The Collected Regrets of Clover: A Novel

1

The first time I watched someone die, I was five.

Mr. Hyland, my kindergarten teacher, was a cheerful, tubby man whose shiny scalp and perfectly round face reminded me of the moon. One afternoon, my classmates and I sat cross-legged on the scratchy carpet in front of him, enthralled by his theatrical telling of Peter Rabbit. I remember how his meaty thighs spilled over the edges of the child-sized wooden chair he sat on. His cheeks were rosier than usual, but who could blame him for getting excited over a good Beatrix Potter plot?

As the story reached its climax—when Peter Rabbit lost his jacket fleeing the evil Mr. McGregor—Mr. Hyland stopped, as if pausing for emphasis. We stared up at him, hearts thumping with anticipation. But instead of resuming his narration, he made a sound similar to a hiccup, eyes bulging.

Then, like a felled redwood tree, he toppled to the ground.

We all sat motionless, wide-eyed, unsure if our beloved teacher was just upping the ante on his usual dramatic storytelling. When he hadn’t moved after several minutes—not even to blink his open eyes—the room erupted with squeals of panic from everyone.

Everyone except for me, that is.

I moved close enough to Mr. Hyland to hear the final push of air from his lungs. As the pandemonium echoed down the hall and other teachers rushed into the classroom, I sat beside him, holding his hand calmly as the last blush of red disappeared from his face.

The school recommended I get counseling following the incident. But my parents, who were more than a little self-absorbed, noted no significant change in my behavior. They bought me an ice cream, patted me on the head, and—reasoning that I’d always been slightly odd—judged me to be fine.

Mostly, I was fine. But I’ve wondered ever since what Mr. Hyland would have liked his last words to be if they hadn’t been about the antics of a particularly naughty rabbit.

2

I didn’t mean to keep count of how many people I’d watched die since Mr. Hyland thirty-one years ago, but my subconscious was a diligent accountant. Especially since I was nearing a pretty impressive milestone—today the tally nudged up to ninety-seven.

I stood on Canal Street watching the taillights of the mortuary van merge into traffic. Like a runner who’d just passed the baton, my job was done.

Amid the exhaust fumes and pungent blend of dried fish and tamarind, the scent of death still lingered in my nostrils. I don’t mean the odor of a body decomposing—I never really had to deal with that, since I only ever sat with the dying as they hovered on the threshold between this world and the next. I’m talking about that other scent, the distinct smell when death is imminent. It’s hard to describe, but it’s like that imperceptible shift between summer and fall when somehow the air is different but you don’t know why. I’d become attuned to that smell in my years as a death doula. That’s how I knew someone was ready to go. And if there were loved ones there, I’d let them know that now was the moment to say their goodbyes. But today there were no loved ones. You’d be surprised how often it happens. In fact, if it weren’t for me, at least half of those ninety-seven people would’ve died alone. There may be almost nine million people living here, but New York is a city of lonely people full of regrets. It’s my job to make their final moments a little less lonesome.

A social worker had referred me to Guillermo a month ago.

I’ve got to warn you, she’d said on the phone. He’s an angry and bitter old one.

I didn’t mind—usually that just means the person is feeling scared, unloved, and alone. So when Guillermo hardly even acknowledged me on the first few visits, I didn’t take it personally. Then, when I was late to the fourth visit because I’d accidentally locked myself out of my apartment, he looked at me with tears in his eyes as I sat down beside his bed.

I thought you weren’t coming, he said with the quiet despair of a forgotten child.

I promise you that won’t happen, I said, pressing his leathery hand between mine.

And I always keep my word. Shepherding a dying person through the last days of their life is a privilege—especially when you’re the only thing they have to hold on to.

Snowflakes whirled erratically as I began my walk home from Guillermo’s cramped studio apartment in Chinatown. I could’ve taken the bus, but it always felt disrespectful to slot right back into routine life when someone had just lost theirs. I liked to feel the icy breeze nibbling at my cheeks as I walked, to watch the cloud materialize then vanish with each of my breaths—confirmations that I was still here, still living.

For someone so accustomed to witnessing death, I always felt a little adrift afterward. A person was here on earth and now they were gone. Where, I didn’t know—I was mostly agnostic when it came to spiritual matters, which helped me make room for my clients’ chosen faiths. Wherever he was, I hoped Guillermo had been able to leave his bitterness behind. From what I could tell, he hadn’t been on very good terms with God. A small wooden crucifix hung adjacent to his single bed, the torn, yellowed wallpaper curling around its corners. But Guillermo never looked at it directly to seek comfort; he snuck darting glances, as if avoiding the scrutinizing gaze of an authority figure. Mostly, he positioned himself with his back to it.

