Meg Cass

Griefover

There’s an episode of Griefovers the network never aired; it is also the last episode. An intern leaked the footage—they haven’t worked in television since—which is why you can still find it online, the slime and shame of it seeping across your screen. 

Jackie had hosted for a decade by then. A decade of grief-banishing fashion while the new algae bloomed along the coasts, coated eutrophic lakes, thready and pink, poisoning shellfish, killing otters, manatees, whales, dogs, spreading to humans in a still-mysterious process, surfacing on skin, suffocating memories, ruining kidneys at varying rates. Some people lived with a single, unchanging mole of scum for years. Others, like Jackie’s parents, were matted and gone in months. 

She was nineteen when she lost them. Her twenties elapsed in canned cocktails, data entry, her mother’s cheap velours, her father’s synthetic exercise shirts. Her “drear era,” she called it in interviews, refused to elaborate further. On the night of her thirtieth birthday, she stood before her bedroom mirror, took a deep breath. Her parents’ ghosts circled sluggishly around her reflection, their bodies fish-like, their faces blurred. Jackie stared at her own face, dulled with fatigue and lack of sun. A thought occurred to her: I’m living like I’m already muck. 

It was time for her griefover. She said her final goodbyes, donated all the noxious polyesters, shifted to natural fibers, organic cottons, wools, everything new, spelled and soaked in the light of the full moon. On Instagram, she shared her healing process, each fresh outfit, each longer walk around the neighborhood, each whole grain meal. The small algae patch beneath her left arm seemed to shrink, then vanish. Her mirror cleared of spirits. In this manner, she emerged as a leading post-grief stylist, a consultant to post-divorce celebrities and post-tragedy politicians. They gushed in testimonials about their renewed self-worth, their unhaunted lives, their shrunken or stabilized growths. I never imagined myself this clear, this joyful again! I can’t even describe the weight lifted. She’s tough, but she forces you out of your comfort zone. Jackie’s system really works!   

Griefovers was a chance to share her gift with the everyday person. Jackie could walk into a home and find the frayed edge of sadness immediately. The algae-stained sweatshirt someone’s father wore for Saturday yardwork (the scum never rinses out no matter how hard you scrub), the pilled sweater still shaped around a sibling’s shoulders, the threadbare t-shirts, their jokey sayings long faded. She’d pluck these “past life garments” (PLGs) from crumby recliners, stuffed closets, office chairs, bring them to the Griefovers set in New York. Then she’d make the guest wear them in front of her infamous 360-degree mirror. “These loved ones have served their purpose in your life” she’d insist, ghosts floating inside the glass. “Now it’s time to release them.”    
 

***

The intern had never had a griefover. On their application, they’d lied about a childhood friend killed in a car accident, a restorative healing arc made possible by watching the show. They wore Pantone peach for the interview, spoke with bubbly confidence. I’d love to help people the way you helped me! Their grief was amorphous, anticipatory. Their parents, back in Chicago, were dying of algae but slowly, still taught high school history. They missed their college ex-girlfriend, her denim ball gowns, her homemade focaccia, her sharp humor. They imagined ungirling themself but didn’t, instead jogged six miles every morning, muddled their weekends with cheap beer, their bar outfit always the same: a crushed velvet dress from high school and combat boots. The required Griefovers uniform came as a relief: white linen pants and the white, stain resistant sweatshirt Jackie designed herself. The fabric was always a little cold, as if it had been kept in the fridge overnight. The intern shivered deliciously.   

Picture yourself full of happiness, Jackie would exhort each guest on the white Griefovers couch. She kept a hunk of citrine in the middle of the marble coffee table, said it meant healing, meant new love. She placed it in their hands. What kind of party are you going to? Where are you on vacation? Who are you with? Have you met them yet? What are you wearing when they smile at you for the first time? Describe a typical day at your dream job. Her voice was gentle in these moments, seductive, as if she was grinning at your future self. 

