Crush

It wasn't until she escaped to the bar and overheard his order—a Grape Crush—that she noticed the fat man. She’d looked up expecting to see a man and a woman (because what sort of guy orders a drink with a color in the name?) but instead she saw only him, a beefy, sweaty, “big boy,” standing alone at the bar.

She watched as the bartender set the whisky tumbler on a square napkin, the lavender liquid sloshing, while the man slid a ten-dollar bill along the counter and waved away the change. He took a swig and that's when his eyes caught hers staring at him. He placed the glass back on the bar and gave her one of those pursed lip smiles people use at funerals or in hospitals after the doctor's delivered bad news.

"A grape…?" she said, purposely allowing her voice to trail into a question mark.

"Crush," he said. "Grape Crush."

Just hearing it, that word—crush—made her chest seize.

"It's good," he said. "Do you want to try it?" The blush started in his meaty neck and spread up his cheeks.

She shrugged. "Why not?"

He pushed the tumbler towards her. She lifted it to her lips but kept her eyes on him, guessing at his height (six five?), his weight (three fifty, maybe even three sixty), and estimating the pressure on her rib cage if he collapsed, full weight, on top of her. Yes, she thought. That just might do it. She sipped the liquid (it tasted like Robitussin), smiled, and pushed the tumbler back to him.

"I'm Angus," he said while extending his hand. "And you're…" He squinted at her nametag.

"Louise," she'd replied lightly as if this were a singles dance instead of a freak show. "My name's Louise."

###

They stayed together for the rest of the night, mingling, drinking, pretending. Of course, the whole point of this get-together was so that people didn't have to pretend since everyone involved supposedly "got it." But pain—other people's, anyway—is a hard thing to understand since each person's experience with it is as unique as a fingerprint. 

Still, certain questions were automatically averted in this setting, like the dreaded "So, do you have any kids?" chitchat that makes up traditional cocktail conversation. Here, at least, people knew exactly what subjects to avoid, thanks to the nametag. Hers included her own name and Teddy's name, his age, and the cause and date of his death: Louise Gunther. In Memory of Teddy Gunther, 22, Compressive Respiratory Insufficiency, 7/23/05. Angus's nametag said: Angus Beal. In Memory of Susanna Beal, 18 Months, Heat Exhaustion, 7/15/04.

Neither one had questioned the other, even though Louise suspected Angus had figured out that she was not only one of the event's organizers, but also a VFA co-founder, which would mean he'd likely already know her story.

Her story. The morning it happened, she'd been standing in the back yard, admiring her thriving tomato plants. The phone rang, and she plucked the cordless handset tucked into her gardening apron's middle pocket, the one embroidered with the strawberry. It was Teddy's friend, Chris. He said there'd been an accident at the beach and she'd better get to the hospital.

"My God, a shark?" she said, a recent news report of a white shark sighting playing before her eyes. "Is he okay?"

Chris sniffled. "Just get down here."

And so she drove the ten miles to the hospital, still dressed in her gardening attire, trying to convince herself that whatever it was couldn't be all that serious, despite the tremor in Chris's voice, despite the boiling bile in her stomach, despite the fact a mother knows. A mother always knows.