In the three weeks I spent visiting Guillermo, I’d learned the details of his living space by heart. The thick layer of grime on the outside of his only window that muted the daylight, rendering the space fittingly somber. The piercing shriek of metal against metal from his decrepit bed frame every time he adjusted his weight. The bone-chilling draft that came from everywhere and nowhere. The sparse occupants of his kitchen cabinets—one cup, one bowl, one plate—that were testaments to a life of loneliness.

Guillermo and I probably only exchanged a total of ten sentences during those weeks. We didn’t need to say more than that. I always let the dying person take the lead, to decide if they want to fill their final days with conversation or to revel in silence. They don’t need to verbalize their decision; I can just tell. It’s my job to stay calm and present, letting them take up space as they navigate those last precious moments of life.

The most important thing is never to look away from someone’s pain. Not just the physical pain of their body shutting down, but the emotional pain of watching their life end while knowing they could have lived it better. Giving someone the chance to be seen at their most vulnerable is much more healing than any words. And it was my honor to do that—to look them in the eye and acknowledge their hurt, to let it exist undiluted—even when the sadness was overwhelming.

Even when my heart was breaking for them.

The warmth of my apartment was almost stifling compared to Guillermo’s place. I shrugged off my coat and balanced it on top of the mass of winter attire on the rack by my front door. The rack protested, sending my wool peacoat into a crumpled heap on the floor. I left it be, telling myself—as I did with most of the accumulating clutter in my apartment—that I’d deal with it later.

To be fair, not all of the clutter belonged to me. I’d inherited the enviably located two-bedroom from my grandfather after he died. Well, technically, I’d been on the lease since I was a kid. It was a shrewd move on his part to ensure that no amount of New York City real estate bureaucracy could cheat me out of my rightful claim to his rent-controlled legacy. For seventeen years, we’d shared the third-floor apartment in a brownstone that looked comparatively unloved next to its manicured West Village neighbors. Grandpa had been gone for more than thirteen years now, but I still couldn’t bring myself to sort through his belongings. Instead, I’d gradually slotted my own possessions in the limited spaces between his. Even though I spent my days looking death in the face, I still couldn’t seem to accept that his absence from my life was permanent.

Grief plays tricks on you that way—a familiar whiff of cologne or a potential sighting of your person in a crowd, and all the knots you’ve tied inside yourself to manage the pain of losing them suddenly unravel.

Warming my hands around a steaming cup of Earl Grey, I stood in front of my bookshelves, which were packed tightly with Grandpa’s biology textbooks, musty atlases, and sea-faring novels. Wedged in between them, three dilapidated notebooks stood out, not so much for their appearance, but for the single word inscribed on the spine of each. On the first, REGRETS; the second, ADVICE; the third, CONFESSIONS. Aside from my pets, these were the things I’d save in a fire.

Ever since I started working as a death doula, I’d had the same ritual, documenting each client’s final words before the breath had left their body. Over the years, I’d found that people often felt the need to say something as they were dying, something of significance—as if they realized it was their last chance to leave a mark on the world. Usually those last messages fit into one of three categories: things they’d wish they’d done differently, things they’d learned along the way, or secrets they’d kept that they were finally ready to reveal. Collecting these words felt like my sacred duty, especially when I was the only other person in the room. And even when I wasn’t, family members were usually too consumed with grief to think about writing down such things. My emotions, on the other hand, were always neatly tucked away.

Setting my tea aside, I stretched on tiptoes to retrieve the book titled CONFESSIONS. It’d been a while since I’d been able to make an entry in this one. Lately, it seemed like everyone had reached the end of their lives with regrets.

I nestled into the sofa and flipped through the leather-bound notebook to a clean page. In my compact scrawl, I inscribed Guillermo’s name, address, the day’s date, and his confession. I hadn’t expected it, to be honest—I’d sensed him slipping away and thought he was already unconscious. But then his eyes opened and he put his hand on my arm. Not dramatically, but lightly, as if he’d been on his way out the door and had forgotten to tell me something.

I accidentally killed my little sister’s hamster when I was eleven, he whispered. I left the door of its cage open to annoy her and then it went missing. We found it three days later wedged between the sofa cushions.

As soon as the words departed his lips, his body relaxed with serene weightlessness, like he was floating on his back in a swimming pool.

