CHAPTER 1
The Ahlstrom twins were not really twins. They were Irish twins, though they weren’t Irish either. But they were siblings and estranged ones at that. Odd because they seemed to get along with everyone else. Friends and coworkers had accused each sibling of being Minnesota Nice. So nice they might as well have been Canadian.
Liv and Gabe Ahlstrom had not spoken to each other in over a year when Liv picked up her phone and called her brother, who was not even a favorite in her contacts. Her florist was. The wine store down the street was. Even her dentist was. If your dentist is a favorite but your brother isn’t, well, that’s saying something. Months had passed since Liv had last thought of Gabe. Years had passed since she’d last seen him. For Liv, growing up with Gabe in northern Minnesota felt like something that had happened in a previous life, a life Liv had no desire to revisit.
“Hello?” said Gabe.
“Hi,” said Liv. “Listen, I have some bad news. Mack is dead.” She said the words out loud for the first time. They left her mouth in a rapid-fire, matter-of-fact tone. Liv felt empty and expected grief to fill the void, but grief did not come. She had hardly known her older brother. She did, however, know her slightly younger brother, Gabe, all too well.
“What?” said Gabe. “What do you mean Mack is dead? What are you talking about?”
Liv stood in the bay window of her townhouse looking down on Bedford Street. Spring splashed color on the West Village. Tulips bloomed in sidewalk planters. Green buds tipped tree branches. The dark overcoats and boots of winter had been closeted in favor of pastel jackets, athletic wear, and sneakers. Liv kept her eyes on the street. She needed a distraction when talking to Gabe: her laptop, the TV, gazing down on passersby in lower Manhattan. Something. Anything. Talking to Gabe made her anxious, and a diversion softened the edge.
“I just got off the phone with Diana,” said Liv. “Mack had a seizure at the office yesterday. They rushed him to the hospital but he never regained consciousness. They took him off life support and he died this morning.” Liv caught her reflection in the window. She was thirty-eight years old and finally looked like the grown-up she’d always pretended to be. Organized. Driven. Focused. Responsible. There was a girl in there somewhere who Liv didn’t allow to have any fun. The pressure she put on herself had crinkled the corners around her eyes and lined her forehead.
“My God,” said Gabe. “Mack was only fifty. Damnit. A seizure? How did that happen? He’d never had a seizure before, had he?” The sad truth was that neither Liv nor Gabe knew whether or not their older brother had ever had a seizure. They were as distant from him as they were from each other.
Liv listened for emotion in Gabe’s voice but heard none. At least they had that in common. Maybe they were both in shock. Maybe they both had hearts as cold as a northern Minnesota winter. Or maybe they were both healthy, well-adjusted, compassionate human beings except when it came to family. No shame in that. It’s why we have self-help books and moving boxes. Liv turned away from the window and sat on the couch next to her laptop. She scrolled through Facebook and said, “Diana told me Mack had been acting strange lately.”
“What does that mean?” said Gabe. “Strange how?”
“She said Mack seemed anxious. Nervous. Couldn’t sleep. Weird, right? And that he talked about us a lot.”
“That is strange,” said Gabe. “Mack wanted nothing to do with us. How did Diana sound?”
“Destroyed,” said Liv. “Totally destroyed. Her husband died.”
So much distance lay between Liv and Gabe: three thousand miles, three time zones, and three decades of disharmony. They had never liked one another, at least that’s how Liv remembered it. But that couldn’t have been completely true. Their brother Mack was half a generation older and rarely around. Their parents were busy running the family resort, leaving Liv and Gabe to fend for themselves—Liv and Gabe must have found a way to get along at least some of the time. And yet, after graduating high school in consecutive years, they each moved away from northern Minnesota. Liv went east. Gabe went west. They’d seen each other only a handful of times since. A handful of times in the past twenty years.
Gabe said, “When’s the funeral?”
“Thursday,” said Liv.
A short pause, then, “I wonder why Diana called you.”
Here we go, thought Liv. Gabe just learned his brother died and a minute later he’s wondering why Gabe’s widow had called Liv first and not him. This was where Liv had to be careful. She’d never put Gabe down for not going to college. She’d never pooh-poohed his dream of being a rock star. She’d never denigrated his parade of odd jobs while he chased that dream. Liv had never boasted about her accomplishments. And yet Gabe had a hair-trigger inferiority complex. “I don’t know,” Liv said. “She had to call one of us first.”
“I should give Diana a ring,” said Gabe.
“Yeah,” said Liv. “You should. She’d appreciate it.”