Before that, she’d break them down a little. Turn on the flat screen, show the footage their nominating employer and/or family member had recorded without their permission. The griever in an ill-fitting baseball jersey scrolling their phone instead of working; in tattered, pink-tainted jeans trailing cobwebs across a shining office floor; in an algae stained-dress, smoking while their children watched television, the cartoons interspersed with the latest algal advice: if infected, don’t take off work, simply bring a tarp in case of bloom; carry Febreeze at all times for unpleasant odors; cold air may prevent new growth so crank up those air conditioners; many people see remission with increased exercise; keep busy, keep moving forward–stagnant water is the scummiest.

Is this who you want to be for the people in your life right now? Jackie asked each guest. Is this what your lost loved one would have wanted for you? She waited for the tears to come. Then it was off to the New Life Garments (NLGs) she’d created in shades of beige, oatmeal, eggshell, whipped butter, lavender, the palest blues. Garments that flaunted one’s algae-free, grief-free status. For look how pristine. 

The intern’s parents had long stopped scraping off their organisms. “What’s the point? It comes back so fast.” All of their clothes bore pink blobs, evolving Rorschachs that crept up their chests a little more each year, peaked out the necks of their shirts. They didn’t know when they’d gotten infected, kept swimming at the Rogers Park beach down the street. “We’ve already got it, might as well enjoy the water.” And there were still normal days, they argued, the lake appearing as it had throughout the intern’s childhood, brackish and blue-black, the waves luring you deeper. 

The intern came home once a year, for Christmas. Things their parents increasingly forgot: that the intern had graduated fashion school; that they lived in a tiny attic apartment in Flatbush, not in Manhattan; that they worked for a show that was partly helpful, mostly a scam. “What are you doing now?” their father would ask, then put a hand to his forehead as if to coax the memories out. “Ha! Soon you’ll need to keep track of all my words for me.” “Eh, I think you’re doing fine,” the intern would say, looking away from him. “Keep going to the gym.”

Things the intern hid: the new name they’d been rolling around on their tongue (the name of their pretend dead friend); their queerness; the surgery they’d looked up online countless times. “We’d be sad for you, for the hard life you’d face,” their parents often warned, unprompted. “Besides, you had a boyfriend in high school. And look how pretty. Most people, they don’t still fit into their teenage clothes.” 

For Christmas dinner, their mother always served chicken cacciatore, the smells of garlic and vegetal rot interweaving. The intern picked at their food, then disappeared into their childhood bedroom. In the closet, their mother stored their junior and senior year prom dresses, their old ballet costumes. “You never know when you might want to gussy up!” They took a weed gummy, played old Griefovers on their laptop, the rhythm of carefully edited transformations lulling them to sleep.    

***

Episode 30: Post-Punk

Her father’s leather jacket is certainly well made, Jackie concedes, brushing her fingers over the safety pins, the spikes, the gold painting of a skull with lupine growing from its eyes. But does it truly embody her future self? In the 360, Tara shakes her many heads, crosses her arms over her chests. Her father’s ghost wavers above her. His piercings shine through tangles of pink, his body silver scaled and finned. “He’d want you to live beautifully in this world, I know,” Jackie says. Tears glaze her eyes, but her mouth tightens. She lifts the jacket off, the ghost melts away. Cut to a garden party, Tara swirling in A-line cotton. Her partner at the law firm and her best friend applaud.   

Episode 3: Interior Redesign 

“Dress for the job you want, not the job you have,” Jackie commands. “This outfit says assistant. You need to attract your own clients. And your boyfriend told us about the saggy panties. I assume they weren’t your mother’s, but they’re disturbing nonetheless.” Inside the 360, Justines wear sludgy overalls, bite their lips. A ghost swims in quick circles around them, bumps her face against the glass like a newly aquariumed fish. The Justines reach out their arms. Jackie gently tugs them backward. “She’s not coming back, hon.” Cut to a single Justine in a milky shift, in the middle of meticulous Scandi. She looks a little lost. “I love these clean lines!” Jackie exclaims. The boyfriend lounges on the couch, smiles. “I’m so glad she got rid of those panties!”   