Then he was gone.

I couldn’t help thinking about that hamster as my own pets gathered around me on the sofa that evening. George, the chubby bulldog I’d found six years ago burrowing through the trash cans downstairs, rested his wet chin on my knee. Lola and Lionel, the tabby siblings I’d rescued as kittens from a box left outside the church on Carmine Street, took turns slinking figure eights around my ankles. The silkiness of their fur soothed me.

I tried not to imagine whether the hamster had suffered. They were pretty feeble creatures, so it probably hadn’t taken much. Poor Guillermo, carrying that guilt with him for fifty years.

I glanced at my phone, balanced on the faded sofa arm. The only time it ever rang—aside from robocalls about car insurance and fake IRS audits—was when someone wanted to hire me. Socializing was a skill I’d never really mastered. When you’re an only child raised by your introverted grandfather, you learn to appreciate your own company. It wasn’t that I was opposed to the idea of friendship; it’s just that if you don’t get close to anyone, you can’t lose them. And I’d already lost enough people.

Still, sometimes I wondered how I got to this point: thirty-six years old and my whole life revolved around waiting for strangers to die.

Savoring the bergamot vapor from my tea, I closed my eyes and let my body relax for the first time in weeks. Holding in your emotions all the time is kind of exhausting, but it’s what makes me good at what I do. It’s my responsibility to always remain placid and even-keeled for my clients, even when they’re frightened and panicking and don’t know how to let go.

As my feelings began to thaw, I leaned back into the sofa cushions, allowing the weight of sadness to settle across my chest and a yearning to squeeze my heart.

There’s a reason I know this city’s full of lonely people.

I’m one of them.

3

Usually after a job ended, I spent the next day catching up on the mundane domestic duties I’d neglected while working. Household chores and bill paying felt inconsequential when someone was dying. Three weeks’ worth of dirty laundry bulged in the basket I was lugging to the basement. Grandpa hadn’t just bequeathed me the rare treasure of a rent-controlled apartment, but also one with a laundry room in the building. Saving me from the New York City burden of trekking to the laundromat was one of the small but infinite ways he’d made my life easier, even in his absence.

On my way back upstairs, I stopped by the mailbox to unleash the flow of envelopes and catalogs that always awaited my sporadic visits. I rarely got anything worth reading.

A gravelly voice called from midway up the staircase. On vacation again, kid?

The shuffling gait that accompanied it was as familiar as the voice itself. Leo Drake was a sprightly fifty-seven when I moved in with Grandpa at age six, and the intervening decades had barely made their mark, except that his hair was now a little more salt than pepper, and his swagger a little slower.

He was also still my only friend.

I guess you could call it that, I said, waiting as he made his way down the last few steps. Though I’d prefer the beach to the laundry room.

As a tall, slender man with high cheekbones, Leo’s age only advanced his elegance. It fascinated me how elderly people’s fashion preferences tended to stay frozen in a certain era, usually the years they’d been in their thirties or forties. Often it was due to thrift—why buy new clothes when you already had plenty—but for most it seemed to be a nostalgia for what they considered to be their glory days. The time when more of their life was ahead than behind them.

Leo’s style was still firmly planted in the sharp tailoring of the 1960s: crisp spread collars, notched lapels, linen pocket squares, and, when the occasion called for it, a well-loved trilby. I’d never once seen him look disheveled, even if he was just on his way to the corner bodega for milk. It’d probably been that way ever since his days working on Madison Avenue. Though he was relegated to the mailroom at first, that didn’t stop his astute eye from documenting every sartorial flourish of the advertising executives to whom, as a Black man, he was mostly invisible. And when he eventually did have the financial means, he emulated—and elevated—that style to make it his signature.

All Leo was doing today was checking the mail and he still wore a pressed button-up shirt and pleated slacks. It was a conspicuous contrast to my sweatpants and baggy fisherman sweater. If my theory was correct, my style legacy didn’t seem promising.

Leo smiled slyly as he slid his key into the mailbox. And when is our rematch?

Grandpa had taught me to play mahjong as soon as I’d come to live with him. It took me four years to finally beat him—he refused to let me win intentionally, insisting that it wouldn’t do me any favors. Over time, I memorized all the different mahjong hands and observed each of Grandpa’s moves closely, tracking the tiles he discarded. He had only one tell: lightly scratching his neck with his right pointer finger whenever he suspected he might be losing. Leo became his regular opponent after I went away to college, and then continued the tradition with me when I moved back after Grandpa died. We’d enjoyed a heated rivalry for the past decade or so.

