Sorry for the cold open, but it’s hard to take this too seriously. They’re adamant when they tell you to think positively, to surround yourself with optimism after a diagnosis. Especially after the second one.

And then they follow that up with telling you to make a will and testament.

Therefore, I am writing to you from this extremely weird headspace where I’m not supposed to actually think the cancer will do me in, but where I also have to consider that it will. And you know what, Bea? I really don’t want to write this. I really don’t want to die.

I have to pause to breathe through another blinding stab of agony.

I guess the good news is that if I am in fact dead, it’s not upsetting me! Definitely sad for you, though. No chance there’s anyone as funny as me, or as tolerant when it comes to your Halloween costume choices. Who the hell is going to be the Sexy Gandalf to your Hot Sauron? Or, for that matter, who else is going to dress up for Halloween with you at all at your big age? I hope there’s someone around to correct all the sayings you get wrong. Remember, it’s last-ditch, not last-stitch. And for god’s sake, it’s “for all intents and purposes,” not “for all intensive purposes,” no matter how you try to justify it!!!

I know this. But I loved how it made her laugh when she had to correct me. I knew she loved correcting me.

At any rate, I’m still oscillating between making this incredibly earnest or totally cavalier, so I guess instead of doing either, I’ll focus on myself and hope I can impart some final wisdom on you.

When I do my best to consider being dead, the things I feel regretful over are mostly small, silly things. Like, why didn’t I ever adopt a pet? I kept thinking there would be a better time. I should have gotten into baking my own bread. Like, named my own sourdough starter and gotten weirdly intense about it. The idea that I wasted any of my precious days actually depriving myself of carbohydrates fills me with such rage, BB. I also wish I’d gone on one of those ocean fishing boats so I could find out for myselfif halibut are actually real. I am simply not convinced. They look made-up! Like something someone’s toddler drew! I wish I would have written something that reached publication somewhere, or maybe painted something. Something that would have my name on it. Anything that left some sort of mark on the world, long after I’d died.

I suppose since I am dead—

“Jesus, Merritt, how many times are you going to saydead?”

—you will have heard about the Big Thing I did when I was diagnosed the first time. I am planning to tell you, so hopefully I finally got around to it and this isn’t jarring news . . .