“It’s harder than it looks, the mirror work,” Jackie told the intern. They were sitting in her aggressively air-conditioned trailer, five lavender diffusers going at once, fogging the air, the mirror. A Jenny Lewis breakup song played from her phone.  

“It takes something out of me each time. I have to sleep for a full day after, and sometimes the ghosts show up in my dreams.” Crack and hiss of her fresh La Croix. “They’re never happy, which I guess makes sense.” 

“That sounds really intense,” said the intern.  

“Ah, well. It’s what I’m good at. Maybe one day I’ll take a vacation. Ha.”  

“I can help, if you want,” the intern offered. They’d grown tired of their allotted tasks: running a lint roller over the NLGs, polishing the 360 mirror with a spelled cleaner Jackie mixed with secret ingredients, leading guests to hair and makeup.  

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you.” She picked up the stainless-steel free weights she kept in a corner, did several bicep curls. Her rose quartz pendant, a birthday present from her daughter, glinted on her chest. “Maybe one day. I just couldn’t live with myself if something went wrong.” 

A silver-pink shape flitted across her mirror. “You know, it’s been a rough week. Let’s have a little treat.” She reached into her minifridge, extracted a bottle of herbal gin, poured two shots. “To being the fuck over it.” 

The intern laughed, felt the liquid burn through their whole body. Soon they were singing along to the breakup song, the intern thinking of their college girlfriend, how they’d blamed her for their depression, broke up over text. What new griefs and joys had she known since? Jackie was pouring another round. All her lovers had cheated, or left for younger, less ambitious women, so the rumors went. Another breakup song began, this one about summer malaise, the death of illusion and walking away. They swayed in their chairs.

Then Jackie slapped at something on her arm. The music stopped. The intern felt her squinting at them through the fog. “Those pants are looking a little dingy. Is that a stain? Are you feeling alright?” 

“Oh, doing great,” the intern said brightly. “It’s from the smoothie I made this morning. That raspberry kale one you suggested. You were right—it’s amazing for my energy. No, I’m fine.” 

“Damn, I’m so behind today. Lovely chatting with you, doll.” She stood unsteadily, opened her door. 

***

The intern didn’t know what to call their era. They were too busy working, they told themself and their scant friends from fashion school. Too busy to find a partner, to craft their own line, to work through what they called their “gender weirdness.”   

Era of staring at crushes at parties but not flirting, of feeling muffled and too old and like their heart was upholstered in duck cloth. Era of teary, unsteady walks home, of muttering asshole to themself.  

Era of drinking too fast at Rockaway, then watching their body wade into the banned water. 

Era of a quarter-size algae on their left thigh that rinses away in morning showers, returns by nightfall. Era of waking in a panic, of black coffee and headaches, of hungover runs, of tripping and scraping their knees to hell. 

Era of looking up former Griefovers subjects online to see if they were really happier. It’s hard to tell, everyone having signed a complicated NDA. Their social media platforms brim with brunch tables, farmers market stalls. Their NLG garments—costumes of wellness, of whiteness—are well tailored and unblemished. 

Sometimes there’s a long gap in the posts. 

Sometimes a lover disappears, then there’s another one. 

Era of multiplying—or splitting apart—inside their own regular-degree mirror. Past and future versions proliferate without warning, skirted, jumpsuited, plucked, bearded, ponytailed, long haired, shorn to the quick, girled and ungirled. The intern stares back at them until they feel dizzy.   

Era of putting on their griefiest outfits, their mother’s flannelette, their father’s patched denim jacket, their crushed velvet, then haunting the city like that, darting in and out of fetid subway tunnels, in and out of dive bars where the bathroom mirrors team with other people’s ghosts. 