How about next Sunday?

Sifting through my armful of mail, I found only a single letter worth opening—a check from the family of a man with leukemia I’d worked with a few months ago. Like Guillermo, he’d left the world with an unabated bitterness that stuck with me. When I first started working as a death doula, I’d naively tried to get people to focus on all the positive things about their life—all the things they should be grateful for. But when someone has spent their years angry at the world, death just feels like one final cruel blow. Eventually, I realized that it wasn’t my job to help them gloss over that reality if they didn’t want to; it was to sit with them, listen, and bear witness. Even if they were unhappy right up until their final exhale, at least they weren’t alone.

It’s a date, Leo said, tipping the brim of his imaginary hat. Unless, of course, you end up with a better offer.

Though he was well aware that I had no other social life, Leo couldn’t resist subtle nudges hinting otherwise. I knew he meant well, but it only managed to make me feel more inept. I didn’t expect to get to my mid-thirties and still have only one friend. That’s the thing about loneliness: no one ever chooses it.

Thank you, I said, giving him a smile. But I don’t think there’s much danger of that happening.

Well, you never know, do you? Leo nodded toward the second floor. Speaking of, did you hear we’re getting a new neighbor? Moving in next week. Hopefully they’re chattier than the last lot.

Damn. I’d been hoping the second-floor apartment—previously home to a reclusive Finnish couple—would stay empty a while longer. Unlike Leo, I’d appreciated that our neighborly relationship with the Finns was limited to polite head nods and cursory hellos.

Leo had a knack for sourcing neighborhood gossip before it hit the mainstream. On our way back upstairs, he filled me in on all the other tidbits he’d heard since we’d last spoken. The Airbnb drama in the building next door, the messy divorce down the street, the overpriced restaurant closed for health violations after a rat jumped out of the toilet while a customer was on it. A connoisseur of small talk, Leo spent much of his time out and about strolling the surrounding blocks, chatting with whomever was willing to engage. I’d always wondered why the two of us got along so well. A classic harmony of opposites, probably.

The door of the empty second-floor apartment was ajar as we walked back up the creaking staircase. Through the crack, I spotted a cluster of paint cans sitting on the floorboards and a roller nesting in its tray nearby, ready for use at any minute. As Leo gossiped, oblivious, a sense of unease settled into my stomach.

New neighbors were inevitable in New York and I’d endured plenty. But each time someone unfamiliar moved into my building, it still felt like a personal intrusion. On my space. On my routine. On my solitude. It meant a new personality to decode, new greeting rituals to establish, new quirks to accommodate. A new neighbor meant unpredictability.

And I hate surprises.

4

The day I learned that my parents were dead was the same day I learned that pigs roll in mud to protect themselves from sunburn.

It was a Tuesday lunchtime in first grade. I was sitting against the lone oak tree in my elementary schoolyard, tucked between two gnarled roots that stretched across the ground like arthritic fingers. It was where I spent most of my lunch breaks when weather permitted, reading while my classmates played boisterously nearby. That day, I was engrossed in a book about animal facts. I’d almost finished the section on pandas when I noticed my principal, Ms. Lucas, beelining across the playground toward me. The movement of her voluminous bouffant matched the rhythm of her purposeful gait and she clutched her polyester blazer with the air of importance. The back of my neck tingled like an insect was scurrying over it, but when I brushed my hand against my skin, there was nothing there.

Trailing close behind Ms. Lucas in a V-formation were my first-grade teacher and the school’s guidance counselor. Since the trio looked like they were on a mission, I calmly placed the book on my lap and waited for them to arrive under the oak.

Clover, my dear. Ms. Lucas’s cloying singsong felt suspiciously like a buttering-up—the tone that adults used when they needed you to cooperate. She bent forward primly, her hands tucked neatly between her kneecaps in an inverted prayer position. Would you come along with us to my office please?

I looked back and forth between the women on either side of Ms. Lucas and noted their grim smiles. I wondered if anything I’d done that day warranted some kind of punishment. Had I broken a rule by accident? I tried my best to be good. Maybe I’d forgotten to return a book to the library? Feeling slightly outnumbered, I stayed wedged in the tree roots, grateful for their protective embrace.

I’d like to stay here under the tree, I said, quietly thrilled by my small act of defiance. It’s still lunchtime.

Ms. Lucas frowned. Well, yes, I understand that you want to enjoy the outdoors before it gets too cold, but there’s something I—we—would like to discuss with you, and I think it’s better if we went inside.

