After Annie

by Anna Quindlen

They were all floating in some in-between where nothing seemed real and nothing seemed right. Waiting for the rest of life, whatever that was, a future that felt like a betrayal. He kept her phone charged.

“I know,” Annemarie said, and she smiled, and then her smile crinkled up and collapsed, like someone had grabbed and crushed it so it could be thrown away like foil or wrapping paper. She kept wondering when it would stop, when she would get control of herself anytime she talked about Annie, or thought about her, or heard a song on the radio they’d listened to together when they were young. Good song, bad song, didn’t matter. She’d almost started to cry in front of the Doritos rack at the supermarket.

He had to make a memory person because he was never, ever again going to see, speak with, hold, the real one. It seemed so obvious that that would be the case when someone died, but he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around it, that he would never see Annie again, that they were in the kitchen together one winter evening and then she was gone for good. The foreverness of it shocked him every single day.

She knew Annie must be giving her some, smaller and smaller doses, just to keep her from going berserk, but it wasn’t enough. Where, when, how soon, she could almost taste it, feeling them going down, and then the softness. When she’d seen Ali’s crib for the first time, the rails were wrapped in padding, dove-gray strips that felt like suede. That’s what the pills did, padding on the rails of life. One minute you were wondering what you were going to do and how you were going to wind up, and then in an instant it didn’t matter. So, so soft.

I know you. How many times had she said that to Annemarie? That was the hole in her heart now, not just that Annie was gone, but that there was no one in the world who knew her, not really.

Jesus. If all we want in life is connection, how do we ever recover when we lose the one who knew us best?

It wasn’t that Miss Cruz said anything particularly useful, but she was a good listener, still and attentive, and Ali realized that adults rarely listened to what kids had to say, were always waiting to jump in and say yes, no, but only, and also you’re wrong, you’re late, you’re in trouble.

“Jenny said there was no use talking to you because you couldn’t fix things,” Ali said. “And now you know that she was right.” “Then what’s the point of all of you? You just let Jenny leave, and now the terrible things are still happening to her. What’s the point of grown-ups if they can’t fix things?”