Era of always winding up outside the York Avenue brownstone where Jackie lives, of wanting to throw a brick through her bay window and also to be invited in for a private griefover.  In these fantasies, she is Jackie and not Jackie. A benevolent witch version, firm yet kind, she knows them better than they know themselves, knows how to make all their versions combine into one steady, sure person. She names the losses they can’t, their musty, unlived queer adolescence; their unmade mistakes; the two people who’ve loved and hurt them the most disappearing day by day.   

Episode 150: Other Forms of Life  

Yes, this was her identical twin’s lab coat, the one she embroidered with every diatom she’d found inside her microscope, stars and pinwheels and petal shapes from Oregon, California, Illinois, shining like gems. Yes, she is also a scientist. But Mara R. needs to look up from the petri dish now and then. Otherwise, that walnut-sized growth on her wrist will no doubt expand. “There’s no peer-reviewed evidence of that,” Mara says, turning away from the 360 to face Jackie. “It’s a dangerous myth. And algae have a lot to teach us.” She returns her gaze to her many selves, to the ghost of her twin, a minnow of a creature with rainbow hair and cat ear headphones. “There are so many we can’t even name them all, we can’t even totally describe them. And they’re the core of the aquatic food web. Every fish or crab you eat, you have algae to thank. They create energy from their own goddamn bodies and sunlight. They’re not plants, they’re not animals, they’re this mysterious, magical in between. Chlorella pulls dioxins out of the water; spirulina gives you vitamin B. The blue greens, by the way, are technically cyanobacteria, and—”

Episode 170: From Clown to Cool 

The seventeen-year-old was dressing like a circus, the aunt complained in her letter. Sam is unapologetic. “I think I look pretty cute,” she says as they watch the video, Sam gaming in an old ballet tutu paired with her father’s algae-smudged blazer; roller skating in her father’s Carharts and a sweatshirt cropped short, velvet wings sewn into the sleeves, catching the wind. The intern, on set for this penultimate episode, admires Sam’s style. It’s like how they dressed in middle school before they tucked certain parts of themselves away. You seem confused lately, their parents had told them. And there are better ways to ask for attention. I’m not taking you to the restaurant, to the museum, to the movies, to the mall, to the grocery store like that. In the Griefovers bathroom, the aunt whisper-yells at Sam, “Once you get to college, you can do what you want, take the consequences. Until then, you will comply.” In the 360, the Sams hang their heads, play with stormy mood rings. Their father’s ghost does not appear, as if refusing to acknowledge this bullshit. “There are tasteful ways to play with our expression,” Jackie says, her voice light and stiff as organza. A heavy anger fills the intern. They want to grab Sam’s hand, rip them away from the episode, though they can’t say to where. They scratch at their growth through linen. 

Episode 157: Thirty-Five Going on Fifteen 

 Is that her daughter’s halter paired with her daughter’s low-rise jeans (for work at the bank?!), her daughter’s pleather mini (for walking the dog?!), her daughter’s spaghetti strap dress that still smells of her cucumber melon bodywash (for a night out?!)? Alice laughs in the 360, a sound like a seagull squawk. A pink blotch widens beneath her right eye. She covers her face in her hands. The daughter’s ghost glides among the Alices, trails garlands of algae. “We had her signed up for ice skating camp this summer. She didn’t even make it to the first day.” “I know, honey. But this isn’t the way to honor her. Get yourself together like an adult.” Jackie’s voice is more harsh than usual. She snaps Alice’s spaghetti strap. Did she already know her own daughter was plotting an escape?  Cut to Alice at her bank job in a linen midi. The pink shadow is gone, or at least covered with one of the new, anti-algal foundations. Jackie stands behind her. “It’s such a mature, dignified look.”  

***

No one knows exactly what happened to Jackie’s daughter. There are rumors that in defiance of her mother’s no-natural-bodies-of-water rule, she took a beach vacation in Maine. “It’s colder up there. They haven’t had a bloom in six months,” the daughter argued. “The ocean doesn’t want you near it, no matter how far north you go,” Jackie said. “You seem very concerned about self-preservation,” the daughter spat back. 