“Are you going to the funeral?”
“Of course,” said Liv. “I mean, we have to, right? Doesn’t matter if we hardly ever saw Mack. He’s our brother. We’re the closest blood relatives he has.”
Gabe hesitated then said, “Do airlines still have discounts for a death in the family?”
Money. Another topic where Liv had to be careful. Liv and Gabe weren’t friends in real life but they were on Facebook, which allowed her to peek into his world, if only voyeuristically. In the photos he’d posted, he never wore anything nicer than jeans and a T-shirt. His apartment appeared small and modest. His travels seemed limited to day trips in Southern California—Mount Baldy, Malibu, San Diego. Liv was obviously doing a lot better than Gabe when it came to finances.
“Gabe, don’t sweat it,” said Liv. “I have tons of miles. They’re going to expire soon. I can get your ticket.”
“Really?”
No, not really. Last year Liv cashed in 300,000 miles to fly Cooper and herself to Paris first class. “Yeah,” lied Liv. “Use ’em or lose ’em. I can get your hotel, too.”
“Thanks,” said Gabe. “Appreciate it.”
“Yeah-yeah, of course.” Liv heard her husband’s footsteps on the narrow wooden staircase leading up to the third floor. Their townhouse was thirty feet deep and twenty feet wide and two hundred years old and, Liv often thought, the foundation of their relationship. They’d lucked into Bedford Street in their mid-twenties. They’d pooled every resource they had and then some to buy it. Liv couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
She was about to call out to her husband when her laptop dinged. She looked at her screen and saw the notification. It was an email from Mack Ahlstrom. Mack Ahlstrom, her and Gabe’s older brother. Their older brother who had died hours ago. Liv’s throat went dry. She manipulated the pointer on her screen to hover over the email. Her fingers trembled. She took a deep breath … and clicked on it.
CHAPTER 2
Gabe hadn’t taken Liv’s call the first time he saw her name on his phone’s screen. She had called a second time. And a third. He finally answered, figuring it must be important. And sadly, it was.
He sat on the balcony of his Santa Monica apartment next to his bike, a paddleboard, and a wet suit drying in the California sun. He had mounted an urban garden on the balcony’s guardrail. Wooden boxes planted with herbs, cherry tomatoes, arugula, kale, and mini cucumbers. He’d moved to California from Minnesota nineteen years ago but was still amazed to live in a place where plants grew year-round.
Gabe was eleven months younger than Liv. When they were children, people said, Those Ahlstroms are peas in a pod! Same gray eyes, blond hair, and fair skin. Gabe lived a less stressful life than Liv—his face had remained smooth despite his twenty years in the land of relentless sun and his thirty-seven years of having Liv as an older sister.
He heard a “Ca-kaw!” and despite the macabre news his sister had just delivered, he smiled. He couldn’t help himself. Ca-kaw was Carly’s signature call from the street below, and her not-even-close impersonation of a crow felt like aloe on a bad sunburn. He peeked over the balcony rail and there she was, walking her Cavalier King Charles, Ms. Ramirez, and waving up at him. Long dark hair on brown shoulders. Eyes of liquid amber. And that smile showing teeth a little too big for her mouth—that according to Carly. Gabe thought they were perfect.
Carly lived in the apartment building next door and, like Gabe, tended bar at night. They were both home during the day and often ran into each other in front of their buildings, Santa Monica’s sidewalks being one of the few places in Southern California where being a pedestrian didn’t make you a second-class citizen. Gabe motioned that he was on the phone but waved for Carly and her dog to come up.
“Oh my God,” said Liv. Gabe had forgotten for a moment his sister was on the phone. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t…” She sighed. “Gabe, this is so creepy…”
Gabe heard a knock at his door. “Hold on a second,” he said to Liv. “I’ll call you right back.”
“Gabe, don’t hang—” said Liv.
He ended the call, left the balcony, and walked across his small living room, which contained a loveseat, its sad upholstery covered by an equally sad fleece blanket, an old recliner he’d found on the curb, a TV, and a media center made of bricks and boards that held a 1980s Marantz amp, a Technics turntable, old Klipsch speakers, and a few hundred vinyl record albums. The stereo and records had belonged to Gabe’s parents when he was a kid except for the vinyl he’d purchased since then. Gabe’s apartment looked like it belonged to someone fifteen years younger than himself. It was as if he’d stopped aging at twenty-two years old. He didn’t feel that way in his heart and mind, but he knew it looked that way. It didn’t help matters that three guitars rested in stands. Three symbols of his dream unrealized.
