My Neighbor is Made of Stone

and I am a fortune teller

A three-foot-tall statue lives in my backyard wearing storybook bangs and a simple smile. She looks lovingly at two doves in her palms, affection in stone. She is forever young and at peace. She’s not mine, and I don’t know how or when she was planted in our yard. I think she belongs to my downstairs neighbors who have two small children. But I don’t know for sure.

One warm day, late for a doctor’s visit, I did a double take while throwing my bag and unnecessary coat into my car; the statue had been decapitated. Her sweet face was by her feet, the doves now un-admired. I got into my car and thought uh oh, maybe today’s a bad day.

I wasn’t wrong. Hours later I got a call from Greece informing me that my dead Dad left an outstanding electricity bill behind. 4,000 euros to be exact. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “How did the electric company let it get so big? Why didn’t they just turn off his electricity??” “They try,” a thick accent replied, “your father, he rewire the apartment. He was stealing electricity from the lobby.” I got off the phone and cried uncontrollably, not because I was now supposedly responsible for a monstrous bill, but because it was so my dad, and criminal as it was, it made me miss him.

A few days later, going to check the mail, I noticed that the statue’s head was back on her body. And I was surprised by my immense relief. The whole yard was once again untroubled, and easier on the eyes. Did someone glue her head back on? Or was it just balancing there? It didn’t really matter to me. It was my good omen. And some unexpected but very welcome rain rolled in that day. Los Angeles was decorated in dark clouds, my favorite aesthetic, the kind that invigorates me to get some writing done, be kinder to my husband, etc.

The following week, her head was off, lying in the dirt once again. A few days after that, her head was back on, like she’d never known trauma. And every time there was a change, I clocked it hard, like it was a message from the universe about what to expect. That statue became a vibe barometer for my day. My personal “bones day” or “no bones day” (if you’re not familiar with my “Noodles the Pug” reference I encourage you to educate yourself via Google search).

a Noodles the Pug shirt by @read_receipts that I hope to own one day

I just have to make meaning of this sometimes headless statue and her paranormal energy. I’ve never seen her head come off or get placed back on her body. I imagine the downstairs kids play too rough in the yard and her head falls off as a result. I also imagine their mother, whenever she notices it, puts her head back on. But I’ve never actually seen those things happen despite my living on the statue’s property. And I never dare touch her. Even when she’s in two pieces and it kills my mood, I leave her that way, like I know it’s not up to me to decide today’s fate. What superstition. Why am I like this??

My best friend in college, Nick, was the cheerleader type of friend. If you needed some fun and unwavering support, he was the one to call. Once, via text, I casually mentioned that I’d always wanted to try making a lasagna, and he was over with ingredients within the hour. That night we made a mediocre lasagna with my college-grade bakeware, ate fudge that he’d also scooped up on the way over, and he made me laugh so hard I had to change my underwear (it was just pee, you sicko). Nick could make a perfect night out of nothing. He called me Pumpkin and I called him Muffy. College was much better, and safer, because of him.

I drove through Nick’s hometown in Connecticut just two months ago; Jon and I took a six hour road trip with our then 6 month old, Claude, from Long Island to Vermont. Seeing that we’d be driving through his place of birth, I shared my favorite Muffy stories with Jon, adding, “I can’t believe Claude will never meet him.” Jon put his hand on mine, “It really sucks, Al.”

Twenty minutes into our drive I saw signs for the George Washington Bridge, “Oh my god. Are we about to be on the George Washington Bridge?”

“Maybe,” Jon answered. “That’s the one?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been on it before.”

“Want me to find another route? Does it feel like too much?”

“No,” I said. “I sort of want to know what it looks like, what he saw last.” I hoped it was all a sign from Nick, a hello, or a way to feel closer to him in his last moments.

But our GPS didn’t take us on the bridge, only near the exit for it. The sign for the bridge was just a literal sign… for the bridge, from the city, not Nick. I deflated and Jon registered it, “We could visit his grave if you want? Do you know the name of the cemetery? Maybe it’s on the way, and we have to stop at some point anyway.”

I turned around to check the baby who was fast asleep, “Claude’s out, so not this trip." We decided wherever Claude woke up on his own would be our stopping point, and continued gliding on the highway as I lowered my stories of Nick to a whisper.

Still in Connecticut, Claude woke up earlier and more agitated than expected. Our normally happy car napper had only slept forty minutes, and was surprisingly pissed. But we took it as our cue to take the very next exit so that I could hop in the backseat and whip out my boob immediately. The exit Claude unmistakably chose practically dead ended us into a wide open parking lot, and I asked Jon to find a spot in the shade. We parked and noticed a cafe not far from the lot, perfect. We thanked Claude for picking a place with food and a bathroom. I hopped out of the passenger seat and looked out behind the shade of the trees. Chills ran through my skin. We were in the parking lot of a cemetery.

I could feel it; my sweet friend was missing me too, and he brought us right to him.

I rushed back in the car, this time behind Jon’s seat, and began unbuckling our cranky baby. “Jon, it’s a cemetery! Can you fucking imagine if this was his? I just said I wanted Claude to meet Nick!” While I fed Claude, I had Jon look up Nick’s obituary, knowing that the address for his burial site would be listed there. Jon scrolled and tapped and scrolled. He looked up at me. “No. This one isn’t it. It’s nowhere near here.”

“Oh.”

I felt foolish, trying to make a spiritual moment out of my hungry son. What is it I even believe about the deceased? I really don’t know. I don’t know if I intellectually believe they can send you signs from the great beyond, only that they can send you outrageous utility bills. What was I feeling so desperate to believe that day? And can I still believe it even when the signs weren’t matching my imagination? Why is that statue sometimes headless???

On our drive back to New York days later, we took the Tappan Zee bridge just before the sunset. It wasn’t the George Washington Bridge but it did give me a spectacular view of it, and the cityscape behind it, what would have been Nick’s final view; it was breathtaking. (A twisted choice of words, I know, but Nick would’ve loved that.) Seeing what he saw in his last moments on earth made me feel closer to him, like I was bridging the gap in time, like he was less alone in that moment because now I was there too.

I can make meaning anywhere from anything, from nothing: a gift. Grief is a frenemy. I know I’ll have to keep bumping into her at parties so I try to be nice.

Does it mean I have to paint my whole day upside-down because my neighbor’s kid played too roughly with an inanimate object? Maybe it does, Substack subscriber, maybe it does. But being this way works hard for me. I take pride in how I heal, how I stay hopeful when it might be easier to wallow in self pity. Maybe I did feel Nick because of me, and not because of him. But, the point is, I felt my friend.

Also, I still cannot confirm or deny the neighbor’s kid has anything to do with this.

Lastly, her head was on this morning. Do with that what you will.

♡