She never returned south. Perhaps she slipped beneath the untrustworthy surf, or perhaps she and her mother are merely estranged. Jackie did not report her missing. The intern imagines her   efficiently emptying her daughter’s room, garbage bagging everything including her daughter’s favorite jacket, the one Jackie made her. You can still see it on Jackie’s dormant Instagram, the quilted squares cut from vintage curtains and sheets, bleached so only a faint whisper of floral remains, the pearly buttons gleaming. She dumps everything at a thrift store on the edge of the city, does not pause to smell the fabrics, her daughter’s sandalwood oil mixed with Old Spice deodorant. When her ghost appears in her bedroom mirror, Jackie says, “If you would have listened.” The ghost evaporates in an instant. 

The producers seized on Jackie’s loss. She was snippier on camera these days; the whole crew had noticed. The audience could tell something was off. Jackie’s own griefover would make great television. Even a skilled professional could cozy into mourning, could fail her potential, more productive self. They would film in Jackie’s home, give the audience a rare glimpse into her inner sanctum. They planned for the night of the Virgo full moon. 

Episode 171: Expert Advice 

Right away, the intern notices something is wrong. A septic smell, though the space seems impeccable, all modern furniture, the rugs Maldon white. There are layers to the smell, as if it’s festered long before the daughter’s departure. Wet seaweed shoved in a dark closet. Cadaverine spritzed with lemon verbena. Jackie’s makeup is heavier than usual, fondant thick. Her bob is slicked back as if she’s just emerged from the shower, her outfit comprised of her daughter’s stone washed jeans, which are too long and strain around her thighs and waist, her daughter’s oversized soccer jersey, black chucks. She addresses the camera directly. “I’m so excited to re-enter the process myself. I recognize I’ve been fighting change.” 

She steps into the transplanted 360. All the Jackies stare back at her tiredly, pull at the jeans. The daughter’s ghost never arrives. Perhaps she is alive somewhere, or perhaps she is unsummonable.  Jackie’s voice shakes. “We must all take charge of our own healing. We must choose happiness. I trust that the person who inhabited these pieces is in a more joyful place.” She curls into her own white couch, turns on her own flatscreen, watches the video the producers took without her knowledge (though she must have known). Jackie meditating in an oversized polo and bright pink leggings worn through at the knees (her daughter’s?), Jackie making her morning smoothie in a giant robe the color of dirty snow (her father’s or mother’s?) Jackie in her office staring out the window at the distant trees of Central Park, a stained blanket of uncertain origin draped over her shoulders. 

Despite the air conditioning, the house grows warmer. Sweat drips down Jackie’s face. A pink blotch no bigger than a pumpkin seed appears on her left cheek. She scratches it away, her hand slick with gunk. “Unbelievable,” she mutters. The intern’s breath quickens. They lick their lips, take out their phone to record. Jackie’s discomfort is not unpleasant to watch. It won’t be so easy for the queen of griefovers. 

“Do you need a break?” the producer mouths. “I’m fine,” Jackie says, the blotch returning. She turns back to the camera. “Each of these garments carries a stale me. A version I’ve outgrown.” A clump appears on her other cheek. She claws at it, tells the producer to cut, runs to the bathroom. When she reappears, she’s refoundationed, clad in a spotless ivory suit. “In clinging to these garments, I’ve prevented my new self from breaking through.”

With each word, more foundation cracks. Algae spreads over her nose, down her cheeks, chokers her neck. The intern traces their own, still clear skin, keeps filming. Jackie stops speaking, covers her mouth. Algae soaks through linen, pools around her feet like a ball gown, creeps closer to the crew. Everyone still thinks it’s a bit. “Fucking stop,” Jackie shouts at last. Her voice has a raspy, wet wool quality. “This isn’t me. This isn’t supposed to be–” Everyone rushes backward. The intern pockets their phone, closes their eyes. They’ve heard it can go fast, this last part, the body fully filamentous. They’ve made a point to never watch the videos. “This isn’t, how is this, I miss her, I miss you, but this isn’t,” Jackie says, her last chain of words. Then, where there was Jackie, a slick mat of pink spreads. 

