“Okay, so I went to this weird but cool storytelling event in Brooklyn, and they were talking about these two old ladies. I guess their story was in the Times or something. They were best friends for a million years. Like, they were nurses or something in World War Two and, you know, gallivanted and shit. Lots of hot people in uniform—I don’t blame them. They weren’t even ladies, they were broads, you know? And they had the best names: Brownie and Mimi. I can’t remember who was who, so we’re just gonna say it was Mimi who did the interview with the Times. And she talked about how they maintained this friendship for decades. And then their husbands both died and these broads, who lived on opposite sides of the country and were, like, too old to travel or whatever, these gals would get on the horn and jabber every day. Talk about their health problems and the old days and curse and stuff. Super cool. Golden Girls. And then Mimi said one day she called, and Brownie didn’t answer.”

“She died?”

Jo nods. “Yeah. And they had video of Mimi, talking about that day—that moment when Brownie didn’t answer. And for a minute, you know, she looked a little lost. Her best friend dead, her husband. And you felt how fucking lonely and maybe terrifying it must be to be that old and have everyone dropping around you like flies and your whole life basically a memory, right? And everyone in the audience is about to start sobbing because, you know, it’s MimiandBrownie, the fabulous duo, and Brownie’s gone. But Mimi, she throws up her hands, legit cackles, and says—Hannah, she says: ‘C’est la goddamn vie.’”

Jo finishes her coffee, sets it down. “That’s life. I’m here to tell you, my friend, that is how you find your serenity and don’t let anything fuck with it. Whatever happens, count your fingers, and no matter how bad it gets—”

“C’est la goddamn vie,” I say.

“Hell yeah. One life. Use it or lose it, know what I’m saying?”

And for the first time since I lay down beneath the angel, I think: Maybe I can do this.

38

Mae

ISS Location: Low-Earth Orbit

Earth Date: 25 December

Earth Time (EST): 8:06

Christmas morning.

I wake up, rip it off like a Band-Aid.

The first one without them.

Gram and Papa’s backyard in Cape Cod is a sea of white, the rose garden hidden under a fresh layer of snow. Little red blooms peek out here and there—hearty roses that refuse to give in to winter.

Some flowers find a way to survive no matter what.

Pines surround the property, towering over the yard, watchful, with a bit of forest between us and the neighbors.