Chapter 19: Interest Rate of Grief

The alarm sounds at 5:47 AM.

I rise. I shower. I do not dress. I make coffee. I drink it standing at the counter. I drove to the airport. I run the numbers.

But today is different. Today I did not drive to work. Today I fly to Minnesota.

I know this because I calculated it. I noted the date. I noted the time. I ran the numbers.

I have calculated the trip: the flight, the rental car, the hotel, the arithmetic of the journey. I have calculated the cost: approximately $847 for the flight, $213 for the rental car, $389 for the hotel, $175 for food and incidentals. The total is $1,624. I have determined that the cost is justified. I have determined that the benefit exceeds the expense.

I have calculated the reason for the trip: the first anniversary of my mother’s death. She died on February 14, 2024. Valentine’s Day. A detail that would have amused her if she had been conscious to appreciate it. The arithmetic of grief.

I have calculated the time since her death: twelve months. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. Five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. The arithmetic of loss.

I fly from Fort Myers to Minneapolis. The flight takes three hours and seventeen minutes. I have calculated the duration: I noted the time of departure, the time of arrival. Three hours and seventeen minutes. The arithmetic of travel.

I am naked. I have not worn clothes in twelve months and thirteen days. The cold is a variable. It can be calculated. It can be endured.

I rented a car, a 2024 Toyota Camry, reliable, unremarkable. I have calculated the cost: $213 for three days. I have calculated the mileage: approximately 340 miles. I have calculated the arithmetic of the drive.

I drive two and a half hours north, from Minneapolis to Duluth, from Duluth to Two Harbors. The temperature outside is twenty-eight degrees. The wind chill is fourteen. The sky is grey, the particular grey of a Minnesota winter, a grey that seems to absorb all light, all warmth, all hope. The snow is deep, perhaps eight inches, accumulated over the past week. The lake is frozen, a vast expanse of white and grey, the ice stretching to the horizon.

I have calculated the temperature. I have calculated the wind chill. I have calculated the arithmetic of cold.

I checked into the Superior Shores Resort, the same hotel I stayed in at Thanksgiving, the same room, the same view of the lake. I have calculated the cost: $389 for three nights. I have calculated the view: the lake, the ice, the grey sky. The arithmetic of accommodation.

I stand at the window. The lake is frozen. The sky is grey. The snow is falling. The temperature outside is twenty-eight degrees. The wind chill is fourteen. I have calculated the numbers. I have run the arithmetic.

I do not dress. I do not turn up the heat. I simply stand.

The dream comes that night.

I am in the kitchen of the house where I grew up in Two Harbors, Minnesota, the house with the wood stove and the linoleum floor and the window that looked out over Lake Superior. My mother is at the stove. She is making porridge. She is wearing a flannel housecoat, faded, the same housecoat she wore every morning for as long as I can remember.

I am naked. I am standing in the doorway. I am watching her.

“You look thin,” she says. She does not turn around. She does not see me. She simply knows.

“I’m eating,” I say.

“Good. You need your strength.”

She stirs the porridge. The steam rises. The kitchen smells of oats and cinnamon and the wood smoke from the stove.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I’m coming to see you tomorrow.”

She turns. She looks at me, really looks at me, the way she used to look at me when I was a child, the way she used to look at me when I was a teenager, the way she used to look at me when I was a grown woman with children of my own. Her eyes are grey-green, like mine. Her hair is grey, pulled back in a practical twist. She is seventy-four years old. She has been dead for twelve months.

“I know,” she says. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For you to come back. For you to tell me what you’ve learned.”

I consider this. It is a new variable. I have not calculated it.

“I’ve learned that the arithmetic is enough,” I say.

She looks at me. She is not judging me. She is not evaluating me. She is simply seeing me.

“Good,” she says. “That’s good.”

She turns back to the stove. The porridge bubbles. The steam rises.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I know,” she says. “I love you too.”

I woke up. The room is dark. The lake is frozen outside. The temperature in the room is sixty-four degrees, the hotel thermostat set to a number I did not choose. I do not mind. The body is a furnace if you let it be.

I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, calculating the meaning of the dream.

There is no meaning. There is only the arithmetic.

I visited the grave in the morning.

The cemetery is empty: no cars, no people, no sound but the wind and the snow and the creaking of the trees. The temperature is twenty-four degrees. The wind chill is nine. I have calculated the numbers. I have run the arithmetic.

I know where my mother’s grave is. I have been here before, twelve months ago, at the funeral. The headstone is polished granite, grey with flecks of black. It reads:

MARGARET ELLEN WINTER
Beloved Mother
1949–2024

I stand at the grave. I do not kneel. I do not pray. I simply stand.

The wind picks up. The snow swirls. The cold presses against me. I feel it. I do not react to it.

“Hello, Mom,” I say.

The wind blows. The snow falls. The cold presses against me.

“I’m back.”

I do not know how long I stand there. I do not calculate it. I simply stand. The cold is a variable. It can be calculated. It can be endured. But today, for the first time, I did not calculate it. I simply stand.

I think about my mother. I think about her life: the housecoat, the church dress, the funeral suit. I think about her death: the hospice, the morphine, the final breath. I think about her words: the words she spoke three weeks before she died. I want you to be seen. I want you to be known. I want you to be loved.

I think about arithmetic. The cost-benefit analysis of respectability. The price she paid. The price I am paying. The difference between the two.

“You were right,” I say. “About the price. About arithmetic. About the cost of hiding.”

The wind blows. The snow falls. The cold presses against me.