It was just so damn presentational. Three guitars is who I am. But in reality, the shelves made of bricks and boards equally defined Gabe. It was fine when he was twenty-two. It made perfect sense when he drove by that construction site in Van Nuys, popped the hatch on his Toyota Yaris, and helped himself to the wood and cinder blocks. He wouldn’t have makeshift shelving long, he reasoned. Soon he’d buy some real furniture. But then time did what time does. It moved forward without a care in the world for Gabe Ahlstrom, his plans, or his self-esteem.
He answered the door. Carly stood holding Ms. Ramirez. “My last name is Ramirez, too,” said Carly the day she met Gabe. “I named her Ms. Ramirez so people know she’s family.” Carly wore a white gauze top, ripped jeans, and a pair of vintage Nike waffle trainers, yellow with blue swooshes, and no socks, exposing sun-browned ankles. She was a native Angelino, which scored points in Gabe’s mind. People say Los Angeles is full of weirdos and it is, but those who are born there aren’t the problem. It’s those who move there running away from something or chasing dreams of fame and fortune. Like me, thought Gabe.
Carly stepped into Gabe’s apartment, scanned his face, and said, “Hey, man. What’s going on?”
Gabe took Ms. Ramirez from Carly and carried the dog to the loveseat. Ms. Ramirez snorted her affection through her truncated snout. Gabe sat on the fleece blanket and said, “Remember I told you I have a much older brother I never see? Mack, who lives in Chicago?”
“Right on,” said Carly, sitting next to Gabe and Ms. Ramirez. “Mack with a K. That’s what you call him.”
“Correct. And my sister, Liv—”
“Who you also don’t talk to.”
“Yeah, well, I just talked to her because Mack died.”
“Oh God, dude. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” said Gabe. “I hardly remember Mack from when I was little. He was thirteen when I was born and he moved away when I was only four. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, Mack never came back to visit. He was there for the funeral but barely. But when my dad died eight years later, Mack came back to be my legal guardian so I could live at home until I graduated. Liv was there for a few months before she left for college, but then it was just me and Mack. I looked up to him. He was my cool older brother. But we weren’t close.”
Carly’s eyes were so big and brown and warm—they were beacons of empathy aimed right at Gabe. Had anyone ever looked at him like that? Carly’s eyes rattled him more than the news of Mack’s death. He felt he was about to cry when she said, “Why didn’t Mack visit when your mom was sick?”
Gabe took a moment to calm himself and said, “I don’t know. I should have asked him when he came to live with me but I was seventeen and all I could think about was girls and guitar. And it was cool to have my older brother around. He let me stay out late. Bought me beer. Didn’t care if I brought friends home. I guess I didn’t want to scare him away by asking a lot of questions. After I graduated, he sold the family resort to pay for Liv’s college tuition and give me some cash to move out here. Then Mack went back to Chicago and disappeared from my life again.”
Carly squeezed Gabe’s hand and said, “Ugh. Brutal. I’m so sorry, man.”
Gabe nodded. “I should call Mack’s wife now. Her name’s Diana.” He forced a smile. “Not Mack’s wife. Mack’s widow.”
Carly stood. “I’ll give you some space.”
“No.” Gabe held on to Carly’s hand. “Please stay. I’m glad you’re here.”
“Will there be a funeral?” said Carly.
“On Thursday.”
“Let me know when you’re flying out. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“Oh no,” said Gabe. “If you want to keep your friends, you don’t ask them for a ride to LAX or for help moving.”
Carly’s forehead wrinkled. “You’re not moving, are you?”
“God no. Got it too good here.”
Carly smiled. “Yeah, man, you do because I’m your neighbor and I’m driving you to the airport.”
He had promised himself he wouldn’t screw up his friendship with Carly. By thirty-seven years of age, Gabe understood he had a habit of falling in love too quickly and too often. He’d had over a dozen loves of his life. It was as if Gabe had some kind of bottomless love pit that couldn’t be filled. Carly did not escape Gabe’s vacuous pull. He was in love with her just as he was with the others before her. Except with Carly, Gabe was trying to right past wrongs by establishing the foundation of a friendship before advancing to anything romantic and/or physical. Part of the reason was practical. She was his next-door neighbor. If things went bad—no, when things went bad, seeing her every day would be unbearably awkward. One of them would feel compelled to move. But they couldn’t move—they had coveted rent-controlled apartments in Santa Monica, California. Moving away would be residential and financial suicide.
Copyright © 2024 by Matt Goldman