I considered my options. Ms. Lucas and her big-bloused bodyguards didn’t seem likely to leave me alone. Reluctantly, I stood, brushed the twigs from my jacket, and obediently began walking toward the school building.

Good girl, Clover, Ms. Lucas said.

In the principal’s office, I had to hoist myself into the wooden swivel chair. As I sat with my legs dangling far from the linoleum below, the aging springs beneath the leather cushion dug uncomfortably into my scrawny thighs.

The somber-faced threesome sat across from me, exchanging pained glances, as if silently drawing straws to see whom the unpleasant task would fall upon. Apparently, the guidance counselor had drawn the short one. She took a breath, about to speak, then paused as she reconsidered her words.

Clover, she finally said. I know your parents have been away on vacation.

In China, I added helpfully. That’s where pandas are from. I clutched my book to my chest like a precious treasure.

Yes, I suppose it is—that’s very clever of you.

Pandas eat bamboo. And they weigh more than two hundred pounds and they’re really good swimmers, I said, hoping to cement my cleverness with the adults while I had their captive attention. Mommy and Daddy are coming home in two days—I’ve been counting. I hoped they wouldn’t forget to bring me back a present like they did last time when they went to Paris.

The guidance counselor cleared her throat and fiddled with the fancy brooch on her blouse. Ah, yes, about that. I know your parents were supposed to arrive home on Thursday, but there’s been … an accident.

I frowned, tightening my embrace around the book. Accident?

My first-grade teacher bent forward and patted my knee, the cluster of cheap bangles jangling on her wrist. I liked their bright colors. You’ve been staying with a friend of your mother’s, is that right, Clover?

I nodded cautiously as my ears started to burn. A prickle of sweat began to ease its way between the chair leather and the backs of my thighs. The rowdy shrieks of my classmates floated through the open window, adding to my discomfort.

My teacher’s uncomfortable smile was unnerving. You’re going to stay with your grandfather instead tonight. He’s coming up from New York City to pick you up this afternoon. Won’t that be fun?

I really had no idea if it would be fun or not. Since I’d only spent a handful of afternoons with my maternal grandfather in my short lifetime, I felt relatively neutral toward the man. He’d seemed nice enough, even though he didn’t really ever say much, and he and my mom kind of acted like strangers with each other. But he did always send me a gift on my birthday—this year it’d been the animal book I now held on my lap. Maybe he’d bring me something new.

Why can’t I stay with Miss McLennan?

The old spinster who lived a block from my parents wasn’t a pleasant host, and her house always smelled like roast beef, no matter what was being served. But aside from making sure I was fed and taken to school, Miss McLennan left me to my own devices, usually reading alone in my room while she sat crocheting on her plastic-covered sofa. And since my parents often dropped me off to stay with her for weeks on end, she and I had learned to peacefully coexist—even though I’m pretty sure she did it for the wad of cash my dad always tucked into her palm before he left.

My teachers exchanged bleak glances and communicated in some kind of secret code using only their eyebrows, culminating in a heavy sigh from Ms. Lucas.

Clover, I’m sorry to say this, but your parents are dead. The other women sucked in sharp breaths, stunned by my principal’s callous delivery of such delicate news.

Equally shocked, I sat, eyes wide. The women hovered nervously around me like they were trying to anticipate the movement of a wild animal.

Finally, I managed a whisper. Dead…? Like Mr. Hyland?

I thought about the episode of Sesame Street the school showed my class after our teacher’s dramatic demise, where Big Bird grappled with the passing of his friend Mr. Hooper.

I’m afraid so, Clover, Ms. Lucas tutted, trying to make up for her abrupt revelation. I’m very sorry.

Sitting next to my grandfather as the Metro-North chugged from Connecticut toward Manhattan in the remnants of the afternoon, I realized I hadn’t said goodbye to any of my classmates. But since they barely ever spoke to me, it likely didn’t matter. Before our kindergarten teacher’s sudden death, the other kids hadn’t given me much thought, but my curious reaction—mostly the fact that I wasn’t freaked out by it—had alienated me. After one boy began to spread rumors that I hung out with the dead, I was officially cast as a weirdo. They probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone.

Grandpa had arrived at my school just as the bell echoed through the halls at the end of lunchtime, holding the small sky-blue suitcase I’d taken to Miss McLennan’s. After a brief conversation with my teachers, spoken in mumbled tones I struggled to decipher, Grandpa guided me solemnly to a cab waiting outside the school