***

The intern isn’t one anymore. They’ve moved back to Chicago, go by Felix now, which their parents sometimes remember, have lowered their voice from chiffon to suede. In a studio beside a grody, northern stretch of lake, they make garments shaped like algae: the red puff balls they remember from the Rockaways, the bushy fronds of sargassum drifting north to Jones Beach, the lake’s tufts of Cladophora, and of course pink. They wear their creations to the horror-themed gay bar, forget and remember their own organisms, the ring which now encircles their left thigh like a garter, transforms them in ways they can’t fully fathom. They wear them to the protests at the waste treatment plant, shout for nutrient restrictions. 

They wear them to Hollywood Beach where everyone bears a bit of putrid froth on their body, where that doesn’t keep them from short shorts, speedos, string bikinis. When another pink blob arrives, they wade out to greet it, link arms in a loose mesh. Here, Felix has met several former Griefover guests. There’s Sam, who has resumed her playful, griefy outfits. She and Felix comb Quimby’s for zines, take care of each other after surgeries. Once a month, they thrift the Goodwill on the edge of the city. Schools of ghosts inhabit the dressing room mirrors, create an underwater feel. They thank these spirits for each future-past garment. 

And there’s Mara, who works at a lab at UIC, who Felix is about to ask out. Pink strands swirl around her face as she speaks of her sister, of the twisting chloroplasts of spirogyra, of the dance stephanosphoerea pulavialis does under a microscope, of the blooms that do no harm at all, have always existed, of how certain varietals can filter runoff, produce oxygen for astronauts. In the pictures taken of the lake from space, people and algae blend together in spectral pink swirls.  

Episode 172: Slime Today, Slime Tomorrow

Sunday nights, Felix visits their parents. They’re both still teaching though it’s getting harder, their lesson plans detailed down to the minute, their work bags filled with anti-nausea medications and air fresheners, their eyes yellowed. They begin giving things away. One night, their mother gifts Felix her fabric scissors, silver and sharp, a lovely weight in their hands. “You can always borrow them back,” Felix says. Their mother hugs them quickly. “Just show me what you make with them. Your creations, they really are unique.” 

That night after dinner, Felix finally cleans out their old closet. While they work, pulling out tulle and faux-silk, florals and polka dots, they put on old Griefovers out of habit. People and ghosts pass in and out of mirrors, in and out of fabrics. Algae blooms and disappears. Shoulders hunch and square. Mouths crank into smiles. Hips cock. Couples waltz. Flocks of hands applaud. Through it all, Jackie’s voice remains a taut wire. 

Felix thinks of her often. Jackie in her drear era, lonely and terrified, every puddle, every pond, every briny breeze a threat. Jackie in her dressing room smiling wearily, singing a sadness Felix does and doesn’t know. Jackie just before her second griefover, alone in her house once more, her garments turned past-life so fast. Jackie trying to contain herself, her hidden growths. Jackie unraveling while Felix’s anger seethes, Felix still wanting to believe in grief as a sickness one could cure, in Jackie’s story of herself, in their story of Jackie, in a singular, polished, unhaunted self. 

Mostly, they’ve stopped trying. Their different versions flicker around their reflection, diatoms glowing then fading from view. They burned what they were wearing that last day, though the smell still fills their mouth now and then: when they wake afraid, pull all their algae out at once, their skin aching for days; when they black out drunk to slip out of themselves; when they assure their parents they aren’t dying, that everything will be okay; when they put on their last Griefovers sweatshirt which they can’t seem to give away. Jackie placed it in their arms right after their interview. “I can tell you have the feeling for this work,” she’d said and winked. It remains unblemished, coffee and grease and algae stains slide right off. It is always cold to the touch.